Don French Roast

You either had Mr. French for a math class, or you didn’t. If you did, you had him for EVERY math class. He desperately tried to prepare us for the cruel world that awaited. “You need to pay attention to this, Eastman. You don’t want to end up carrying boards!” He did have a way.

One of the most indelible details of his classroom, across from the janitor’s closet that kept safe his lit cigarettes, was his coffee cup. It was more of an institution than a cup. It may have never been washed. But he drank from it as though it sustained life, while taking our lunch money in a game of throwing chalk short ends at the wastepaper basket, or explaining how life isn’t fair because he got stung by a bee once while living in the mud huts in Kansas.

This dark roast is rich and full, as Mr. French lived his life. We miss him every day.