Ah spring, the time for love and juicy ... literature?

Don’t tell my husband, but I think I’ve fallen in love.

Now don’t get too excited. It’s not that juicy.

I haven’t met some tall, dark stranger on the midnight train to someplace exotic. If I did, I’m pretty sure he’d keep walking. The minivan and excess baby weight are kind of a turnoff. Can I really call it baby weight if the baby is ten?

Oh, right. I’m getting off topic here. I won’t leave you hanging.

I’ve fallen in love with ... American literature. Wait. Stay with me here.

I remember as you do those bad experiences as a high school freshman. I was mildly interested in taking a class called American Sampler, which, if memory serves, included such classics as “Red Badge of Courage” and “Huckleberry Finn.” Gag.

I was only interested in “Huckleberry Finn” because of the disclaimer about offensive language and violence. I was seriously ripped off. What happened was a combination of factors.

First, I had Mrs. Felding, whom I am sure is the oldest-living English teacher on the planet.  When she started teaching, all the girls would stand around talking about that hunk, Clark Gable. She left class at least twice a class period to go to the bathroom. I suspect the prune juice, or some kind of attempt to avoid a nervous breakdown.

Also, I had the bad luck of sitting behind Michelle Selby, who cursed like a truck driver, and for some reason I always got blamed for it.

Please. I’m much better at cursing now.  I’ve really mastered the language of obscenity. Not that I use those words. Come on, I’m an English major ...

Another unpleasant experience was the fact that the room the class was held in was so freaking hot all the time it should have been reserved for the class called “Dante’s Inferno.”

Plus, American Sampler was first thing in the morning and for some reason I was always sick to my stomach the first two hours of class. I think I subconsciously equated American lit to vomit.

The short of it is this: I found “Huckleberry Finn” to be the most boring book with the stupidest dialects ever written. I’m sorry, but I still feel this way. I believe that Mark Twain was really drunk most of the time he wrote this novel.

So you can imagine I was apprehensive about enrolling in Dr. Beebe’s American Renaissance class, especially after I saw the syllabus.

To be sure, I wasn’t really impressed with Emerson, or for that manner Thoreau. But when I read the first page of Frederick Douglass’ narrative, it hit me. I was hooked.

The slave narratives were a whole new world for me. Heartbreaking and achingly poignant, they touched me in a way no literature ever has. The class also included Emily Dickinson’s poetry and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Loved, loved, loved those!

I also was very fond of Edgar Allen Poe and Nathaniel Hawthorne—really good stuff.

This I owe to Dr. Beebe, who introduced me to American literature, which I can’t seem to get enough of.

Don’t think this is to suck up, as I’m not even taking her classes this year.

Her enthusiasm is unmatched. For instance, she always came rushing into class, as if running from a fire. But you knew she was just in a hurry because she loves her job.

That’s what I think happened. I caught English lit fever from Dr. Beebe. I heard it’s passing, but it really seems to be hanging on.

My English-major friends all shake their heads in dismay. They come down pretty hard on me, in some instances coming short of calling me ignorant, claiming I don’t know any better because I haven’t been exposed to anything else.

So to my poor friends, who don’t know what they are missing, I just ask them, “Have you taken Dr. Beebe’s American Renaissance?”

I know the answer by the blank looks on their faces.

But they will take it.

Just wait.  I think love is in the air.