The Parable of the Pickle
The Pickle When I was an undergraduate at Western Connecticut State University, I did a lot of off-road things for course credit--attending the Yeats Summer School in Sligo, Ireland; working as a volunteer for a Cork-based charity serving the needs of children caught in the crossfire of political conflict in Northern Ireland; pursuing independent study on Irish authors, for some examples--that absolutely baffled the little old lady working in the registrar’s office. Although my pile of paperwork documented the course requirements my a la carte learning adventures covered, she put everything down as an elective. Then, when I was a senior, I got the form letter telling me I had not met course requirements to graduate. I had copies of all my paperwork, so it all came down to circling the wagons with the English Department and my adviser to solve the problem. But it was maddening as hell, and I was mad as hell. During these years of going to college and living home, Dad and I would go