Written for Jim Brewer by Norm Walker:
Jim was an outstanding teacher, advisor, coach, department head, headmaster.
But it doesn’t end there: Jim was also a master photographer, a fine writer and poet, a gourmet cook, a student of nature in the same league as an Audubon or a Lewis Thomas, and a storyteller without equal. His genius as a bard was a result from his imposing stature; the powerful features of his Heminwayesque face; his gently sardonic sense of humor; his vast knowledge and abiding love of animals; his deep well-modulated voice; and his subtle use of pause and timing when he was on stage. In fact, even his entrances were worthy of note – whenever he moved to a podium, his massive shoulders and powerful arms working the crutches, there was a breathless, palpable pause in the audience. Then his voice filled the room.
...
Thousands of years after Homer, Jim Brewer reminded us that the well told story may still be the best vehicle for conveying knowledge and truth.
Norm Walker
(The above was written in his book "Teachers" when Mr. Brewer was still actively teaching. I only modified it as I believe he would to reflect Jim's passing.)
--
Below is the poem he wrote in the same book to honor Jim. My dad wrote many poems for great teachers in his life on their retirement or passing. I believe he wrote this for both.
The Monarch
The summer silence in lower schoolhouse
Can cause bad dreams:
An engine turns over under pines
And muffled, arcs round Carpenter,
Swings up the walk, then growls
Beneath the schoolhouse steps…
Silence…
Upstairs,
Steel-booted legs and crutches
Clump-shuffle
Down the corridor and back;
A door swings shut…
Silence…
In some upper room a deep, full voice
Stirs the minds of children –
Nick Adams lives;
Active verbs and crisp nouns
Crackle on paper (or else!);
Grammar and syntax count.
Silence…Illusion.
Room 25 is empty now;
In early morning light
The glow of fresh waxed tile
Can cause dull pain.
Outside, soft rain occurs.
Blue Herbert’s gone;
We need the tarp – the wet Schoolhouse walk
Is darker now than yesterday.
***
Tomorrow,
My feet will move towards Livermore;
In that backyard I’ll stand
And watch Canada geese
Swim up out of fog, heading north.
At noon on a sun-drenched Quad
I will await the monarch’s return;
I’ll watch its sharp-cut-colors enfold the sky,
Its graceful fractal flutter
Somehow defining the very air we breathe.
In evening light I’ll watch
The peregrine in flight,
Circling, gliding;
Now climbing above the clouds,
Now drifting like some large leaf alive
Across the land,
The magic of legend ever reminding us
That death is but a dream.
Norm Walker, 1996