Samuel Freedman

Samuel Freedman, waking one morning, found himself with a purpose.  He had a book to write, a story to share with the world.  He needed to know who his mother was before he had known her.  Who she was before he was.  He went at this story with vigor, researching where most children don’t think to look for their parent’s pasts and delving into his own history.  He was a detective, a personal Private Eye, investigating his mother in hopes for understanding.  Looking to find a background to the person he knew growing up.  When he spoke in class he seemed very distant from his story.  It was as though he had thought in out too much, spoken about it too many times and he couldn’t find the excitement behind it anymore.  He still liked speaking about it, answering our simple questions and giving us an idea for what to do with our own projects.  But there was no inspiration.  The spark that had inspired him to write about his mother had been smothered
He seemed like a straight forward, motivated man.  He knew what he wanted to do and he did, and he did it well.  His book tells a detailed story of his mother and the way life was when she was alive.  The way her life was when she was growing up and the trials that she was put through until her death.  Yet it seemed like there was something missing from his manner.  A more animated, thought provoking discussion seemed just at the classes fingertips, and his dry, monotone responses did not stimulate a wonder or a ponder in any of our minds.  He was a transitory man, just there to tell us what to do on our next assignment.