June 19: The Judges, My Book Bag, Writing Contest,

"When are the judges going to decide about Wilbur?" asked Mrs. Zuckerman.

"Not till tomorrow," said Mr. Zuckerman.

Wilbur's whole fate rests with a contest.  If Wilbur doesn't win some kind of prize at the Fair, Wilbur will end up on the wrong end of an ax.  Perhaps that's a little shallow, but, after Zuckerman has the bronze medal and twenty-five bucks in his hands, Wilbur's life is safe.


There's something to be said for contests.  Currently, in my book bag, I have a packet of essays.  I'm judging a nature writing contest at the moment.  Last year, I was awarded first honorable mention (second place) in this contest.  This year, I am one of the nature essay gods, passing sentence and breaking hearts.  Of course, I'm jesting.  I'm honored that I was asked to participate.

This weekend, I plant to finish my work.  It's not difficult.  I read an essay.  I rank the essay.  Read, rank, read, rank.  By Sunday, I will have chosen the best and worst of them.  It's not like grading.  I don't have to correct or proofread.  I simply have to read and express my opinion with a number.

I'm hoping to find something wonderful in these essays.  Something surprising and moving.  Perhaps I have set my standards too high.  I'm not looking for the next Henry David Thoreau or Loren Eiseley.  I just want something a little better than a middle school diary entry.

Saint Marty doesn't think he's asking too much.

I imagine a Nobel Prize in Literature