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nstrated the pronunciation of consonants； diphthongs； long and short vowels。 He in turn would look closely into my mouth as I attempted to reproduce the unhappy sounds。
His was a mild and quiet face； an oval surface with no hint of distinctiveness until he started his vocal routines。 Then the warping began。 It was an eerie thing to see； shamefully fascinating； as a seizure might be if witnessed in a controlled environment。 He tucked his head into his trunk； narrowed his eyes； made grimacing humanoid faces。 When it was time for me to repeat the noises I did likewise； if only to please the teacher； twisting my mouth； shutting my eyes pletely； conscious of an overarticulation so tortured it must have sounded like a sudden bending of the natural law； a stone or tree struggling to speak。 When I opened my eyes he was only inches from my mouth； leaning in to peer。 I used to wonder what he saw in there。
There were strained silences before and after each lesson。 I tried to make small talk； get him to discuss his years as a chiropractor； his life before German。 He would look off into the middle distance； not angry or bored or evasive—just detached； free of the connectedness of events； it seemed。 When he did speak； about the other boarders or the landlord； there was something querulous in his voice； a drawn…out note of plaint。 It was important for him to believe that he'd spent his life among people who kept missing the point。
〃How many students do you have？〃
〃For German？〃
〃Yes。〃
〃You're the only one I have for German。 I used to have others。 German has fallen off。 These things go in cycles； like everything else。〃
〃What else do you teach？〃
〃Greek； Latin； ocean sailing。〃
〃People e here to learn ocean sailing？〃
〃Not so much anymore。〃
〃It's amazing how many people teach these days；〃 I said。 〃There is a teacher for every person。 Everyone I know is either a teacher or a student。 What do you think it means？〃
He looked off toward a closet door。
〃Do you teach anything else？〃 I said。
〃Meteorology。〃
〃Meteorology。 How did that e about？〃
〃My mother's death had a terrible impact on me。 I collapsed totally； lost my faith in God。 I was inconsolable； withdrew pletely into myself。 Then one day by chance I saw a weather report on TV。 A dynamic young man with a glowing pointer stood before a multicolored satellite photo； predicting the weather for the next five days。 I sat there mesmerized by his self…assurance and skill。 It was as though a message was being transmitted from the weather satellite through that young man and then to me in my canvas chair。 I turned to meteorology for fort。 I read weather maps； collected books on weather； attended launchings of weather balloons。 I realized weather was something I'd been looking for all my life。 It brought me a sense of peace and security I'd never experienced。 Dew； frost and fog。 Snow flurries。 The jet stream。 I believe there is a grandeur in the jet stream。 I began to e out of my shell； talk to people in the street。 'Nice day。' 'Looks like rain。' 'Hot enough for you？' Everyone notices the weather。 First thing on rising； you go to the window； look at the weather。 You do it； I do it。 I made a list of goals I hoped to achieve in meteorology。 I took a correspondence course； got a degree to teach the subject in buildings with a legal occupancy of less than one hundred。
I've taught meteorology in church basements； in trailer parks； in people's dens and living rooms。 They came to hear me in Millers Creek； Lumberville； Watertown。 Factory workers； housewives； merchants； members of the police and the fire。 I saw something in their eyes。 A hunger； a pelling need。〃
There were little holes in the cuffs of his thermal undershirt。 We were standing in the middle of the room。 I waited for him to go on。 It was the time of year； the time of day； for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things。 Dusk； silence； iron chill。 Something lonely in the bone。
When I got home； Bob Pardee was in the kitchen practicing his golf swing。 Bob is Denise's father。 He said he was driving through town on his way to Glassboro to make a presentation and thought he'd take us all to dinner。
He swung his locked hands in slow motion over his left shoulder； following through smoothly。 Denise eyed him from a stool by the window。 He wore a half shaggy cardigan with sleeves that draped over the cuffs。
〃What kind of presentation？〃 she said。
〃Oh； you know。 Charts； arrows。 Slap some colors on a wall。 It's a basic outreach tool； sweetheart。〃
〃Did you change jobs again？〃
〃I'm raising funds。 Busy as hell； too； better believe。〃
〃What kind of funds？〃
〃Just whatever's out there； you know？ People want to give me food stamps； etchings。 Hey； great； I don't mind。〃
He was bent over a putt。 Babette leaned on the refrigerator door with her arms folded； watching him。 Upstairs a British voice said： 〃There are forms of vertigo that do not include spinning。〃
〃Funds for what？〃 Denise said。
〃There's a little thing you might have had occasion to hear of； called the Nuclear Accident Readiness Foundation。 Basically a legal defense fund for the industry。 Just in case kind of thing。〃
〃Just in case what？〃
〃Just in case I faint from hunger。 Let's sneak up on some ribs； why don't we？ You got your leg men； you got your breast men。
Babette； what do you say？ I'm about semiprepared to slaughter my own animal。〃
〃How many jobs is this anyway？〃
〃Don't pester me； Denise。〃
〃Never mind； I don't care； do what you want。〃
Bob took the three older kids to the Wagon Wheel。 I drove Babette to the river…edge house where she would read to Mr。 Treadwell； the blind old man who lived there with his sister。 Wilder sat between us； playing with the supermarket tabloids that Treadwell favored as reading matter。 As a volunteer reader to the blind； Babette had some reservations about the old gent's appetite for the unspeakable and seamy； believing that the handicapped were morally bound to higher types of entertainment。 If we couldn't look to them for victories of the human 。spirit； who could we look to？ They had an exam