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In Memory of Bob HanksEulogy for Bob Hanks, 22 April, 2002; from John Pinschmidt To condense the impact of a man?s life and death into 10 or 12 minutes is impossible. But these inadequate words must suffice. They are the best a close friend can manage in this time of grief for our Patch community. We?ve taken an awful hit, haven?t we? Bob Hanks and I went way back---to the week we were both first hired by Dodds at the same school in England in 1971, a generation ago. Transfers separated, then reunited us. Starting about 10 years ago, we gradually became special friends. Our relationship was completely founded on deep discussions of the world?s great literature, films, and life?s metaphysical and philosophical issues. Yeah, right. Bob hated most literature, rarely saw a film, and the main philosophical question he wanted to explore was how, in comparison to Charles Darwin, Shakespeare bites. I taught English; he taught Biology. I was a normal height; he was way too tall. He was mostly bald, and I, obviously, have hair. We were an odd couple. Well, actually, Bob was the odd one. Each tried to undermine the other?s program. He blatantly stole my bust of William Shakespeare and locked it in his glass trophy case outside his room. He placed poor Will in a supine position, prostrate in front of Darwin. It was humiliating. In retribution, I didn?t exactly discourage the activities of a subversive student group, the Anti-Darwin League. They would furtively take things from his room and leave ransom notes. Of course, the best prize was "Big Bertha," there on the table. It?s the Super-Soaker Water-Blaster cannon I gave him 20 years ago, on his 70th birthday. Our birthdays were big deals. Every summer in "Holy Ireland" I?d ransack the stationery stores to find the most disgustingly suggestive, vulgar cards. I?d give them to him on his next birthday, June 8. It was a long wait, but worth it. I knew I?d really gotten to him when he?d collapse into a fit of convulsive laughter and grab for his asthma inhaler. The really raunchy cards were presented privately, but I?d always have one which was a bit less risqué to give him in front of his first-hour class. One had two scantily clad, voluptuous babes on the front, in tiger skins, surrounded by high jungle vegetation. Over the picture it said, "Hey, Stud! Bambi and Suzie have something they want you to do!" Inside: "Mow their lawn." I?d share some of the other cards, but I don?t want to be forced to retire just yet. Bob would return the favor. This January, on my 35th birthday?. (Hey, what?s funny about that? If any of my students are laughing, your grade?s going down.) Anyway, Bob had his first-hour class come to sing "Happy Birthday"---and present me a large bouquet---of dead flowers and leaves. (Yes, everything withered under Bob?s malignant touch---except for his dear wife, Maureen.) But I was ready for him: I yelled, "Those flowers look like they need water!" and I pulled Big Bertha from under my lectern and blasted him out of the room.
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