Warning: If you came here to read opinions about the Speedway inheritor, his new partners in crime, mergification hypocrisy or the deplorable mess they've made of our beloved speed sport, you'll have to wait for this renegade scribe's next rant.  Today's installment may contain symbolism that somehow resonates with your personal feelings about open-wheel racing but please be assured that any such connection is purely coincidental and unintended.

Cairo, NY -- My high school Creative Writing teacher, chairwoman of the English department Dr. Mary Graham Smith, was the brainiest person any of us could name. She was stern and fearsome but respect for her super intellect and dedication made students work that much harder to remain in her good graces.

On graduation day Miss Smith's folding wooden rent-a-chair and my mother's somehow got placed right next to each other on the football field a couple of rows back from the rent-a-dais. 

Mom and Miss Smith had never met until that day.  I was an A-student in MG Smith's class and my mom, rest her soul, instinctively knew when to leave well-enough alone. 

Their first and only conversation began at the moment when the principal handed me a diploma as both women reflexively jumped to their feet to yell my name.  I could see and hear Mom and Miss Smith quite well because they were the only people cheering so I tipped my mortar board in humble Roger Maris style as I crossed the platform.

After that brief standing-O I heard MG Smith speak a mind-blowing Shakespearian aside that was heard not only by my mother but, perhaps, by a third of the assemblage, as well.

"Ed's my favorite...smartest guy in the senior class...should have been the valedictorian," Miss Smith stage whispered as if my mother was the only person listening.  Mom quietly replied: "He's my favorite too. Ed's my boy."

While it must have occurred to both intelligent women that they had just sat through the calling of about 200 graduates between the valedictorian's name and mine, they both honored me, nonetheless, for the few dubious accomplishments that my under-achieving high school career had produced.

Shortly after graduation Miss Smith put her money where her mouth was, so to speak.  She wrote an unsolicited letter of recommendation to her alma mater, Emerson College, assuring the Dean of Admissions that my overall high school performance would have no bearing on my ability to excel in their school of journalism. 

Emerson passed on me just the same.  Therefore, to this day my only formal writing training came under the tutelage of Miss MG Smith.  

"Write what you believe and it will be interesting," she would often teach in class.  It was a bon mot that was always followed by the real lesson..."Believe what you write and it will be compelling."