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Ne w s p a p e r o f Wa l l a Wa l l a U n i v e r s i t y

Collegian The

Volume 102 | Issue 23

Haymarket Square Riot pg. 3

“Mitochondria are my favorite.” - Jocelyn Griffin, copy editor for The Collegian

May 3, 2018

DRUG AND ALCOHOL DEPENDENCY AT WWU

Last Things First college place, wa | walla walla university

| May 2018 Issue 23

Part One: Bear Soup By Meghann Heinrich It was a delightful summer evening not too many years ago—the kind you read about in books. In fact, to save time, think of your favorite book that describes a summer evening and substitute that description here. We were having a run of bears near my northern California home, and I do not say that lightly. There was a literal sleuth of bears wreaking havoc, busting up my father’s beloved beehive and causing general mayhem under the guise of darkness. These were not your average Yogis, Smokeys or Winnie the Poohs. This particular evening my father came home with a bee in his bonnet, which is ironic because, as I mentioned, the bears had made sure there were no bees to be found. The man marched straight into the kitchen,

Hey Thanks! “Hey thanks Bomb Tacos for meeting my no-drama taco needs.” “Hey thanks Blue Mountain Mall for being the mall version of a TV reboot, we thought you were dead and honestly now that you’re back we’re not sure how to feel.” “Hey thanks literally everyone for being in love, nice to know I’m safe from that #doyourpart.”

making such a ruckus that I wandered in to see what manner of skulduggery he was cooking up in there. To my surprise, he had the largest pot we owned out on the stove and the gas burner turned up as high as it could go. I was intrigued because, up until that point in my life, I had seen my father cook exactly three different meals in my mother’s absence: fried rice, tomato sandwiches and—my all time favorite—Big Franks. None of those dishes matched the scene before me. I came to the puzzling conclusion that my father was on a tear to add a fourth recipe to his repertoire, and whatever he was making was going to be very hot and come in copious amounts. I settled in for the show. First, he dumped an entire bottle of maple syrup into the pot. I watched

with rapt attention as my father fearlessly went to the cupboard and pulled out the peanut butter and the sugar, emptying both containers into the bubbling pot of maple syrup. The fervor with which he attacked this culinary endeavor was commendable, but I knew he needed to slow down. He was doing too much too fast. It was terrifying and wonderful and, above-all, alarming to see a man so passionately pursue an art he obviously had minimal experience in. I was just about to question his choice of adding orange juice to the vat when he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Meghann, go get the marshmallows.” There was no going back now; my father had spoken. It was too late to save him from his own creation. I ran like the wind to retrieve the marshmallows for whatever purpose

Verbatim

they would serve. I returned in a flash and handed the bag of gooey gelatinous goodness to the cooking fiend. Without skipping a beat, he emptied the bag into the stew, which appeared to have become sentient. He stood there, stirring his goopy creation, an eerie glint in his eye. In that moment I was overcome with a terrified curiosity; I dared to ask him if we had to eat whatever that was for dinner. He chuckled, as only a man of his caliber can do, and said, “No darlin’, this here is bear soup.” There you have it folks; the visionary that is my father created bear soup, a masterpiece as complex and irreplicable as the Mona Lisa itself: a concoction used to lure mischievous bears away from precious beehives. I breathed a sigh of relief because

I knew my father hadn’t gone mad; on the contrary, he was a doggone genius. I asked him if we could have Big Franks for dinner. He said he thought that was a fine idea, as soon as we fed the bears their soup. Tune in next week for the second and final installment of the bear saga, Part Two: Bear Bottoms.

5 stages of grief denial

anger It’s week 5?!

“It’s not me, it’s you.” - Professor Brandon Beck when the violins kept messing up

It’s not week 5, is it?

“Lions mate by the roadside. Humans do that and they go to jail.” - Professor Timothy Golden discussing human free will and societal laws “It’s like Twitter except on feet.” - Professor Cynthia Westerbeck while talking about sending messages via footservants

bargaining It’s already week 5.

depression It’s only week 5.

acceptance ...It’s week 5.

“It is impolite to burn people’s retinas.” - Professor David Crawford

Email your faculty verbatim or thank yous to meghann.heinrich@wallawalla.edu to be featured!