Theodore Roethke by Zonya-kae Christian https://padlet.com/zchristian/njo3twesggie My Papa's Waltz en-us 2019-04-12 01:31:38 UTC 2019-04-12 03:28:25 UTC hello@padlet.com https://padlet-uploads.storage.googleapis.com/119579050/4c79211608534d1b9a805aa4a95d41b6/dad.jpg Biography zchristian https://padlet.com/zchristian/njo3twesggie/wish/351020743 On May 25, 1908, in Saginaw, Michigan, Theodore Roethke entered the world to father and mother Otto Roethke and Helen Huebner. He grew up in Saginaw, attending Aurthur Hill High School, where he gave a speech on the Junior Red Cross that was published in twenty six different languages. He later attended the University of Michigan where he graduated magna cum laude in 1929.  He later took a few graduate classes at Michigan and Harvard. He began to teach at Lafayette College, and stayed there from 1931 to 1935. It was here where Roethke began his first book, Open House. By the end of 1935 Roethke was teaching at Michigan State College at Lansing. His career there, however, did not last long. Roethke was hospitalized reocurring mental illness issues. He however used the depression, as a useful tool for writing, as it allowed him to explore a different mindset.  While growing up, although an exceptional student, Theodore suffered from issues of loss, abandonment and lack of self esteem. His father was a German immigrant who owned and ran a 25-acre greenhouse along with Theodore's uncle. When he was 14, his father died of cancer and his uncle later committed suicide.   ]]> 2019-04-12 01:52:50 UTC https://padlet.com/zchristian/njo3twesggie/wish/351020743 My Papa’s Waltz BY THEODORE ROETHKE zchristian https://padlet.com/zchristian/njo3twesggie/wish/351034328
The whiskey on your breath   
Could make a small boy dizzy;   
But I hung on like death:   
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans   
Slid from the kitchen shelf;   
My mother’s countenance   
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist   
Was battered on one knuckle;   
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head   
With a palm caked hard by dirt,   
Then waltzed me off to bed   
Still clinging to your shirt.




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