December 11-12, 1998.  The future was almost here. (#202)

From the moment I decided to pursue education as a career, I knew that what I was about to do now, for the first time, was going to be one of my least favorite parts of this career.  My student teaching assignment at Nueces High consisted of two classes, one first period and one third period, so I had plenty of time during second period to get this done.

I walked to the front office and asked Teri, the secretary, “Where can I find parent phone numbers?”

“I can look it up for you.  Who is the student?”

“Emily Wallace,” I said.

Teri typed into her computer, then wrote the name of Emily’s mother, and her home and work phone numbers, on a sticky note.  “Hopefully, a couple years from now, there will be a computer on every teacher desk, so you can look this up yourself..”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Remember to dial 9 to get an outside line,” Teri said.

I took the paper and walked back to the teacher lounge, which had a telephone in it.  The room was empty, which was unusual. Many teachers at Nueces High did not have an empty classroom during their prep period, with other classes in their rooms then, so some of them were typically in here working.  I was glad for an empty room, though; I did not want people eavesdropping on my call.  I walked over to the phone and nervously dialed 9, then Mrs. Wallace’s home phone number.  As the phone rang, I thought about how my roommate also had the last name Wallace.  I was pretty sure he was not related to these Wallaces, though; he knew I was student teaching at Nueces High and probably would have told me if he had a cousin attending there.

“Hi!  You’ve reached the Wallaces,” a recorded voice said after four rings.  “Please leave a message at the beep.”

“Hi,” I said, a little nervously.  “This is Mr. Dennison.  I’m a student teacher in Emily’s math class.  I had to send her out on a class suspension today, because she was refusing to work, and she made inappropriate comments when I told her to get to work.  Please call the school and leave a message for me.  Thank you.”

I had fulfilled my legal requirement for a class suspension.  Emily had spent the rest of the period in Room Two, the classroom reserved for such situations, and state Education Code said that a teacher had to contact the students’ parents as soon as possible after sending the student out of class.  But I had had so much trouble with Emily in class lately that I wanted to speak in real time about the situation, so even though I hated making these phone calls, I dialed Mrs. Wallace’s work phone number next.  She picked up on the third ring.

“Mrs. Wallace?” I asked, hoping that it was in fact her and that I would not have to explain myself.

“Yes,” Mrs. Wallace replied.  “May I ask who is speaking?”

“This is Mr. Dennison.  I’m a student teacher in Emily’s math class.”

“Hi! I remember you from Back-to-School Night.  What did Emily do this time?”

“She was just sitting there doodling instead of doing her work.  I asked her to get back to work, and she ignored me.  I asked her again five minutes later, and she shouted at me that I wasn’t a real teacher and she didn’t have to do what I said.  So I sent her to Room Two for the rest of the period.”

“Wow.  I’m sorry she acted that way.  But thank you so much for contacting me.  I will have a talk with her, and you will see a new attitude from her on Monday.  Just because you’re still studying to be a teacher, you’re an adult, and it’s still your classroom.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Please let me know again if you have any issues with her.  Do you have email?”

“I do,” I replied.  Email was a new enough technology in 1998 that teachers were not automatically given email accounts from the school district, but since my student teaching assignment was technically a class through the University of Jeromeville, I could use the same UJ email that I used for everything else to contact Mrs. Wallace.  Also, the thought of having more than one email address and separating home and work emails had not yet occurred to me at this point in the history of the Internet.  Mrs. Wallace gave me her email address, and I wrote it on the sticky note with her phone number.  “Thank you so much,” I said.  “Have a good weekend.”

“You too!”

The rest of the day felt peaceful, knowing that I had survived my first parent phone call as a teacher.  I had no classes on Friday afternoon, but next week I had a final exam and a paper due.  I worked a little bit on outlining the paper, then took a nap and spent the evening at the last Jeromeville Christian Fellowship large group meeting of 1998.


Saturday I got some more studying done.  I had plans in the evening.  Bethany Bradshaw, my friend whom I had met over the summer swing dancing, had a friend from freshman year who was currently in a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof, and she had invited me to the show with her.  I was not a theater guy, and I knew almost nothing about this show.  But I had no plans, and ever since Bethany got busy with school and cut back on swing dancing and I quit altogether after a bad experience, I had not gotten to hang out with her as often, so I said sure.  I drove to her apartment and knocked on the door; she answered, wearing a dress.  I hoped that I would not appear underdressed for a community theater production in the collared shirt and business-casual pants that I wore.

“You ready?” I asked.

“Yes!” Bethany replied.  “Let’s go!”

Bethany followed me to my car.  I pulled away from the curb, turned left on Maple Drive, and then turned left on Coventry Boulevard, headed east.  “How’s studying for finals going?” I asked.

“It’s going.  I think I’ll be okay.  How’s student teaching?”

“It’s okay.  One girl told me yesterday that I wasn’t a real teacher, and she didn’t have to do what I told her.  I called her mom yesterday, my first parent phone call as a teacher.”

“Wow. How’d that go?”

“Really well, actually.  The mom seemed supportive.”

“That’s good!  Do you have finals next week too?”

“I do, for my two education classes, one actual final and one paper due.  That’s what I’ll be working on the rest of the weekend.  But I’m still student teaching next week.”

“What about the kids you’re teaching?  Are they taking finals? Do you have to grade them?”

“Not yet.  Their finals are the third week of January.”

I could see out of the corner of my eye that Bethany was making a weird face.  “Really?” she asked.  “Why?”

I did not understand the context of her question.  “Because that’s when high school semester finals are.  At the end of second quarter.”

“In January?”

“Yeah.  School starts at the end of August and gets out at the start of June, so the middle of January is the halfway point of the year.”

“That’s weird.”

“Your finals weren’t like that?”

“No.  At least I don’t think so.  I don’t really remember.  You took finals in the middle of January in high school?”

“Yeah.  Because then the two semesters are the same length, so classes that only go for half the year are the same in the fall and the spring.”

“Weird,” Bethany said.

It was just as weird to me that Bethany took finals before winter break in high school, but I dropped the subject, not wanting to argue.  As high school passed farther and farther into the past, I had come to notice that many people remembered little to nothing about the details of their academic experiences in high school.  I had had many conversations with people who had forgotten their schedules, or what classes they took in what years, or fundamentally important subject matter.  I had come to realize that I was the unusual one, in that I remembered so many details of my own high school experience.  This may have been because I had written about the experience extensively when I was less than a year removed from it.

As we approached downtown headed south on G Street, I asked, “The Valley Theatre is on Second Street, between F and G?  Is that right?”

“I think so.”

I parked in the parking garage around the corner from the Valley Theatre and walked inside with Bethany.  The building was about half full when we arrived, because we got there fifteen minutes early.  I had learned somewhere that it was considered poor etiquette to arrive late to a live stage performance, and that some theaters closed their doors after the show started.  Jeromeville seemed like the kind of place with snooty people who would enforce this rule, so I made sure to get there in plenty of time.

We each started looking through the program when we got to out seats.  “How do you say this name?” Bethany asked, pointing to “Tevye,” the name of the main character.  “Do you know?”

“‘Tev-yuh,’ I think.  I’ve heard that name before, actually. Funny story. When I was a kid, we had a lot of cats, and other cats from the neighborhood would sometimes come play with our cats.  Once we had a neighbor with a cat named Trevor, and in our family, cats always get called silly nicknames, and my dad would sometimes call Trevor ‘Tevye’ because it kind of sounds the same.”

“That’s funny.  People always make up weird nicknames for cats.”

“I know!  Which one is your friend?”

“Nicole,” she answered, pointing to a name in the program.  “She plays Chava.”

The lights darkened, and the actor playing Tevye walked out on stage, singing a song where he kept shouting the word “tradition,” and explaining the traditions of his people.  I gathered from the context that Tevye and his family were Russian Jews, and that this show was set sometime in the past.  As the show went on, Tevye found his simple, traditional life challenged as his daughters grew up.  One of them wanted to marry a man she loved instead of going through a traditional matchmaker, another became romantically involved with a revolutionary, and the one played by Nicole had a non-Jewish love interest.  Just before intermission, at the wedding of the eldest daughter and the man she loved, some characters in the show started a violent riot.

“What happened there at the end?” I asked after the lights came up.

“The Russians persecuted the Jews back then,” Bethany explained.

“I figured that, but I meant like was this part of an actual specific historical event, or a war?”

“I’m not really sure exactly.  I think it’s just supposed to be typical of the time period.”

“That makes sense,” I replied, nodding.  During the show I had remembered something that Bethany had once said that I wanted to ask about, so I asked, “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?”

“Yeah!”

I did not remember which day, so I said, “14th?  15th?”

Bethany looked at me, rolled her eyes, and said “21st.”  I was confused.  I did not remember the exact day, but I knew it was a number in the teens.  She definitely did not say December 21.  I figured out what the confusion was when she continued, “Really?  Do I look so young that you have to joke about it?”

“Oh!” I replied, chuckling.  “I meant what’s the date.  The 14th or 15th, I can’t remember.  I didn’t mean your age.  I know how old you are”

“Wow,” she laughed.  “It’s the 15th.  Tuesday.  And I have a final on my birthday.”

“Happy birthday!  Here’s a huge test.  Do you have any plans other than that?”

“My roommates are taking me out that night.  I don’t have another final until Thursday afternoon, and that’ll be an easy one, so we can stay out late Tuesday night.  And I’m flying home Friday, so I’ll have a birthday dinner with my family on Friday.”

“Do you need a ride to the airport?  I should be home from student teaching by noon.”

“My roommate is going to take me, but thanks for asking.”

The show resumed after intermission, with the political changes in early 20th century Russia and the continued persecution of Jews disrupting Tevye’s peaceful rural life.  Tevye’s revolutionary son-in-law was arrested and exiled for his political activities, and Tevye did not accept the marriage of Chava, Nicole’s character, to a man who was not a Jew.  In the end, with the Russians preparing to force Jews from their land, Tevye’s entire family left their village behind to start new lives elsewhere.

After the curtain call and many rounds of applause, I turned to Bethany and said, “That was really good.  I didn’t know what to expect.”

“It was.  Sad ending.”

“Yeah.  Being forced to leave your home like that.  I guess that just kind of hit home for me, since I’ve been thinking about next year.  This might be my last year in Jeromeville, if I end up getting a job somewhere too far to commute from here.”

“Oh, yeah.  That must be hard, not knowing.  Do you know where you’re going to apply for jobs?”

“Definitely as many school districts near Jeromeville as I can.  I already have a community and a church here, and I have a lot of younger friends who are still going to be around a couple more years.  But I’m probably just going to apply to a lot of different places.  I’m not planning on moving too far away, though.  I like this part of the state.”

“Are you thinking about moving back home to Plumdale?  Or anywhere around Santa Lucia?”

“Definitely not.  Too gray most of the year, and not warm enough in summer.  And I need to be out on my own, not too close to my family.”

“That makes sense.  I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah.”

“Nicole just came out from backstage,” Bethany said, pointing to Nicole, still in her Chava costume and now standing just in front of the stage.  “Let’s go say hi to her.”

I followed Bethany to where Nicole was standing.  As she saw us approaching, her eyes lit up, and she reached her arms out and gave Bethany a big hug.  “Bethany!  You made it!”

“It’s good to see you!  You did well!”

“Thanks!  It’s been so much fun rehearsing and everything!  This is a really great cast!  It’s been a lot, though, especially with finals coming up too.  But mine aren’t going to be too bad this year.”

“This is my friend Greg,” Bethany said, gesturing toward me.  “Greg, this is Nicole.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking Nicole’s hand.

“How do you guys know each other?” Nicole asked.

“Swing dancing,” Bethany answered.

“You swing dance, Greg?” Nicole asked me.

“Well, not anymore.  All my friends who got me into it last summer stopped going once school started, and I kind of had a bad experience with the people who were still going.  I haven’t been in over a month, but maybe I’ll try it again someday.”

“It sounds like fun!” Nicole said.  “I know some people who do that sometimes.”

I stood there trying not to seem too awkward as Bethany and Nicole caught up on news of people they knew two years ago in their freshman dorm.  I did not know any of those people.  After a few minutes, Nicole said goodbye to us and moved on to talk to other people she knew who had been in attendance tonight.

“You ready to go?” Bethany asked.

“I think so,” I replied.

We walked back to the parking garage.  I drove to G Street, then headed north toward Coventry Boulevard.  “You’re quiet tonight,” Bethany remarked about halfway through the drive home.

“Yeah,” I replied.  “Sorry.”

“Everything okay?”

“Just thinking about all the stuff I was talking about.  Next year.  And the future.”

“Yeah.  It’ll be okay.  God has a plan for you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pray for you.”

“Thanks.”

We arrived in front of Bethany’s apartment; I parked in a spot that was probably reserved for someone else, but I was only going to be there for a minute.  As I walked her to the front door, she said, “Thanks for coming with me tonight!”

“Thanks for asking me,” I replied.

“Good luck with finals.”  She gave me a hug.

“You too,” I said.  “And happy early 15th birthday.”

“Shut up,” she replied, laughing and playfully slapping my arm.


All of this was still on my mind as I attempted to drift off to sleep in my bed that night.  My time as a University of Jeromeville student was rapidly coming to an end, and depending on where I found a job, my time as a Jeromeville resident might be coming to an end too.  I already had my degree, and in just six months I would have a teaching certificate.  It would be nice if I could find a job at Nueces High, or somewhere else within commuting distance of Jeromeville; I could continue going to Jeromeville Covenant Church, and watching The X-Files at the De Anza house.  But this was certainly not guaranteed.

The world around me was changing also.  The year was coming to a close.  Soon it would be 1999, and soon after that the year 2000 would arrive.  People were going to have to get used to start writing a 2 at the beginning of the year, and hoping that their computers would be able to handle dates that begin with 2 without crashing.  In my childhood, the year 2000 was often used as symbolic for some far-flung future, but now, the future was almost here.

I had known little about Fiddler on the Roof before tonight, but Tevye’s plight in the Russia of almost a century ago felt strangely relatable.  His people had lived according to centuries of tradition, but his daughters were finding husbands in nontraditional ways, and the society around him had become hostile to his people to the point that he had to flee the only home he had ever known.  Even though Jeromeville had become home to me, and the thought of leaving soon made me sad, the truth was that a politically liberal university town may not be the most accommodating place for my traditional Christian values.

Even in the face of a changing world and changing traditions, some things were worth holding on to.  I had a community of other Christians here in Jeromeville, and if I ended up somewhere else, the first thing I would do would be to find a church. God’s Word was timeless and unchanging, and this would always give me something to look to for guidance and comfort.  And another long-standing tradition was born that night.  Bethany and I have stayed in touch, and I kept that joke about her 15th birthday going for a long time.  I gave her a Sweet Sixteen card the following year when she turned twenty-two, and when she turned twenty-four, after she had moved back home to southern California, I sent her an email asking how it felt to finally turn eighteen and be an adult. Bethany and her family now live in Missouri, halfway across the United States from me, and I made reference to the old birthday joke as recently as 2023, when she turned forty-six, by posting a picture of a cake that said “Happy 40th Birthday” on her Facebook wall.  Old inside jokes are the best.


How have changing traditions affected your life? And do you have any long-standing inside jokes with friends? Tell me about it in the comments.

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December 4-7, 1998.  My first conference for teachers. (#201)

“Are you doing anything this weekend?” Mrs. Tracy asked me, as I packed up my things after my period student teaching in her classroom ended.

“The Shorehaven conference,” I replied.

“Oh, that’s right!  That’s this weekend!  I haven’t been to that in a few years.  Is this your first time, as a new student teacher?”

“Yeah!  I’m kind of excited!”

“Have you been to the Shorehaven conference grounds before?  Didn’t you grow up around there?”

“Yes.  Plumdale is about thirty miles away from Ocean Grove.  I’ve been to Ocean Grove many times, but not actually on the conference grounds.”

“It’s beautiful!  You’ll love it!”

“That’s good.”

“Have a great weekend!  I’ll see you Monday!” Mrs. Tracy said.

“You too!”


A couple months ago, in our student teaching seminar, Dr. Van Zandt told us about an annual conference bringing together hundreds of mathematics teachers from all over the northern half of the state.  He encouraged us to attend, even though the event was at Shorehaven Conference Grounds in Ocean Grove, a three hour drive from Jeromeville each way.  We would have to pay our own expenses, but since my parents lived just thirty miles away, I could stay with them and avoid the cost of either a room at the conference grounds or an overpriced touristy hotel room in or near Ocean Grove.

The schedule included a keynote address on a Friday night, breakout sessions and vendor booths all day Saturday, and two large group speeches on Sunday morning.  Some of the breakout sessions included materials given out to attendees; I had to choose two of these in advance, because of the limited supply of materials.  After I sent my registration form and fees, I received my name badge and tickets to the two ticketed sessions in the mail.

The Shorehaven conference, officially the “Western Mathematics Council Education Conference – North, Shorehaven,” was held annually on the weekend after Thanksgiving.  I had no education classes on Friday afternoons, so after I came home from student teaching on that Friday morning, I spent the rest of the afternoon packing.  I only needed two changes of clothes, but I packed an extra change of clothes as I always did.

I left Jeromeville around two o’clock and took the slightly longer route home down the Valley.  On a Friday afternoon, the more direct route through Los Nogales and San Tomas would lead me directly into the middle of massive traffic snarls.  I arrived at my parents’ house around five; Mom said she would have dinner ready for me.  She made chicken and mashed potatoes.  Since this was a work trip, I made sure Mom knew that I only had an hour at most before I had to leave for the conference.

The drive had been cold and gloomy.  The gray December sky that had been above me so far on this trip had turned completely dark by the time I left my parents’ house, except for a faint glow in the east where the moon was rising behind the clouds.  I drove south on Highway 11 and turned at the south end of Plumdale onto Highway 127 west.  Five miles down the road, in Carsonville, Highway 127 merged with Highway 2 south and ran parallel to the coast.  Carsonville was near the mouth of the Gabilan River and its fertile surrounding valley, so here the highway ran a few miles inland, surrounded by farmland.  I drove over a few low hills across the cities of Marine Beach, Seaview, and Santa Lucia, then exited on Highway 86 west toward Ocean Grove.

This stretch of Highway 86 was a twisting two-lane road that climbed a thickly forested hill, but since it was dark, I would have to wait until morning to enjoy the view.  After a few miles, the road widened and became Cypress Avenue.  When I saw Cypress Middle School at the corner with Sycamore Avenue, I turned onto a side street and looked for a place to park on the side of the street, finding one about a block past the school.

The conference was so large that it took up three locations within about a mile and a half of each other: the actual conference grounds on the beach, this school near the top of a hill, and Ocean Grove High School in between.  The Friday keynote address was at the middle school, the two Sunday talks were at the conference grounds, and the Saturday breakout sessions and vendor tables were at all three locations, with the local school district donating its buses to be used as shuttle buses between the three sites..

Cypress Middle School was an old building, probably from the early twentieth century.  To my knowledge, middle schools were a newer concept around here; this building looked like something from the era of when only elementary and high schools existed.  I wondered if this school might have originally been an elementary or high school. I walked inside, where two people sat at a table with boxes full of tote bags.  “Hi,” one of them said.  “Do you have your name badge?”

“Yes,” I replied, handing it to her.  She looked through a very long list, found my name, and handed me a tote bag.

“Enjoy!” she said.

Apparently I got a free tote bag for attending this event.  I was not expecting that.  The bag was black, with a yellow logo printed on it, some kind of repeating fractal design with spirals.  Above it was printed the slogan “Mathematics Is Beautiful,” and below it, “Western Mathematics Council 1998.”

I carried the tote bag as I followed signs to the theater.  Cypress Middle School was a two-story building, with a strange layout; in order to reach the theater, I had to climb to the second floor, go around a corner, and then go back down a different set of stairs.  The theater was large, with probably around a thousand seats, not typical of any theater found in any middle school I had seen before.  I was almost certain now that this building had once been the local high school.

When I arrived, the theater was only around a quarter full, and I did not see anyone I recognized.  I took a seat and looked through my tote bag to see what was inside.  An updated catalog of courses, including last minute changes and corrections.  A note pad, with the conference logo and dates of upcoming conferences from this year through 2002.  A lanyard and plastic sleeve in which to put my name badge.  A pencil and pen.

The speaker was a curriculum director for some school district in the suburbs of Bay City.  He was talking about the importance of cultural diversity and how students from different cultures respond to various scenarios in school.  I tuned out about halfway through, because I had heard a lot of this in one of my education classes, and this was a hot-button issue in those days that I did not completely agree with.  Every student is different, yes, and as a teacher I should be familiar with my students enough to recognize that some will react differently to school settings than others.  But assuming that students will be a certain way because of their cultures, or the colors of their skin, to me seemed like just racial stereotyping all over again.


In those days, when I slept at my parents’ house, I was usually on a school break, so it was a little difficult to wake up at 6:00 to get ready.  I wanted to lie in bed for a while Saturday morning, but I had to get up and get dressed, because I had a ticket for an 8:00 session.

Highway 86 was much more beautiful in the light of the rising sun, with views of the ocean from the summit of the hill.  I parked near where I had parked the day before at Cypress Middle School and walked to my session.  It was about algebra tiles, small plastic blocks used to model simplifying, factoring, and expanding algebraic expressions.  This session came with a free sample of three-dimensional algebra tiles, which could be used to model expressions with exponents up to the third power, whereas traditional flat tiles could only be used for the second power.  I could see where this would be a useful manipulative, but it seemed like it would take a long time to teach students how to use them, long enough that I was not sure it would be useful.

I had an hour and a half until my next session, so next I walked around the vendors in the school cafeteria.  I took lots of business cards, pamphlets, and free samples of pens and pencils as sales professionals tried to convince me to buy calculators, classroom manipulatives, and computer software.  As a student teacher, I was not in a position to make a large purchase, but I was interested in knowing what was out there.  I spent money once that day, and it happened when I turned a corner and saw a booth selling mathematics-related t-shirts.  I knew I had to get something.

“Do you have the quadratic formula shirt in an extra large?” I asked, pointing to the shirt in question. “I’m teaching that right now, actually.”

“Let me look,” the man behind the table said.  He looked through a box and pulled out a shirt in my size.  “We only have it in green.  Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I said.  I paid him and put the t-shirt in my tote bag.

After I finished walking around the vendor tables, I left the cafeteria through the back door, which opened right onto a street running behind the school.  I got on the next school bus to arrive and rode through the neighborhoods of Ocean Grove, a little over a mile down a gently sloping hill, to the main conference grounds.

I had never seen the Shorehaven Conference Center up close, and it was absolutely beautiful.  About twenty-five old wooden buildings, many with stone chimneys, were scattered among coastal cypress and live oak trees, with the beach just beyond a row of dunes at the west end of the conference center.  The north side of the grounds held dormitories, with exhibition halls and meeting rooms on the south side.  I found the room for the next session on my schedule, where I sat listening to a veteran teacher speak on creative ways to keep students engaged in learning.  I wondered if any of that would work for the difficult students I had in Mrs. Matthews’ Basic Math B class.

Next, I climbed a hill to a large exhibition hall, an imposing wooden structure with a stone façade in front and tall paned windows.  The catalog said that there were more vendors in here, but a quick look around showed me that these vendors were mostly textbook publishers.

“Are you adopting?” one saleswoman asked me as I approached her table.

“Huh?” I asked instinctively.  Adopting?  Like adopting a baby?  That did not make sense in this context.  I was not sure what she was asking.

“Is your school adopting this year?” she repeated.

I still was not sure what she was talking about, so I said, “No.  I’m just looking.”

“Can I tell you about our program, so you’ll remember us in your next adoption year?”

“Sure,” I said.

As she began to explain the features of the textbook that she was selling, I inferred from the context that “adopting” is educational bureaucrat jargon for selecting and buying new textbooks and curriculum.  As I flipped through one of her books, she explained that this was an integrated curriculum.  “So, instead of having algebra one year and geography another year, you get it all combined.  We don’t have a geography book, but if you do our three-year core high school curriculum, you get all the material for a year of geography.”

I nodded, more confused than ever.  This was math, not social studies.  Why would there be geography in this textbook?  Was this curriculum so integrated that these textbooks taught math and social studies? I did not see any maps in the book I was flipping through, just math.  “So can I sign you up for anything?” she asked

“I’m not ready to get anything now.”

“That’s okay.  Here’s my card.  Contact me when your school is adopting.”

“Thank you.  I will.”

“Enjoy the weekend!”

“Thanks!” I said.  As I walked around the room, about two minutes later it occurred to me that all of her talk about geography was actually about geometry.  I reached into my tote bag, found her business card, and threw it away; no student needs to learn from a textbook published by a company whose sales representatives do not know the difference between geometry and geography.

I finished walking around the publishers’ exhibits shortly before noon.  I had a session at 1:00 back at Cypress Middle School, and I was picking up a box lunch at the school.  But instead of waiting for the next shuttle bus, I decided to walk.  I followed the same route I had taken on the bus, walking out the main entrance, across Shorehaven Avenue, and straight down Sycamore Avenue to the school.

Ocean Grove is a great town to take a walk.  The neighborhoods closest to the beach have no sidewalks and curbs, just beautifully kept up old houses among large cypress, pine, and live oak trees, some covered with Spanish moss.  I saw squirrels climbing trees and birds flying by.

The walk to the school was a little over a mile.  About a third of the way there, a curb appeared on the side of the street, and parts of the street now had a paved sidewalk as well. This neighborhood looked more like a typical well-kept older suburban area, the trees not quite as dense or tall.  The overcast December sky that had hung over my trip home yesterday had given way to a beautiful blue, cool and breezy but sunny with no clouds in sight.  This part of Sycamore Avenue ran along the top of a ridge, and a few times during my walk, while crossing a street, I could look to my left down the cross street and see the dark blue ocean far off below me, with the faint hazy outline of the Lorenzo Mountains even farther away across the Santa Lucia Bay.

When I arrived at the school and walked to the table where the lunches were being distributed, I saw Ron Pinkerton, Melissa Becker, and Ryan Gaines from my student teaching program sitting at a picnic table.  I sat with them after I got my lunch.  “How’s your day been?” Ron asked.

“Good so far,” I said.  “I have a session here at 1 about teaching fractions.  The Basic Math B class is doing things with fractions right now, and a lot of them don’t get it at all.  Then back to the grounds to hear Howard Jacobsen at 4. He wrote the textbook that Ryan and I use for Basic B at Nueces High, and I also used one of his textbooks in high school.”

“Howard Jacobsen will be good,” Ryan said.  “I’m not gonna make it, though.”

“We’re gonna go check out the vendors inside,” Melissa said a few minutes later after she and the others finished their lunch.  “Have you been in there yet?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “I got a quadratic formula t-shirt.”

“Nice!  I’m going to Howard Jacobsen, so I’ll see you there?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “Have fun in there.”

After the session about fractions, I now had some new ideas on how to make the students visualize what fractions really meant.  Now I had to take another shuttle bus back to the grounds.  The walk was pleasant, but I did not particularly want to walk that far a second time today.  When I arrived at the grounds, I walked toward the beach and found a nice big rock to sit on.  I closed my eyes for a bit, but I was not positioned comfortably enough to fall asleep, even with the soothing low roar of waves breaking as background noise.

As the time for Howard Jacobsen’s talk drew near, I started walking in that direction.  The room was mostly full when I arrived, just in time, but I saw Melissa, and she had saved me a seat next to her.  “Thanks,” I whispered to her.

Mr. Jacobsen did not look much like I imagined.  I recognized him from the “About the Author” page in the Basic B textbook, but he was older now.  He was shorter than average for a man, and his head, with slightly bushy gray hair and a mustache, looked too big for his well-dressed body.  But once he began speaking, I was instantly fascinated.  “Every year,” he explained, “I keep an eye out for stories in the news that I can use in my classroom.  Here are some of my favorites for this year.”

Mr. Jacobsen showed a photo on the projector of a drawing of a normal human, with marks showing his height at six feet, then next to him a drawing of a giant baby, also six feet tall.  “Babies do not look like miniature humans,” he explained.  “Their different body parts grow at different rates.  So if you scale a baby up to six feet tall, it looks different from an adult man.  I used this illustration last year when I was teaching proportions.”

Next, Mr. Jacobsen put a photograph on the projector of a man dressed like Elvis Presley jumping out of an airplane with a parachute, and a table showing the number of professional Elvis impersonators in various years.  “So this article was talking about the rapid growth in the number of Elvis impersonators since the time of Elvis’ death.  You could easily tie this into a lesson about exponential growth.”  He next showed a page of equations on the projector and added, “Here we calculate that, if the growth rates continue, by the middle of the twenty-first century, every human being on Earth will be an Elvis impersonator.”  Many people in the audience laughed, including me.

After an hour of such examples, when the talk ended, I said goodbye to Melissa, who was headed to dinner with some of the others from our class.  She invited me, but I had plans to have dinner with my parents.  After Melissa left, before I went home, I walked up to Mr. Jacobsen at the front of the room and nervously said, “Mr. Jacobsen?”

“Yes?” he replied, turning around.

“Hi.  I don’t know you.  My name is Greg Dennison, I’m a student teacher from Jeromeville, and one of the classes I’m student teaching is using your Survey of Mathematics textbook.  And I used your geometry textbook myself eight years ago when I was in high school.  I just wanted to say I love your textbook writing style.”

“Thank you!” Mr. Jacobsen replied, sounding genuinely pleased.

“I love the way you creatively work in so many other topics and find ways to connect them to math.  Just like what you were talking about today.  It’s very unique, and that’s why your textbook stood out to me all these years.”

“Thank you so much.  That’s what I try to do.  It was nice meeting you, Greg.”

“You too.  I’ll probably see you next year if you’re here again.”

“I should be!” he exclaimed.  “I look forward to it!”


I skipped the Sunday morning sessions and got back to Jeromeville around lunch time on Sunday, as I had planned.  I had some reading to do for my classes.

Dr. Van Zandt was at Nueces High School on Monday, to record his student teachers there and make observations.  He observed me in Mrs. Tracy’s class third period, but he did not know that I had a little surprise planned for the class.

I wrote “ax2 + bx + c = 0,” the general form of a quadratic equation, on the board.  “The first problem for today is going to walk you through how to get x by itself, to solve this equation,” I said.  “Work on that in your groups, fill in the blanks, then we’ll talk about it together.” I walked around, helping students get unstuck as Dr. Van Zandt pointed a video camera at me and took notes.  After most of the responsible students had successfully gotten x alone by completing the square, thus deriving and proving the quadratic formula, I wrote the formula on the board.

“And I also brought a little study guide for you,” I said.  The students watched as I took off the sweater I was wearing, revealing my new green quadratic formula T-shirt underneath.  Dr. Van Zandt’s camera captured all of it, including the students’ reactions as they laughed and cheered.

“Where’d you get that, Mr. Dennison?” Andy Rawlings shouted out.

“I went to a conference this weekend.  They were selling math shirts.”

“I love it!”

I wore the quadratic formula shirt many times the rest of that year, and the students all seemed to react positively to it.  Once I wore it to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, and a younger university student saw it and said, “The quadratic formula!  I remember that from high school!”  His response puzzled me; as a mathematics major, the quadratic formula was not something to be remembered in the distant past and forgotten, but something fundamental to the way the universe worked.  I supposed that many people did not see it that way, though.

I went to the Shorehaven conference a total of twelve times from 1998 through 2014.  I  made the walk from the conference grounds to Cypress Middle School at some point every time I went, because that was such a beautiful, peaceful place to take a walk, with all the trees surrounding the conference grounds, and the waves breaking on the adjacent beach.  I have not been in over a decade at this point; the other mathematics teachers at my current place of employment usually do not go, and the school district only sends instructional coaches to that conference.  I did go to the adjacent beach once since then, in 2024 while driving around with my mother on a visit home.  I may return to the conference someday, though; I still have well over a decade ahead of me before retirement.


Readers: Is there an annual event, work- or school-related or otherwise, that you attend every year, or attended every year for a long time? Tell me about it in the comments.

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.


Late November, 1998.  My eccentric roommate just became more eccentric. (#200)

Thank you so much, readers, for sticking with me through 200 episodes of this story.  At some point in 2019, during year 1 of this story, I estimated that I would need about 250 episodes to tell the whole story, and it is finally starting to look possible that I might get to the end someday.  I’m glad to have you to share it with.  And if you know anyone who might like a nostalgic coming-of-age story set in the 1990s, please share this with them.


From: Michelle923@aolnet.com
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 1998 12:40 -0500
Subject: Re: hi

Hi! How are you? How’s teaching going? Your X-Files parties sound really fun! I’ve only seen that show a few times, but it looked pretty good from what I saw.

I’m excited because Thanksgiving is coming up next week!  We always host it at our house.  My grandparents will be coming, and some of my aunts and uncles and cousins.  We have a lot of family in the area.  I love Thanksgiving dinner… What do you have planned for Thanksgiving?  Will you be going home?  Does your family live nearby, or did you go far away for school?

I have class this afternoon.  What about you?  Are you teaching today?  I hope you have a great day! Talk to you soon! :-)

–Michelle


I met Michelle a few weeks ago on an Internet Relay Chat channel.  A few years ago, when I first had access to chat sites on the Internet, my mother was always fond of reminding me that these girls I was talking to could be creepy old men for all I knew.  Back in the 1990s, chat sites, and the private messages that came from them, were entirely text based.  The technology for video chatting had not been developed yet, and digital photography was in its infancy, beyond the average user’s capability or budget.  If I wanted to send someone a picture, I had to take a traditional film photo of myself and put it on a flatbed scanner to convert it to a digital image file.  I did not own a flatbed scanner, and while there were a few in computer labs around school with flatbed scanners, I also did not like most pictures of myself in the first place.  I had not sent Michelle a picture yet, nor had she sent me one, but she seemed really sweet.

Michelle was a community college student, a few years younger than me.  She lived in Michigan with her family.  A large Thanksgiving with aunts and uncles and cousins sounded nice to me, but the Thanksgiving I had to look forward to this year would be much smaller.  I clicked Reply and started typing.


To: Michelle923@aolnet.com
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi

Your Thanksgiving sounds like fun!  I will be going home to my parents’ house.  They live in a little town called Plumdale, in the central part of the state near the coast, near Gabilan and Santa Lucia if you know where those are.  It’s about a two and a half hour drive if traffic is good.  When I was growing up, we had a big family Thanksgiving that sounds more like yours.  My dad grew up in Bidwell, a ways north of here, and we’d drive between four and five hours to have Thanksgiving at my great-grandma’s house every year, with a lot of his relatives there too.  My great-grandma died in 1994, and some of those relatives have moved farther away, and now my brother is


The phone rang, interrupting my typing.  Back in those days, most people used dial-up Internet, connecting through the telephone line, but I had my email set up in a way that I could read and write messages offline, not tying up the phone line, only connecting for a minute when I needed to send and check messages.  I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” 

“Hi,” a young-sounding female voice said on the other end.  “Is Jed there?”

“He’s not home.  Can I take a message?”

“Can you tell him that Jamie called?”

“Sure,” I said, writing “Jed – Jamie called” on a piece of scratch paper.  “Does he have your number?”

“I think so, but let me give it to you just in case.”

Back in the days of landlines, someone who moved had to get a new phone number in the new area code, so it was possible to tell where someone lived from their phone number.  I could tell from Jamie’s area code that she was probably someone Jed knew from back home, not a Jeromeville local.  “Sure.  I’ll give him that message.”

“Thank you!  Bye!”

“Bye,” I said, hanging up the phone.  I continued my email to Michelle.


in high school on the basketball team, and his season starts the week of Thanksgiving so we can’t travel anymore.  So I’ll be back at home with just my immediate family and my grandparents on Mom’s side.  I miss going to see Dad’s relatives in Bidwell.  My great-grandma lived in the hills just outside of town with lots of places to hike and explore.  It was beautiful.

The X-Files parties are always fun!  It’s funny how that group has kind of developed a bunch of inside jokes.  Like there was this time when I


I was interrupted from writing my email again; this time, I heard the doorbell frantically ringing.  I jumped out of my seat a little, then cautiously walked down the hallway to the front door.  I opened the door a crack and saw Jed, with his bicycle propped against the wall.  “Can you go grab a couple of towels from the bathroom?” he said, somewhat frantically.

Confused, I looked at him again and noticed that his right hand was dripping blood.  Without asking, I ran to the bathroom and brought Jed two towels.  He wrapped his hand in one of them and held it in place.  “I’m going to need a ride to the Student Health Center.  I’m really sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.  Are you the only one home?”

“Yeah, I’m the only one home,” I said.  “I’m not doing anything urgent.  Let’s go.  Should I put your bike inside?”

“Yes, please.”

I noticed that the right handlebar of Jed’s bike was also covered in blood, so I carefully held it by the other handlebar and wheeled it into the laundry room, the closest part of the house, just to get it out of the way.  I locked the house and walked with Jed to the car, hoping that the two towels would soak up enough blood that he would not bleed inside my car.  Jed carefully pulled himself into the passenger seat, also being careful not to get blood on anything.  “Can you buckle my seat belt?” he asked.  “It’s kind of hard to hold on to anything with my right hand.”

“Sure,” I said.  I buckled his seat belt, then got around to the driver’s seat and attached my own.  As we pulled away from the curb, weaving through the neighborhood toward Andrews Road, I finally asked, “So what happened?  Are you gonna be okay?”

“It was a freak accident,” he explained as I turned right on Andrews.  Gesturing toward the intersection behind us, he continued, “I was slowing down to turn here, on my way home from class, and the whole brake lever broke off.  It fell to the ground, bounced off the spinning tire, and ricocheted right back at my hand.  The sharp metal edge where it broke sliced my finger, and it hit me so hard I think my finger might be broken too.”

“Holy crap!” I exclaimed.  “That sounds painful!”

“It is,” Jed said.

I continued driving, unsure of what else to say.  The Student Health Center was at the north end of campus, on Colt Avenue just south of West Fifth Street.  I knew of this building’s existence, but I had never actually been inside; fortunately for me, I had never been sick or injured seriously enough in my four years and two months as a University of Jeromeville student to need a doctor.

I turned into the parking lot, looking to see where I could get a visitor permit since I did not currently have a permit to park on campus.  I noticed a sign saying that the section of the lot closest to the Student Health Center was reserved for patient parking, and that if I needed to be there for more than an hour, I could get a parking permit when I checked in.  I parked there and walked with Jed to the lobby.  Jed could walk just fine under his own power; only his right hand had been injured.

The Student Health Center was a low one-story building, resembling any other doctor’s office or urgent care center that one might find off campus.  I walked into the lobby, holding the door for Jed.  A receptionist sat at a desk, with upholstered chairs lining the remaining walls of the lobby.  Jed explained to the receptionist what had happened.

“You need to fill this out,” she said, handing him a clipboard with a form on it.  “Is that your writing hand that you hurt?”

“Yeah,” Jed replied, almost chuckling at his misfortune.  Gesturing to me, Jed asked, “Can he fill it out for me?”

“Sure,” the receptionist answered.

I took the clipboard from Jed and sat in a chair.  He sat next to me.  I took the pen and started writing.  “‘Name,’” I said, reading from the form.  “Wallace, comma, Jedediah Andrew.  Right?  Andrew is your middle name?”

“Yeah.”

“‘Student ID number?’” I asked.  Jed told me the number, and I wrote it in the blank.  “‘Address,’ I know that one.”  Jed chuckled as I wrote 902 Acacia Drive, Jeromeville, which of course was also my address.

“‘Emergency contact.’  Your parents?  David and Sherri Wallace?”

“Yes.  S-H-E-R-R-I,” Jed spelled, presumably to make sure I did not write Sheri or Sherry or Sherrie.  Jed then told me their address and phone number in Sand Hill, at the opposite end of the state, which I copied onto the form.  The next section asked for a detailed description of the injury.  I asked Jed exactly what he wanted me to write, and I wrote the description that he dictated to me.

After we finished filling out the form, the receptionist told us to wait.  I had no idea how long of a wait it would be.  It occurred to me a few minutes later that I had left a half-finished email to Michelle open on my computer.  I thought about telling Jed this, but I preferred to keep my conversations with girls from the Internet private, so I did not say anything.  I then started to worry that one of the other housemates might find it.  Although Brody and Sean each had their own rooms, I would not at all put it past Brody to go into my room, borrow something without asking, see the message to Michelle, and intrusively tease me about her later.  Or, worse yet, to reply to Michelle in my name, telling her all about my herpes, my missing teeth, and my recent realization that I was gay and fooling around with my 60-year-old male professor.  None of that was true, but Brody would find all of it hilarious.

I remembered something else that happened earlier before Jed got home.  “In all the chaos, I forgot to tell you.  Someone named Jamie called for you.”

“Jamie?  Did she have a high, soft voice?”

“Yeah.  And she gave me a number to call back, with a Sand Hill area code.”

Jed nodded knowingly, grinning.  “Trouble.”

“I actually wondered if that was who it was, when I saw the area code,” I said.  Jed got involved with swing dancing last year at the University Bar & Grill in Jeromeville, when swing dancing suddenly became a huge fad.  He went home to Sand Hill over the summer and found a place to go dancing there.  He had told me once about one of his friends from dancing back home, a seductive-looking blonde with the nickname Trouble.  “That was nice of her to call you,” I said.  “I haven’t heard from any of my friends back home in a long time.”

“Nooooo!” Jed shouted, louder than was expected in a doctor’s office waiting room.  I looked at him, as did two other patients in the waiting room.

“What?” I asked.

“This broken finger means I can’t go dancing!”

“Oh, no!” I said.  “That’s disappointing.  Hopefully you get better soon.”  My own experience swing dancing was indefinitely on hold.  The last time I went was a few weeks ago, and I had no definite plans to go back any time soon.  Most of my friends were not going there anymore, I was getting rejected often when asking girls to dance, and new episodes of The X-Files had started, on the same night of the week.  I was enjoying the X-Files watch parties at the De Anza house more than I was swing dancing at the moment.  But Jed still loved swing dancing, and now he would have to stop for a while until his finger healed.  I felt bad for him.

About twenty minutes later, a nurse walked out and called, “Jedediah?”  Jed stood up.

I asked, “Do you know how long this will take?  Do I have to wait here?  I don’t really know how this works.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied.  Turning to the receptionist, he asked, “Can my ride go home, and I can call him from here when I’m ready to be picked up?”

“Sure,” the receptionist said.  “We’ll do that.”  Turning to me, she continued, “Go do what you need to.  We can take care of it from here.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thank you so much for the ride,” Jed said to me.

“You’re welcome.  I hope it’s not that bad, and that it heals soon.”


Jed’s finger was that bad.  He needed stitches to stop the bleeding, and his broken finger was in a metal splint for four months.  I got the call to pick him up just as I was about to get ready for bed that night, after I finished writing my email to Michelle and grading the quizzes from my student teaching class.

Jed continued going to class, getting notes from classmates and finding ways to hold his pencil to make his writing legible for his instructors.  He took the bus to campus, since he could not ride a bike with the cast and his bike was still broken.  He still went home for Thanksgiving, but he had to buy expensive last minute plane tickets instead of making the seven-hour drive by himself.  He found someone else to give him a ride to and from the airport in Capital City.  I wondered how airport security handled the splint on his finger.  When he came home on the Sunday night after Thanksgiving, he was wearing his usual driver cap, polo shirt, and business-casual slacks with athletic shoes, but he had something new around him, a long, wide, dark blue velvet-like fabric piece down his back.

“Hey,” I said as he walked into our shared room.  “What’s with the cape?”

“It’s a cloak,” he said, extending his arms and unfurling the cloak to its full size.  It was attached around his neck at the top.  I nodded.  “My cousin got it for the Renaissance faire a few years ago.  We were standing around outside after Thanksgiving dinner, I got cold, and I was having trouble putting my finger through the long sleeve of a jacket.  My cousin gave me his cloak to try.  It’s so much more comfortable with my broken finger, and it keeps me really warm.”

“Makes sense.  Glad you found something that works.”

Jed took off the cloak and tossed it on his desk chair as I got everything together for student teaching in the morning.  My eccentric roommate just became more eccentric, I thought.  I tried to picture Jed walking around campus wearing the cloak, and oddly enough, it seemed like exactly the kind of thing I would expect him to do.  Jed was going to do his thing that made sense for him regardless of what the rest of society would say about it.  And that was actually an admirable quality.  I wanted to live that way, being myself without caring what people thought about me, being unique and mysterious unlike all the other boring people out there.  It was difficult sometimes, though, especially given my history in childhood of being bullied for every imaginable reason.

Jed’s cloak became a well-known part of his personality.  I once met someone who did not know him personally, but knew who I was talking about when I said that my roommate was the guy with the cloak who works at the Coffee House on campus.  A year later, I was no longer a student but still attending Jeromeville Christian Fellowship sometimes, and on the Friday before Halloween that year, I had heard someone at JCF say that there was a Halloween party at the De Anza house afterward.  I got a brilliant idea and rushed home.  Brody was the only one home, so I asked him, “Where’s Jed?  There’s a Halloween party at the De Anza house, and I’m going to dress as Jed.  I want to ask if I can borrow his cloak.”

“Just take it, if he’s not wearing it,” Brody said.  “But if you really want to ask, he went to rent a movie from Blockbuster.”

I got in the car, drove the quarter mile to Blockbuster Video, and walked quickly up and down the aisles looking at the other customers.  Jed had a girlfriend at the time, and I found the two of them in about thirty seconds.

“Jed!” I called out.

Both of them turned around, and Jed said, “Hey!  How’s it going?”

I blurted out quickly, “Brody told me you were here.  There’s a Halloween party at the De Anza house, and I’m going as you.  Can I borrow the cloak?”

Jed looked at me for a few seconds, puzzled by what I said.  After his brain finished processing, the two of them both started laughing loudly.  “Go for it,” he said. “That’ll be hilarious.”

I went back home and put on the same kind of business casual slacks I wore for student teaching, a dark solid color shirt, the driver cap that I used to wear swing dancing, and white athletic shoes.  I then fastened the cloak around my neck.  Jed had not gotten home from the video store yet, but Brody saw my costume before I left and insisted on taking a picture.  He could barely keep a straight face.  Most of the people at the party knew Jed well enough that they recognized me.  Tim Walton said it would have been funnier if Jed had been there too, and 3 Silver said that I should have bandaged my finger to complete the costume.  He was totally right; I wished I had thought of that.

A few years later, I was living in Riverview, but took a day trip to Jeromeville on the day of the Spring Picnic.  At one point, I was walking across the Memorial Union, and I saw a slightly shorter than average young man with bushy blond hair and a dark cloak about ten feet in front of me.  I was excited, because I had not seen Jed in a while at the time; he was married by then, and I hung out with him and his wife for part of the day. 

I have never had a trademark article of clothing that people always associate with me, like Jed had with the cloak.  As I mentioned before, I had my own driver cap, similar to Jed’s, that I had gotten for swing dancing, to look the part.  As the weather cooled down in that fall of 1998, I started to wear it to class and in public, but this was a style I borrowed from Jed, not my own.  These days, I wear a baseball cap most of the time, but I go back and forth between several different ones, and there is nothing unusual about wearing a baseball cap.  Of course, this represents a major change for me, since I never wore a baseball cap in my days of being a student at UJ.  At the time Jed acquired his cloak, I had not worn a baseball cap for nine years.  But how that changed is another story for another time.


Is there an uncommon article of clothing that you are known for among your friends and acquaintances? Or do you know someone like this who usually wears an uncommon article of clothing? Tell me about it in the comments.

Thank you again for sticking with me for 200 episodes! If you are new to this story, why not start from episode 1 so you can see how this story unfolded? Click here!

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.


November 14, 1998.  The Settlers of Catan tournament, and a kidnapping. (#199)

In a university town like Jeromeville, groups of students often lived together in rental properties as roommates, sometimes as many as eight people in one large house.  Two new such households had formed for this school year among my friend group.  Courtney Kohl, Cambria Hawley, Erica Foster, and Sasha Travis from church, along with Cambria’s friend Kirsten Mendoza, shared a four-bedroom apartment, with Cambria and Kirsten sharing the master bedroom.  The apartment, in the same complex where I lived junior year, had the address “2601 Maple Drive, apartment F-3,” but among the girls’ friends, their apartment was often just referred to as “F-3.”  I had been there a couple times, most recently one day a couple months ago because I was bored and wanted to be around friends.  I more specifically hoped that Sasha was home, because this was before she formally rejected me as a romantic interest.  Sasha and I did end up talking for about an hour that day.

The other new household was Noah Snyder, Pete Green, Mike Knepper, and another guy I knew from church named Mike Mueller, who had moved into a house on West 15th Street.  With so many Mikes among the young adults at church, Mike Knepper and Mike Mueller were usually referred to by their full names among their mutual friends. Now with the two of them living together, this became even more necessary.  I was headed to the West 15th house today.  I probably could have walked, it was only about half a mile, but I drove, since I was bringing my Settlers of Catan game, and a bag of tortilla chips, and 2-liters of Coca-Cola and Dr Pepper, and I did not want to walk that far carrying that much.

The Settlers of Catan was the original name of the game that is now just called Catan.  It was originally published in Germany a few years ago, arriving in the English-speaking world soon after.  Pete learned it last spring, taught it to his friends, and the game quickly caught on among all of us.  We stayed up late many times last summer playing Catan, and we made a number of variations to the game, like putting two games together to make a bigger game that could be played with more players.  I arrived in mid-afternoon, parking on the side of the street and walking up to the door.  I knocked, and a few seconds later, Noah answered.  “Greg!” he exclaimed.  “Come on in!  I’ll take the food to the kitchen.  Your game will be over there on the folding table.”

I followed Noah down a short hallway into a combined living-dining room.  An old piano stood against one wall of the living room.  I recognized this piano; it belonged to Pete, who played a few different instruments and was on the worship team at church.  Next to the piano was a folding card table, upon which I put my Catan game box.  Across the room, Noah’s copy of Catan was set up on a coffee table next to the couches, and Pete’s copy of Catan was on the dining room table across the room.  Apparently they expected enough people that they would need to run three games simultaneously.

About a month ago, one Sunday after church, Taylor Santiago, Pete, and Noah approached me with the idea of a Catan tournament at their house.  They were still kicking around ideas for the exact format of the tournament, but the general idea was that a bunch of us would all play a few games against different combinations of people, and we would be ranked by the number of games won and the total points scored.  The highest-ranked contestants would then play in a championship round, with the winner being crowned the Catan champion of 1998.  I said this was a wonderful idea, and I wanted in for sure.

So far, other than the four guys who lived there, Taylor had already arrived, as had Caroline Pearson, Pete’s girlfriend.  We sat around mingling and hanging out for close to an hour after I arrived, waiting for everyone to show up.  Cambria and Courtney arrived soon after I did, followed by Martin Rhodes, Brent Wang, and finally Brody Parker, each bringing a snack or drink to share.

“I didn’t know you were gonna be here today,” I said to Brody after he arrived.

“Of course.  I’m here to take all of you down!” he replied in a false cocky tone.

“We’ll see about that,” I said, chuckling.  I wondered why Brody had not mentioned earlier in the week that he was coming, or asked me for a ride.  But Brody appeared not to have been home when I left the house; it was not uncommon for him to hang out with other friends that I did not know and stay on their couches, which is where I assumed he had been last night.

 Shortly after Brody arrived, Noah announced that it was time to begin playing.  My first game was against Pete, Cambria, and Martin.  One of the distinct features of Catan compared to other games is that the board is made of interchangeable hexagon-shaped tiles, so that the arrangement of the different types of territory on the island, and the productivity of each territory, can be different every time the game is played.  This also meant that different games may require slightly different strategies.

For this game, that feature worked to my disadvantage.  The object of the game was to reach 10 points by expanding settlements in various ways.  Players can build roads, new settlements, cities, and soldiers through collecting resources from the tiles representing different types of territories.  Some tiles are more productive than others, based on probability and dice rolls.  I saw two clear spots on the board with good numbers on all three adjacent tiles, and my turn was third, so Martin and Pete took those spots before I got my turn.  I thought for a long time, then placed my first settlement touching a wood tile with number 4, a 5 wheat, and a 10 sheep.  None of these numbers was particularly unlikely to be rolled with two dice, but none was particularly likely either.  Cambria placed her first settlement touching a 6 brick, an 11 wood, and a 3 wheat, the other spot I had been considering.  We then got to place a second settlement, but in reverse order, so that the player who started last did not have a disadvantage twice in a row.  Cambria placed her second settlement exactly where I wanted to, completely dismantling my strategy for this game.  I placed my settlement next to an 11 ore, a 9 sheep, and a port, which would make it easier to trade since I had no access to brick.

Or so I thought.  By the first two turns around the board, everyone else had built something, and I had only drawn one wood card.  Including the ore and sheep that I had started with, I did not have the right cards to build anything.  As I slowly collected resources, the others acquired resources faster as their numbers were rolled more often, and built settlements close to mine, leaving me nowhere to build.  Wood and brick were important for expanding early in the game, but I had no way to produce brick, and my 4 for wood was only rolled twice the entire game.  Pete eventually won, and I finished with only four points.  Not my best start.

After all three games finished, we took a short break before starting the next round of games.  I was confused to see Mike Knepper sitting on the couch with his arm around Courtney.  She and Brody were dating last year, and I knew that they were no longer together, but no one told me until a while after it happened.  Now Courtney and Mike Knepper appeared to be back together after having dated for much of the year before last.  I was always the last one to know about things like this.  Courtney was a good friend, and she was really pretty, and I might have been interested in being more than friends had I ever had a chance, but I did not want to be the kind of guy who jumped in right away after a breakup.  Now she had someone else already, and I still did not really know an acceptable and non-awkward way to express interest in a girl.

My fortunes improved as the night continued.  My second game was against Mike Knepper, Caroline, and Noah.  We rolled to see who went first, I won, and I placed my first settlement on the obvious best spot, an 8 wheat, 9 brick, and 5 wood.  All three of these numbers were rolled more often than average.  By the time my turn came to place my second settlement, last, there was no place left where I could get both ore and sheep, but I was able to get a 4 sheep, 11 brick, and the brick port.  I had five different numbers, and I was in good shape to trade brick for what I needed.  The first new settlement I built after the game began touched an ore tile, so now I could produce the one resource I did not start with.  Due to a much-needed stroke of luck, my numbers for brick, 9 and 11, got rolled more often than usual.  I won the game fairly easily, with Noah coming in second, having eight points when I reached the winning total of ten.

During the second game, someone had four pizzas delivered to the house.  I put three slices of pizza on my plate, poured a glass of Coca-Cola, and sat on the dining room table, within reach of a bag of tortilla chips, which I also ate in between bites of pizza.  Courtney and Cambria came and sat next to me a minute later.  “How’s it going?” I asked.

“Spmeone kidnapped Super Cookie!” Courtney exclaimed.  “He’s been gone for a week!”

“What?” I asked.  “Like someone is pulling a prank on you?”

“Yeah.  We need to find out who it is and pull a prank on them.”

“Prank wars are fun.  I remember when I lived with Brian Burr two years ago, and he had an ongoing prank war with Lorraine Mathews.  He finally admitted it was him, but no one knew I was assisting with Brian’s pranks.  I promise you, I don’t know anything about Super Cookie.”

“We think we know who it is,” Cambria mouthed to me almost inaudibly, making sure no one else heard.

A few years ago, at Christmas, the entire country went crazy over Tickle Me Elmo, a toy stuffed animal of Elmo from the children’s television show Sesame Street that vibrated and laughed when someone tickled it.  Since then, the company began releasing similar toys based on other characters from Sesame Street.  The girls from F-3 had a Tickle Me Cookie Monster toy; they dressed him in a red cape in the style of Superman and suspended from their ceiling by a string as if flying. At least he had been suspended from the ceiling until he got kidnapped.  I wanted to know who did this.  I liked being in the loop.

When it came time for the third game to begin, Noah announced that I would be playing against Cambria, Taylor, and himself.  “Is that right?” I asked.  “I’ve already played against you and Cambria, and there are people I haven’t played against.

“We found that the best way to balance the schedules for everyone was that there would be five people you play against once, two you play twice, and four that you don’t play at all,” Noah explained.  “Unless you meet in the finals.  We tried to work this out many times.”

“I see,” I replied.  I was curious about the mathematics behind this scheduling, although I suspected that they had determined this through trial and error.

The game started similarly to the previous one; I had a fairly good position.  I rolled 7 on my first turn; when rolling 7, no one produces resources, and the player who rolled gets to move the robber, making one tile on the board unproductive and stealing a card from someone on that tile.  There was a sheep tile with number 5 on which everyone but me had a settlement; I put the robber there, to hurt everyone equally, and stole a card from Noah, because he currently looked like the greatest threat.  Noah rolled 7 a few turns later, moving the robber to a 9 sheep only settled by Taylor.  On the next three turns in a row, everyone rolled 9.

“This is messed up!” Taylor said.  “I could have had all that sheep!”

“I guess you’re having baa-aa-aad luck,” I said, chuckling as I drew out the word “bad” to sound like a sheep noise.  The others rolled their eyes at my corny joke.  I did not tell them that I could not take credit for this; I had taught this game to Josh and Abby McGraw, who also knew most of the people here but were not able to come to the tournament tonight, and Josh was the first one I had heard make sheep puns while playing Catan.

As the game went on, no more 7s were rolled, and Taylor grew increasingly frustrated, unable to move the robber and unable to get sheep.  He could have used a soldier to move the robber, but placing a soldier requires building a development card, which in turn requires sheep.  Taylor finally collected enough other resources to find someone willing to trade sheep with him, but the development card he drew was not a soldier.  By the time he was able to get another card, which was a soldier, he had fallen far behind; Noah and I both had eight points, and Cambria had six.  I went on to win narrowly, building cities on two turns in a row.

“I had the cards to win on my next turn if you hadn’t done that,” Noah told me afterward.  “Good game.”

“Yes,” I replied.  “Good game.”

“It would have been better if someone had rolled a 7!” Taylor shouted.

About five minutes later, after Noah tallied up the points, he announced, “For the championship game, we’ll be doing something a little different.  We put two boards together, and you will each start with three settlements.  The winner will be the first to fifteen points.  You will also have seven settlements, six cities, and twenty-five roads available.  Your turn order will be determined by the rankings.”  Noah pointed to a white board where he had listed everyone’s number of wins and total points.  Pete, Courtney, and I had each won two games, but I had the fewest total points because of my terrible performance in the game I lost, so I would be going third.  Noah had the highest point total of everyone who had won one game, so he would be going fourth.  Martin and Brody each decided to leave early, since they did not qualify for the championship, but the others all stayed to watch.

I looked over the larger game board, thinking about how the modified rules might change my strategy.  With three settlements instead of two, it would be easier for everyone to begin with access to all five resources.  With the game going longer, a winning strategy required the ability to continue expanding the network of settlements for a longer period of time, which would be possible since we had more pieces to work with than normal.  I would have to pay attention to what others were doing.  I would also have to be selective with my trades, only trading when it explicitly benefited me, and trying to get as many cards as possible, or the most beneficial cards to my game, out of people proposing trades with me.  I had noticed some of the others doing this during my other games, and it made me think about how I tended to be too loose with trades, trading with people when it might benefit them more than myself.

The game progressed fairly evenly, with no one building a huge insurmountable lead or falling far behind.  With such evenly matched players, and a higher point total to win, the game also dragged on; after an hour, Pete and Noah each had nine points, and Courtney and I each had eight.  It was already almost eleven o’clock; this could be a long night.  I had good numbers for wood, and the wood port.  Wood was necessary for expanding geographically early in the game, but not useful for growing existing settlements into cities or buying development cards.  My wood was getting rolled often enough that I could use the wood port to trade for some of what I needed without having to give cards to other players in trades.

Another half hour passed.  The game slowly progressed toward its conclusion.  I had upgraded a settlement to a city on my last turn, giving me thirteen points, tying me for second place with Noah.  Pete had thirteen with an unused development card that he had had since early in the game, so the card was probably one of the buildings that would give him a fourteenth point.  Courtney was close behind with twelve.  With that city, I now got three wood cards every time a 10 was rolled, and I rolled 10 on my next turn.  I did not use any of my wood, though; instead I spent a wheat, a sheep, and an ore to buy a development card.  I was hoping for a soldier, since the robber was blocking one of my other tiles, but instead I got a Monopoly card.  This allowed me to name one resource, and every player had to give me all of their cards of that resource.  This could be very powerful, but it also required me to pay close attention, to know what was being rolled and what resources everyone else was getting.  I nodded and passed the dice to Noah.

Before my next turn, all three players rolled numbers that produced wood for someone.  I paid close attention to which cards were spent, and there were definitely still wood cards in people’s hands.  By my turn, neither Pete nor Noah had not gotten any more points, but Courtney had built a new city, so we were all tied with thirteen, with Pete likely and Noah possibly having another point in a face down development card. On my turn, I rolled 8, the same that Courtney had rolled before me; Pete, Courtney, and I each got two wood cards on an 8, since we each had cities on that tile.  I now had seven wood cards in my hand, and I was having a hard time keeping a poker face.  I looked carefully at the board again.  Courtney held the Longest Road card, with a road twelve spaces long.  My longest road from end to end was only nine spaces long, and I did not have much room to expand, but one of my settlements was next to a desert tile on the beach.  No one had placed anything there, since the desert produces no resources and it was not on the way to anything, but I did not need resources or a path to anything.  I only needed those last two points, and I was pretty sure there were at least five wood cards in the other players’ hands. I turned my Monopoly card face up and called, “Monopoly on wood.”

“Awww!” Noah exclaimed.  “I was gonna use that!”  The other contestants piled their wood cards, a total of seven, in front of me.  I put the seven wood cards in the bank, along with one more from my hand, and took four bricks, using my wood port to trade.  I then added four more wood cards from my hand, making enough cards to build four roads, which I placed in a loop around the desert from my settlement closest to it.  My road was now thirteen spaces long, the longest in the game, so I took the Longest Road card from Courtney.  “Game!” I exclaimed, pumping my fist in the air.  “That’s fifteen!”

“Good game, man,” Noah said.  “I was gonna take Longest Road on my next turn.”

“I was trying to, but I never got brick,” Pete explained.

“Why are you all picking on my longest road?” Courtney asked.

“Nothing personal,” I said.  “Just a lot of wood was rolled, and I had the wood port to trade for brick.”

“I know,” Courtney replied, laughing.  “Good game.”

“Thanks.”

Taylor, who was not participating in the final round but had been watching closely, pulled a small silver-colored cup-style trophy, about six inches tall, from a tote bag that he brought.  “Congratulations,” he said, shaking my hand and presenting me with the trophy.  “You are the 1998 Settlers of Catan champion.”

“Thank you!” I said.  I was not expecting a trophy.  “Did you have this specially made for today?”

“No,” he said, chuckling a little.  “I got it from a thrift store.”

“Well, it’s perfect.  Thank you.”

“You’ll have to bring it to next year’s tournament.  See if you can defend your title.”

“I will.”

A few minutes later, as Courtney and Cambria were headed for the front door, I heard a strange shaking vibration.  Noah was standing next to Pete’s piano, smiling slyly, as a tinny recorded voice from the piano said, “Hahaha!  Oh boy oh boy!”  Cambria ran back toward the living room, looking around suspiciously, before turning back to the front door.

I tried to process what I heard.  That voice was Super Cookie; I had heard him get tickled before.  Apparently someone from the West 15th house kidnapped Super Cookie and hid him in the piano.  Noah, or whoever had just now set off Super Cookie, was teasing the girls from F-3.  And no one had let me in on any of this.

I had mixed feelings as I lay in bed that night.  I was on a bit of a winning streak this year, in the context of competitions with my friends.  In May, I came in second at the Man of Steel competition, and now I won the Catan tournament.  I kept that trophy for three years, because we did not have another Catan tournament until 2001.  By then, Pete and Caroline were married, and they hosted the tournament at their house in Irving, ninety miles from Jeromeville.  Most of us, including myself, had moved away from Jeromeville by then.  Noah dominated all three of his games so dramatically that year that we never got around to playing the championship round and just gave him the trophy.

But I also felt frustrated at being out of the loop.  It had become obvious to me over the last couple months that Noah and Cambria were a couple, and now it appeared that Mike Knepper and Courtney were a couple, again, and a fun prank war was going on involving their houses.  I had already failed romantically with one of the F-3 roommates, I was left out of their prank war, and nothing fun was happening with my own household.  I always felt on the periphery of my social circles.  However, at least I now had that trophy on my shelf to remind me that I could still beat my friends at Catan.


Tell me about a memorable time you won a game against your friends in the comments.

Full disclosure: I don’t remember for sure who lived at the West 15th House that year, I don’t remember who participated in the tournament, and I don’t even remember for sure if it was 1998 or 1999. But I do remember Super Cookie in the piano. And this is my fictional universe, so I can tell the story how I want.

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November 8, 1998.  Watching The X-Files from the red chair. (#198)

I sat at my desk, the built-in one under the loft bed I bought from Claire Seaver two years ago, grading papers.  Mrs. Tracy had entrusted me with grading the homework collected in her class Friday, and I was looking through students’ answers, and whether or not they had completed it in the first place.  I was working kind of slowly, because the computer was on, and I had an IRC chat open, where I was talking on IRC to some 19-year-old girl in Michigan named Michelle.


Michelle923: That’s so cool that you’re going to be a teacher! Do the students in your class misbehave often?
gjd76: sometimes, it depends on the kid and the day
Michelle923: That makes sense. I had a student teacher once when I was in high school.  My best friend and I thought he was really cute ;-)
gjd76: haha
Michelle923: Any big plans for the week?
gjd76: just school.  what about you? isn’t it pretty late for you?


I looked at the clock: it was 10:02.  That meant it was 1:02 in the morning for Michelle.   But more importantly, it meant I was late.  I typed, “oh crap i have to go, i’ll e-mail you tomorrow.”

I grabbed my car keys and ran to the car, not bothering to tell any of my roommates where I was going.  Jed was not home, he was swing dancing at the University Bar & Grill, but as far as I knew, Sean and Brody were each in their rooms.  I thought about running back inside for a sweatshirt, since the weather had cooled over the last few days, bringing an end to Jeromeville’s prolonged summer-like season, but I decided against it, not wanting to be any more late than I already was.  Hopefully Michelle was not too upset that I left so abruptly; she seemed really nice, and she sounded cute.

I arrived a few minutes later at the familiar house on De Anza Drive where Eddie Baker and John Harvey and four others lived, after having to drive another four houses down to find a place to park.  Either someone else on this street was having a party, or it was going to be a busy night here at the X-Files watch party.  One look inside the living room told me it was the latter.  One of the couches in the living room was meant to hold three people but now held four, and the other one had an open seat next to Tabitha Sasaki, but she had put her hoodie on that seat, presumably saving it for Eddie since they were dating and he lived here.  About a dozen more people sat on the floor, and I could hear others in the kitchen and dining room in the back of the house.  The only open seat I could find was a red fabric chair that was lower to the ground than a standard recliner, positioned just next to the television and facing away from it so that its occupant would have to lean forward and turn to the left in order to see the screen.  This was probably why no one was sitting there, but that position still seemed more desirable than standing, so I sat in the red chair, turned the whole chair slightly to the left, and leaned forward.

Most of the regulars from last year’s watch parties who had not graduated and moved away were here.  Tim Walton, Blake Lowry, Marlene Fallon, and Robert A. Silver III, who went by the humorous nickname “3.”  Kieran Ziegler.  Colin Bowman.  Seth Huang and Ellie Jo Raymond.  Todd Chevallier, Darren Ng, and Ajeet Tripathi.  Brianna Johns, Chelsea Robbins, and Morgan King.  A few people I did not know.  And of course all of the guys who lived here, although I had not seen Eddie yet.  Marlene and 3 sat on the floor closest to me, with a girl whose name I did not know, although I had seen her around Jeromeville Christian Fellowship and at church.

“Hey, Greg!” Marlene said as I sat down.  “How are you?”

“Pretty good.  How are you?”

“Good!  I feel like I haven’t talked to you in a while!  Are you still doing The Edge this year?”

“Yes,” I explained.  “The kids I knew when I first started there have moved on to high school, but I’m getting to know the new kids.  We’re kind of short on leaders this year so far.”  I trailed off after realizing that I did not want to make Marlene and 3 feel guilty for deciding not to volunteer with The Edge this year.

“Is The Edge the youth group at church that you used to work with?” the other girI asked Marlene.

“Yeah.  Greg and I and 3 all did The Edge last year.  Junior high kids.  Greg, have you met Lacey?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ve seen you around,” I replied.

“Hi,” the other girl said, smiling, extending her hand as if to shake mine.  She was fair-skinned, with strawberry-blonde hair down to her chin and bright blue eyes.  Her face was lightly spotted with freckles, and she had a mole on the side of her neck.  “I’m Lacey.”

“I’m Greg.  Nice to meet you.”

“Lacey is a freshman,” Marlene explained.  “She and I went to high school together.”

“Oh,” I replied. “That’s awesome.  Have you been following X-Files?”

“I used to watch it with my parents sometimes,” Lacey explained.  “And I saw the movie.”

“I did too.  A bunch of us from this group all carpooled to see it the day it came out.  It was the last day of finals week, but I had finished all my finals already.”

“Well, that worked out!  Are you a sophomore, like Marlene and 3?”

“Actually, I graduated last year.  I’m the same age as Eddie and John.  I’m in the teacher training program at UJ this year.”

“No way!  You’re gonna be a teacher!  How does that work?”

“I do student teaching every day in the mornings, helping out in two classrooms at Nueces High,” I explained.  “I’ll be gradually taking over the classroom as the year goes on.  The teacher for that classroom makes observations, gives suggestions, stuff like that, and my professor observes me teaching a few times a year.  In the afternoons, I’m back here on campus taking education classes.  I have a seminar with the other math people that goes all year, and this quarter I’m taking a class about teaching non-English speakers and a class about cultural diversity in schools, with the secondary student teachers from all subjects.”

“So you’re gonna teach high school?  What subject?”

“Math.”

“What kind of math?  Algebra?  Calculus?”

“I don’t get to pick.  Usually they just hire teachers by subject, math, science, social studies, English, whatever, and what class I teach depends on what they need and what I get assigned.  As a real teacher, I might get a say in it, I might not, it depends.  This year I’m doing geometry and Basic Math B, which is the math class for people who need one more math class to graduate but probably won’t take any more math.”

“What’s your favorite kind of math?”

I paused.  I hated when people asked me this question, because in my mind, the concept of different kinds of mathematics did not really exist.  There was just mathematics, and it was all connected.  Proofs were a part of algebra and calculus as much as they were part of geometry, and solving equations was part of geometry as much as it was part of algebra.  The fact that people did not see this, that the course titles on their high school schedules led them to believe that algebra and geometry were entirely separate, and that their teachers did nothing to refute this, was one of the biggest problems with mathematics education today, I believed.  But I did not want to scare off the cute new girl with a rant, so I shortened my response and said, “I don’t really have a favorite.  They’re all connected.”

“That makes sense,” Lacey replied, smiling.  “I like that.”

“Greg!” Eddie said, emerging from the combined kitchen-dining area in the back of the house.  “You made it!”

“Yeah.  I lost track of time.  Sorry I’m late.”

“Can you watch the volume?  Turn it up or down if it needs to adjust?  The sound comes through the stereo there next to you, and there’s no remote for it.”

“Sure,” I said, glad to have a job to do and help to make these X-Files watch parties run.  I put my hand on what appeared to be the volume for the stereo receiver that Eddie had pointed to and asked, “This knob?”

“Yes.  Thanks.”  Turning to the group as a whole, Eddie asked, “Is everyone ready to start?”  The room erupted into cheers.  Eddie sat on the couch, in the seat that Tabitha had been saving for him, and pressed Play on the remote.

The X-Files was restarting this week after the annual hiatus that most weekly television shows take for the summer.  Many shows had begun their new seasons at least a month ago, but The X-Files was on the same channel that showed Major League Baseball postseason games, so most of their new shows did not start until baseball had ended.

New episodes of The X-Files aired on Sunday nights at nine o’clock.  However, the Bible study small group leaders from JCF had a weekly meeting on Sunday nights, and this meeting often did not end until after nine.  In order to accommodate them, someone from the De Anza house would record the episode on a VHS tape and begin showing it around 10:10, after the full episode ended and everyone arrived.  Eddie skipped through the commercials at the beginning of the recording and pressed Play just in time for the start of the episode.  He turned off the lights in the room.

I watched the beginning of the episode; some scientists in the desert in Arizona were exposed to the alien black oil virus that had been a recurring plot point for the last few seasons.  One of them began acting strangely.  The next morning, one of his colleagues went to check on him and found a huge hole in his chest; the creature that presumably emerged from the dead body then attacked the colleague.  Multiple people in the room gasped and shrieked; I was having trouble hearing over that, so I reached over and turned the volume knob.

The opening credits played, then the show went to a commercial.  Eddie pressed the button on the remote to fast-forward through the commercials, and people started talking quietly to each other as the commercials skipped past quickly on the screen.  Suddenly, still playing fast, the screen went dark, and people on the screen sitting around a table began interrogating Mulder, moving very fast but saying nothing.  Eddie forgot to resume normal speed playback after the commercials.  Several people in the room booed, and I chuckled at their reaction.

“Sorry!” Eddie called out.  He switched the tape to rewind, then pressed Play when he reached the beginning of that section of the show.  I listened to what Mulder’s supervisors were interrogating him about; basically, they were summarizing the plot of the movie, which took place between the end of the last season and the start of this one.  They pointed out that they did not believe Mulder’s report that he found aliens hiding under the ice in Antarctica, because of insufficient evidence.  Frequently on this show, Mulder’s superiors did not believe him.

At the next commercial, after the bad guys did tests on a human boy with alien DNA who appeared in the previous episode, Eddie attempted to fast-forward through the commercials again.  He missed the start of the show again, and he got booed again.  I joined in on the booing this time.  “Why don’t you do it?” he said to Tabitha, handing her the remote.  “I can’t seem to get it right.”

As I watched Mulder and Scully, now in Arizona, investigate the site of the deaths, I wondered what was happening at the U-Bar.  A couple months ago, Jed and I were both there, I saw a girl I knew from University Chorus named Candace Walker, and I introduced her to Jed.  They seemed to hit it off well right away; I could not tell if they were romantically involved yet, but it would not surprise me at all if they were.  I wondered if Jed and Candace were dancing now.  I wondered if those girls who were so mean to me last week were there.  I wondered if, had I shown up this week, I would find anyone to dance with, or if it would be like it had been the last couple weeks where none of my friends showed up except for Jed and Candace, who spent the whole time dancing with each other, and everyone I asked to dance turned me down.

I heard someone on the television say “Homer,” drawing my full attention back to the screen.  “His name is ‘Homer?’” John asked out loud.  “They named the nuclear power plant employee ‘Homer?’”

“That’s awesome,” I said.  “Nice reference.”  Clearly, in my mind at least, this character had been named after Homer Simpson.  Homer Simpson also worked in a nuclear power plant, and The Simpsons and The X-Files came on the same channel.  After the creature from earlier in the episode attacked Homer, and Mulder got into an argument with recurring character Agent Spender when Spender stopped Mulder from accessing the crime scene, the show went to commercials again.  Tabitha pressed Fast-Forward on the remote control to skip the commercials, and when she resumed normal speed play at exactly the right moment, everyone cheered.  I was nervous now; if I ever got asked to control the remote, hopefully I would not get booed.  Hopefully I did a good job finding the right volume tonight.

I looked around the room as everyone watched the screen.  My friends were here.  My friends did not go swing dancing anymore, except for Jed, whom I saw all the time anyway.  I made the right choice coming here instead this week.  But I made a note to stay in touch with Bethany Bradshaw, since she had always been nice to me at swing dancing.

The episode ended with Mulder and Scully being reassigned to a different supervisor who seemed unsympathetic toward putting them back on the X-Files, and the creature still hiding in the nuclear power plant.  Some people made foreboding sounds as they saw the creature on the screen, followed by the screen fading to black and the ending credits beginning.  Someone turned the lights on in the room as the credits played.

I stood up to stretch as the lights came on.  A few people left right away, but some stuck around to mingle.  John came over to talk to me.  “You think we’re gonna see that creature again?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “You never know with this show.”

“That new agent running the X-Files, he’s been in it before, right?”

“Yeah.  Spender.  He was in it last season.  The Smoking Man is his father.”

“What?  No way!”

“Yeah.  It was in an episode from last season.”

“I don’t remember that.  Good thing you pay attention.”

“What?” Eddie asked, overhearing us.

“Spender, the agent who is running the X-Files now, the Smoking Man is his father,” I explained.

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie said.  “I remember that one.”

“Am I the only one who forgot that detail?” John asked rhetorically.  He followed Eddie to the other room as I looked around to see who else was still here.

“We’re gonna take off now,” 3 said as he saw me turn back toward him, Marlene, and Lacey.  “It was good seeing you.  Hope you have a good week teaching.”

“Nice meeting you!” Lacey said excitedly.

“You too!” I replied.  “I’ll see you around.”

“Have a good one,” Marlene said, smiling, before turning toward the door.

I left a few minutes later, after a few other people had asked me about how teaching was going.  Hopefully they understood that, in giving them the very brief answer, I was not being disrespectful; I just knew that it was already a few minutes after eleven o’clock, and I had to be up early to get dressed and leave for Nueces by seven in the morning.  Jed would not be home from the U-Bar for a while; hopefully he would remember that I had to be up early and come in the house very quietly.

The radio came on as I started the car.  The song that was playing was one I’d been hearing a lot lately, one with a guy talking really fast, making a lot of cultural references that seemed kind of incoherent and disconnected, but the song was really catchy.  By a happy coincidence, the song contained the lyric “watching X-Files with no lights on.”  In other words, what I had just been doing.  I could not understand what he said next, but I thought he said something about the Smoking Man.  Maybe this little coincidence was a sign from God that I made the right decision attending the X-Files watch party instead of swing dancing.

Although I had had a lot of fun swing dancing this past summer, I honestly had no plans to return right now, at least not until the season of The X-Files ended in May.  While my friends who first invited me to go swing dancing had all abandoned it, my X-Files friends were still regularly watching, and I had made a new friend tonight.  This group had become an important part of my life last year.  I enjoyed the show.  I enjoyed the camaraderie.  I enjoyed the group’s little traditions and inside jokes, like booing if someone skipped the commercials and missed the correct moment to restart the tape.  And now I enjoyed having an official job, monitoring the volume.  Even though the view from that uncomfortable red chair was not ideal, I sat there again the following week so I could control the remote.  The red chair became my usual seat, and another of this group’s traditions was born.


RIP Mark Snow, who composed the music for The X-Files. He passed away a few weeks ago.

Have you ever had to decide between two activities that met at the same time? What led to your decision, and do you think it was the right decision? Tell me about it in the comments.

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November 1, 1998. Having an off night at swing dancing. (#197)

I got in my car, which was parked next to my house, and drove off.  The radio came on, with a commercial attacking state attorney general David E. Larkin.  Larkin was running for governor, and the election was two days away.  I changed the channel; I was tired of political advertisements this time of year, and I was planning on voting for Larkin so I did not want to hear what his opponent had to say about him.  Many of the things he was being attacked for were the exact reasons I was voting for him. My candidate of choice, who could not run again because of term limits, won four years ago, but Larkin was expected to lose this election.

I parked outside of the University Bar & Grill and walked inside, by myself.  My roommate Jed sometimes rode with me, but he had told me this morning that he would not be home when I left, and he would get there later.  I looked around the room and saw some vaguely familiar faces, people I had seen here before, but no one I actually knew well enough to talk to. Matthew was about to begin teaching the beginner lesson, as he always did.  I walked out to the floor with the others, where Matthew was directing us to assemble into two concentric circles, those dancing the lead part on the inside and those following on the outside.  Traditionally men led and women followed, although I had seen a few people switch gender roles occasionally.  I stood on the inside, and a girl I had never seen at the U-Bar stood across from me.  This girl was very attractive, slim with reddish-brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, and blue eyes.   She wore a light blue dress.  “Hi,” I said.

“Hi!” the girl replied, smiling.  “I’m Brooke.”

“I’m Greg.  Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Brooke replied.  “I’ve never been here before. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” I replied.  “That’s why you’re taking the lesson before the dance starts, right?”

“Exactly!  So how long have you been dancing?”

“About four months.  I’m not that good.”

“I’m sure you’re better than me.”

“Give yourself more credit,” I said.  “Just have fun with it.”

“That’s a good way to look at it.”

We stopped talking as Matthew demonstrated the basic step.  I knew the basic step pretty well, but if Brooke was here for the first time, I wanted to make sure she saw what he was doing.  I practiced the basic step with Brooke a few times.  “I think you got it,” I said.

“Was that good?”

“Yes.  Looked good to me.”

“Thank you!”

Matthew called for us to switch partners.  “It was nice meeting you,” I said to Brooke.

“You too!” she replied as she moved on to the next partner.

Matthew had us practice the basic step again with our new partners; my next partner had not yet figured out the basic step the way Brooke had.  Next, he taught the outside and inside turns, as he always did, as we tried each one with a few new partners.  The second half of the lesson changed from week to week, and this week he was teaching the basic step of a different dance, the Charleston.  The last thing we learned was how to switch between East Coast Swing and the Charleston, something I had never learned before but wanted to, since I did not know enough Charleston to dance it for an entire song.  At this point, the circle of partners had gone completely around, and I got Brooke as my partner again.

“Hello again,” I said.

“Hi!” she replied.

“How are you doing so far?”

“I think I get it!  I just need to practice.”

Brooke and I worked through the basic step of the Charleston, and then transitioned into the basic step of East Coast Swing, just as Matthew had shown us.  “You’re doing really well,” I said.

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks!  So do you go to UJ?”

“Yes.  I graduated last year, and now I’m in the student teaching program.”

“You’re gonna be a teacher!  That’s exciting!  What grade level?”

“High school math.”

“Nice!  I always liked my math teachers, but it wasn’t my best subject.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I’m a freshman, majoring in psych for now but I might change that.”

“Do you know what you want to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she said.

We tried the steps again, then Matthew called for us to switch partners. I asked Brooke, “Save me a dance later?”

“Yeah!” she replied.

After practicing Charleston, and switching from East Coast Swing to Charleston and back, with two more partners, the beginner lesson ended.  Brooke walked off the dance floor with her friends, and I would have done the same except that none of my usual group of friends was there tonight.

I stood to the side of the dance floor watching people dance the first song.  When the second song started, I looked around for someone to dance with.  Brooke was dancing with a guy from her group of friends that she came with, and I did not know any of the other girls there that night.  A girl I did not know stood next to me, not dancing, so I walked up to her and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“No, thank you,” she said, with no other explanation or excuse offered.

I slowly walked around the room, in the general direction of the bar, but I did not attempt to ask anyone else to dance.  None of the people I felt safe asking to dance were here.  No Courtney, Cambria, or Erica.  No Bethany Bradshaw. No Michelle Parker; she was only sixteen, but I knew her family from church, and her older brother Brody was one of mine and Jed’s other roommates, so I was comfortable dancing with her, and she understood that I was not a creepy older man.  I would have even danced with Sasha if she were here, despite the awkward situation I created a few weeks ago when I confessed my unrequited feelings for her.  After having just been rejected asking someone I did not know, I was not sure that I felt comfortable asking another stranger.  I looked back to the bar and saw the bartender say, “Here you go,” pushing a reddish-brown drink with ice and a straw forward to a spot where no one was sitting.  No one claimed this drink.  After several seconds, the bartender was still looking at me.  I asked, “Is that drink mine?”

“Yeah,” she replied.  “I saw you coming over here, I remember you always order a Roy Rogers, so I just figured I’d get it for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling.  I took a sip of my drink, feeling pretty important that the bartender knew my usual drink.

I continued walking around the room, walking past a girl who was sitting alone, not dancing.  “Would you like to dance?” I asked as I walked up to her.

“No,” she replied, shaking her head in the negative.  Just a few seconds ago, I felt important, but apparently I was not that important after all.

I looked back toward the entrance and saw Candace Walker arriving.  I knew her from when I used to be in University Chorus, and I had seen her here relatively regularly since school started back up again.  “Hey,” I said to Candace.

“Hey, Greg,” she answered.  “What’s up?”

“Not much.”  I heard a new song start to play, so I asked her, “Would you like to dance?”

“Sure!” she said.  “Just give me a minute to put my stuff down.”

When Candace returned, I led her to the dance floor and started doing the basic step and turns.  “Is Jed coming tonight?” she asked me.  I had introduced Candace to Jed in September, the first night of dancing after he moved back up here for the school year, and the two of them seemed to hit it off well.  They had talked and danced together for most of the rest of that night, as well as most of the other times I had seen both of them at the U-Bar on the same night.

“Yeah,” I replied.  “He said he’d be here later.”

By the time we finished our dance, as I walked over to where I left my drink, I could see Jed walking in the door.  “There he is,” I said.  The two of us walked to Jed, saying hello.

“Hey,” Jed said to both of us, then turned to Candace and asked, “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?  You have a midterm tomorrow you should be studying for.”

“I know,” she said.  “I’ve been studying all day, and I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.  I needed a break.”

“Well, you came to the right place for a break!  You want to dance?”

“Sure.”  Candace walked onto the dance floor with Jed, leaving me alone.

I looked around.  Brooke, the girl I met during the beginner lesson, was standing not far from me, talking to one of her friends that she came with.  I remembered that Brooke promised me a dance, so I walked up to her and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“Not right now,” she said.

Undeterred, I turned next to her friend and asked the same thing.  “No, thank you,” her friend said.

I sat at a table facing the dance floor, the same table where Candace and Jed had placed their things, and watched everyone dance, slowly sipping my Roy Rogers.  About three songs later, I got up to use the bathroom and get another drink, and when I returned, Jed and Candace had sat back down, deep in conversation.  I did not feel right interrupting and asking Candace for another dance.

No one else that I knew was there, and no one else that I knew showed up later that night except for Ben Lawton.  I had nothing against Ben, but I was not looking for guys to dance with.  After about an hour and a half, at the halfway point of the night, Matthew gathered everyone into a circle for the birthday dance.  I was bored and frustrated, since I had only danced two times so far that night, once with Candace and once with a stranger who was actually kind enough to say yes.

For the birthday dance, everyone with a birthday that week would stand in the middle of the circle, and people would jump in and dance with one of the birthday people until someone else cut in.  Usually each person’s turn lasted for about thirty seconds.  Today there were two guys and one girl in the circle.  I stepped in about a minute after the song started, slowly walking toward the birthday girl.  I took her and started doing the basic step, then turned her to the outside.  “Happy birthday!” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied, smiling.

I was about to try what I learned in the beginner lesson today, switching into the Charleston basic step, when another guy came up and stole her from me.  I walked back to the circle on the outside, feeling defeated.  I hardly got to dance with her at all.  That other guy cut in way too early.  I sat down for a while.  Maybe I would have more luck the second half of the night.

As the regular dancing started again, I sat on the sidelines slowly sipping on my third Roy Rogers of the night, wondering if drinking something alcoholic would make me feel better but not ready yet to give up my personal opposition to drinking alcohol. Ben Lawton saw me and came over to say hi.

“Hey, Ben,” I replied.

“How are you?”

“I’m not having a good night, honestly.  No one is dancing with me.”

“Just go up and ask.”

“I have been.  I’ve mostly gotten turned down.”

“That happens sometimes,” Ben said.  “Don’t let it get to you.”  But it was in fact getting to me.  Not only was I feeling like some kind of loser, but I was bored, just sitting there watching people dance.  I took a sip of my Roy Rogers, and Ben asked, “What are you drinking?”

“Roy Rogers,” I said.

“Do you not drink alcohol?” he asked.  “You’re old enough, aren’t you?  I always thought you were in my year.”

“I turned twenty-two in August,” I explained.  “I just don’t want to drink.  I don’t like the idea of being out of control of myself.  It doesn’t seem Christ-like to me.  And I didn’t grow up around drinking.  My dad drank a lot when he was younger, but he’s been sober since I was in elementary school.”

“Makes sense.”

Ben and I continued making small talk about my student teaching and his classes; he was my year in school, but he had not graduated yet.  When the next song began, he said, “I’m gonna go dance.  It was good talking to you.  I hope you enjoy the rest of the night.  Go ask someone to dance.”

“I’ll try.”

I got up and noticed Brooke standing by herself.  She promised that she would save a dance for me.  Maybe she was ready for that now.  I walked up to her and asked, “May I have that dance you promised now?”

“No,” she replied, sounding a bit uncomfortable and irritated.  She walked away from me.

I sat back down, confused.  She seemed so friendly when we were paired in the beginner lesson.  What changed?  It almost felt like she had suddenly found out something about me that made her want to avoid me.  But, if so, what did she find out?  And who told her?  The only people I knew here were Jed, Candace, and Ben, and none of them would have any reason to make Brooke not want to have anything to do with me.

I sat there bored and not dancing for another half hour after I talked to Ben.  By now, it was 10:15, and I had pretty much given up trying to find someone to dance with.  I was ready to go home.  Jed had driven separately, so I did not have to stay until closing and give him a ride home.  I was not having fun, and I was under no obligation to stay.  I walked around to make sure I said good night to the few people there whom I knew.  Jed and Candace were sitting at a table, talking; I told both of them that I was feeling unusually tired, and wanted to call it a night early, I said the same thing to Ben a few minutes later.

As I walked toward the door, I saw Brooke and her friends standing at the side of the dance floor.  Brooke made eye contact with me, and I stopped for a second, holding on to a shred of hope that she was about to realize that she had not yet fulfilled her promise to save me a dance.  Then I looked away and continued walking.  It was not worth getting turned down again.  I started to walk away.

Just as I turned away from Brooke and her friends, I heard a voice behind me shout, “Yeah!  Turn around and go home!  You’re weird!”  I turned back to look at them, and they were all giggling.  I started walking away from them again.

As I passed the bar, the bartender who had made my Roy Rogers asked me, “Another one?”

“No thanks,” I said.  “I’m gonna call it a night early.”

“Sleep well!  I’ll see you next week!”

I nodded, then walked to the car and sat there for about five minutes, thinking, before I turned the car on.  I do not know if it was Brooke or one of her friends who called me weird.  I do not even know for sure that their comment was directed at me, but it certainly appeared to be. None of this made sense to me. Brooke was inexplicably two-faced, acting friendly and nice and then suddenly turning on me.

One person was nice to me that night: the bartender who made my drink.  I genuinely appreciated her gesture.  The fact that she knew my regular drink without me even having to say it really made me feel like I belonged there, like Sunday swing dancing at the U-Bar was a part of my life and I had a place among the people there.

But nothing else tonight gave me that feeling.  My usual friends that I danced with were not there, and they had been showing up less and less often since school started.  And now I was finding it impossible to dance with new people. I realized on the way home that night that I was no longer having fun swing dancing.  New episodes of The X-Files were scheduled to begin the following week, at the same time as swing dancing, and when I found out that Eddie Baker and John Harvey and their roommates at the De Anza house were going to start their X-Files watch parties again, I chose that over swing dancing.  The nice bartender had said that she would see me next week, but she did not see me the following week.  In fact, I never saw her again.

This was not, however, my last time swing dancing ever, nor was it even my last time swing dancing at the U-Bar.  I went back under somewhat different circumstances several months later, but I eventually quit again.  That is a story for another time.

I came back to the world of swing dancing in 2007.  I was in my early thirties, living about thirty miles from Jeromeville across the Drawbridge in Laguna Ciervo, and I followed some friends from the church I went to at the time to a weekly swing dance in midtown Capital City called, appropriately enough, Midtown Swing.  As I went through the beginner lesson and started dancing with my friends, all the muscle memories from eight and nine years earlier came flooding back to me.  I even saw Ben Lawton there; he was still around and still swing dancing after all those years.

I was also caught off guard that night in 2007, because Lacey Kilpatrick was there.  That was only the second time I had seen her since moving away from Jeromeville, and things still felt a little awkward, plus it was completely unexpected because I never knew her as a swing dancer.  And that encounter was even more strange in hindsight, since I became a regular at Midtown Swing for about a decade after that, and I never saw Lacey there again.  Wait… I haven’t mentioned Lacey in this story yet.  Hold that thought.  That is also a story for another time.


Readers: Have you ever quit a regular hobby? What made you quit? Tell me about it in the comments.

I wrote on the other blog some behind-the-scenes information about this episode: click here.

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October 22-23, 1998.  A party at the De Anza house, and a familiar face from the past. (#196)

I rode my bike south on Andrews Road toward campus.  I had an hour before my class started, but I would rather sit around on campus than at home, and I also felt like having a couple slices of the really good pizza that they made at the student-run Coffee House for lunch.  I enjoyed feeling the warmth of the sun on me as I pedaled the familiar route, especially knowing that its time was limited.  Late October in Jeromeville was very pleasant weather, with a high temperature of around 75 degrees today, but if this year was anything like the previous four years I had spent in Jeromeville, the weather would suddenly get cold and possibly rainy a few weeks from now.

I parked my bike at the Quad, locked it, picked up a copy of today’s Daily Colt campus newspaper and read the front page as I stood in line for pizza.  When I sat at a table with my food a few minutes later, I saw Eddie Baker walking toward me.  “Hey, Greg,” Eddie said.  “How’s it going?”

“Good,” I replied.  “You?”

“I’m good.  Meeting with some of the Bible study leaders later, but I got here early.”

Eddie graduated in June, as did I.  This year he was working part time on staff with Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, a chapter of a national organization called Intervarsity.  Dave McAllen and his wife Janet were the head staff of JCF; I assumed that this was the Dave that he would be meeting.

He continued, “Shouldn’t you be in Nueces student teaching now?”

“I’m just there for the first three periods, until 10:58.  Then I come back home.  I have a class on campus today at 1.”

“I see.  How’s teaching going?”

“Not bad.  One of the students got suspended this week.”

“Wow.  What did he do?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but I heard the master teacher say it was drug related.”

“Dang.  How old are these kids again?”

“High school.  He’s a junior.  But taking geometry, which is normally for sophomores, so already he isn’t exactly the best student.”

“Yeah.  Do your students like you?”

“Some do, some don’t, I guess.”

“That makes sense.  I was thinking earlier, are you all serious, or do you ever joke around with the students?  I had a teacher in high school who joked around a lot.  He was really funny.”

“I’m still figuring out what is and isn’t ok to do.  But I joke around a little.  Like last week was Homecoming, and for some reason they did something where the nominees for Homecoming Court had to do silly things.  One day they weren’t allowed to talk, and if a teacher called on them, they had to act things out and answer without talking.  And two of the nominees were in my class, so I called on them as often as I could.  At least until they got really tired of it.

“That’s great,” Eddie replied, laughing.  “Hey, I wanted to tell you, Friday after JCF people are hanging out at our house.  You’re invited.”

“Oh,” I said.  “Thanks!  Yeah, I’ll be there!  That sounds like fun!”


I was excited the following night on my way to JCF.  Of course, I should be excited about JCF every week, because I got to worship God with over a hundred other University of Jeromeville students, and I got to learn about the Bible.  But I had to admit that this week felt more exciting than usual because of Eddie’s party afterward.  I had made a lot of great friends in the three years since I first got involved with JCF, but I also often felt slightly on the outside of the cliques that formed within the group.  Knowing in advance about something social happening afterward gave me one less thing to worry about this week.

This year, JCF met in the large lecture hall at 2101 Harding Hall.  I walked in and looked around for a seat.  I arrived early enough that there were plenty of empty seats.  As I looked around, something registered in my mind as being out of place.  It took me a few seconds to process what I saw, after which I did a double take and looked again, because the whole scene was confusing the more I thought about it.

Haley Channing stood across the room from me, talking to Tabitha Sasaki.  Haley was accompanied by a middle-aged man whom I was pretty sure was her father.  I had met Mr. Channing once before, a couple years ago when Haley’s parents came to visit for the weekend of the Spring Picnic.  This was shortly after I met Haley, before her mother passed.  Also with them was a skinny sandy-haired freshman boy named Brennan, whom I had seen around JCF this year but never actually spoken to.

Why was Haley here?  She graduated.  She moved back home, hundreds of miles away.  Apparently she was up here visiting, which made sense because she still knew people in Jeromeville.  Tabitha, for example. But why was she talking to Brennan?  He and Haley did not go to JCF at the same time; Brennan was a freshman, and Haley graduated last spring before Brennan started here.  Did they know each other from somewhere else, or did Haley just meet Brennan tonight?  And why was Haley’s father here?  He had probably met some of Haley’s Jeromeville friends over the years, but would he really travel that far with Haley on what was likely at least an overnight trip just to see his daughter’s friends?  Haley had an older brother who graduated two years ahead of us, and I know he still lived in Jeromeville last year.  Maybe Haley’s brother still lived in Jeromeville, and Mr. Channing came up to see him too.  Maybe he just wanted to get away for a weekend.  It had been two years since Mrs. Channing passed, and grief hits people in unexpected ways sometime.

I sat down and decided not to go talk to Haley right away.  Maybe later, but not right now.  I did not want to interrupt whatever Haley and the people around her were talking about.   I had been called out for that before; once at JCF when her mother had recently passed, she was talking to her friends, I asked what was wrong, and I was told later that it was weird how I kept trying to talk to her.  It would be better to wait for the right time.  After all, everything was going to feel weird with Haley around, and it was none of my business why her father was here or how she knew Brennan.

Not necessarily, I told myself.  I had no reason to feel weird around Haley.  Sure, she did not like me back, she did not feel the same way about me as I felt about her, but we had coexisted peacefully at JCF for a year and a half after that conversation, until she moved away last summer.  I had no reason to believe things would be any different today than how they were during that time of peacefully coexisting.

At the end of the night, after the worship and message ended, I wandered in the general direction of where Haley and her father were, saying hi to a few others along the way.  While I did not want to interrupt or try too hard, I did not want to be completely aloof either.  Haley’s pretty blue eyes looked up at me as I approached, and she smiled.  “Greg!” she exclaimed.  “How are you?”

“Pretty good.  It’s good to see you again.”

“You’ve met my dad right?”

“Yes,” I said.  Mr. Channing gestured to shake my hand, and I shook back.

Haley then gestured toward Brennan and asked, “Have you met my brother, Brennan?”

Brennan was Haley’s younger brother!  That explained so much!  Haley’s father was up here visiting his son, newly away at school, and Haley came along for the ride since she still had friends in Jeromeville from her time here.  “I’ve seen him around, but I didn’t know he was your brother.”

“Brennan, this is Greg.  He was in my year, and he’s still in Jeromeville, student teaching now.  Right, Greg?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Nice to meet you,” Brennan said, shaking my hand.

“How’s teaching going?” Haley asked.  “Are you actually teaching the class, or just helping out?  How does it work?”

“It’s going pretty well.  I’m mostly just helping out now, but the two master teachers I’m working with are going to gradually let me start teaching lessons soon.  By January I’ll be doing most of the teaching myself.”

“What classes?  And which school?  I forget.”

“Geometry and Basic Math B, at Nueces High.”

“So you drive from Jeromeville to Nueces every day?”

“Yeah.  I’m there for the first three periods, then I come back here and have education classes at UJ in the afternoon.”

“That’s great!”

I looked at Brennan again, then back to Haley, and said, “So all three siblings in your family ended up going to Jeromeville?”

“Yeah!  Ever since Brennan and I visited Christian when he was a freshman, we both really liked it!”

“It’s worked out well for our family,” Mr. Channing added.  “We had dinner with Christian before this, and we’ll see him again tomorrow.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you going to the party at the De Anza house tonight?” Haley asked.

“Yeah!  Will I see you there?”

“Yes.  We’re gonna take Dad back to the hotel in a bit, then head over there.”

“Sounds good.”


I lingered around Harding Hall to talk to as many people as I could after JCF.  I was one of the last to leave, so when I finally arrived at Eddie’s house on De Anza Drive in north Jeromeville, the party was already packed.  I saw many of the JCF regulars there, along with a significant number of people I did not know.  I assumed that many of the people I did not know were freshman or new transfer students who had just begun attending JCF this quarter.  I had not met all of the new students.

The De Anza house had a large living room with couches and a television in front.  A stairway to the right of the front door led upstairs to four bedrooms, and a long dining and family room extended across the back of the house.  A dining room table and another couch were in that room, along with a foosball table.  A few minutes after I walked in, I heard shouting coming from the back.  I headed in the direction of the shouting and saw Brent Wang and Todd Chevallier on one side of the foosball table and Colin Bowman and Andrew Bryant on the other side. Colin and Andrew each had their pants down around their ankles, playing in T-shirts and boxer shorts.  “What is going on?” I asked.

Jason Costello, one of the housemates who lived at the house, pointed to the score counters and explained, “House rule.  If you go down seven to nothing, you have to drop your pants.”

“Okay,” I said, shaking my head.  Kind of silly, and inappropriate, but typical of things that male university students might come up with.

I wandered around for a few minutes, saying hi to people, asking what they were doing, and answering their inevitable questions about my student teaching.  About half an hour after I got there, Eddie asked me if I wanted to play Mafia.  I excitedly said yes and walked toward the couch at the far end of the back room where the Mafia game was forming.  I had played this game a few times both with friends from JCF and with the youth group at church.  In the game, led by a narrator who was not playing, three players would secretly be chosen as the Mafia, the doctor, and the detective.  Some people played with two Mafia, especially in large groups, but for this game we only had one. In each round, with no one looking or knowing, the Mafia would secretly choose a person to assassinate. Then the doctor would secretly choose a person to revive, attempting to guess who had been assassinated. Finally, the detective would secretly choose one person, and the narrator would silently communicate to the detective whether or not that person was Mafia.  The living players would then discuss and choose to accuse someone of being Mafia. The accused player would be executed, eliminated from the game, and if this player was not in fact Mafia, the process would repeat until the killer had been correctly identified, or until the killer had killed everyone.

John Harvey, one of the other housemates here who, like Eddie, was on staff part time with JCF, was the narrator.  He passed out face down slips of paper with the roles randomly written on them. I discreetly looked at my paper; I had no special role.

John stood in the middle of the players, who formed a rough circle.  Seth Huang, Ellie Jo Raymond, and Autumn Davies were squeezed onto the couch with me.  Todd Chevallier, no longer playing foosball, sat in a recliner.  Eddie sat on one of three chairs that he had brought over from the dining room table, with the other two occupied by girls I did not know, probably freshmen.  One of them still had her name tag from JCF on; it said “Stacie.”  Haley and Brennan sat on the floor, along with Ajeet Tripathi, Leah Eckert, Tim Walton, and Brianna Johns.

I closed my eyes with everyone else as John asked each of the people in special roles to make their selections, one at a time.  When I opened my eyes with the others, John said, “Greg!  You have been assassinated.  And the doctor was unable to revive you.”

That was a quick game for me, I thought.  I had no further role in this game, but I could watch the proceedings.  And I was curious to know who had picked me to go out first.  The other players threw out various speculative theories of who was responsible, with none of them drawing much of a reaction until Ellie Jo pointed at Autumn and said, “Autumn has been awfully quiet through all of this.”

“What? Me?” Autumn exclaimed.

“You’re right,” Eddie said.  “She has.  I think it’s Autumn.”

“I would never hurt Greg!  Greg is my friend, and I’m, well, shaken up at his death.”  Autumn gestured as if she were holding back tears, but it was easy to see that she was not actually crying, since she was also holding back laughter.  “These accusations against me are the last thing I need in this time of tragedy!” she exclaimed.

“It’s totally Autumn,” Ajeet concurred.

“Are you ready to vote?” John asked.  Autumn continued trying to defend herself and clear her name, but everyone else wanted to vote.  “Three, two, one, go!” John said.  As John said “go,” Autumn pointed at Ellie Jo, and everyone else pointed at Autumn.

John said, “Autumn is not the Mafia.  Put your heads down.”  Everyone groaned, with some making expressions of surprise.  Since Autumn and I were out of the game, we were no longer required to put our heads down.  When John called for the mafia to awaken and choose the next victim, Stacie opened her eyes and smiled.  I was not expecting Stacie to be the killer, although I knew nothing about how she operated in games like this since I did not know her.  She pointed at Eddie.  Tim was the doctor, and he pointed at Ellie Jo.  Ajeet was the detective; he pointed at Brianna, and John shook his head no.

“Everyone, wake up,” John announced.  “Eddie, you were murdered in the night.”

“Me?” Eddie said incredulously.  “What did I do?”

John shrugged.  “I don’t know, but you can’t talk.  You’re dead.”

Everyone looked around, trying to figure out who could be responsible.  Todd spoke up after a few seconds.  “Okay, hear me out.  I have a theory.  Let’s look at this.  Who did the Mafia take out first?  Greg.  And then Eddie.  These were not random victims.  Greg and Eddie graduated.  They have degrees.  They’re going to be powerful and influential in this game.  Who else would target the people with degrees?  Someone who also has a degree and knows these two well.  And the only other person here with a degree is Haley.”

“No!” Haley replied, laughing.  “It wasn’t me!  These two were in my year!  We’ve been through so much together!  I’m not going to murder them!”

“That sounds like something that you would say if you were secretly in the Mafia,” Stacie suggested.

“Yeah!  She’s right!”  Ajeet shouted.  Others shouted concurring sentiments.

“I think we’re ready to vote,” Todd told John.  John counted down, and most of the surviving players pointed at Haley.

“Haley is not Mafia,” John said.  “Put your heads down.”

The game continued for several more rounds.  Ajeet was the next to be targeted, and since he was the detective, that conveniently eliminated the possibility of the detective learning who the killer was, and using that to sway the discussion.  No one ever suspected Stacie, and she ended up winning, successfully eliminating everyone without ever getting voted out herself.  Todd, the last player eliminated, said, “Really?  It was Stacie?”

“It was,” Stacie replied.  “And I fooled all of you.”

“So taking out Greg and Eddie first?  That was just coincidence?” Todd asked.

“Yeah.  I didn’t know they graduated.  Just a lucky guess.”

“Well played,” I told Stacie.  “Good game.”

“Thanks,” she replied.


The drive home from the De Anza house only took a few minutes, since my house was only about a mile away.  I did not leave until almost one in the morning; by then, the party had wound down, and most of the guests had left.  As I drove home in the cold, clear night, my thoughts were on Haley.  I thought about what could have been, what might have happened had things gone differently two years ago.  Then, as I pulled up to the red light to make a left turn onto Andrews Road, I made myself remember that this was not meant to be, and that it was pointless to think about it now.  I tried making myself think about other things, but my mind was back on Haley by the time I got home and went to bed.

I never saw her again after that night, and as is often the case when I have just seen someone for the last time, I did not realize at the time that it was the last time I would see her.  Back in 1998, people had to make much more effort to stay connected than they do now.  She never specifically mentioned wanting to stay in contact with me, and I did not feel comfortable asking her for her contact information, given our history.  It might make me look desperate trying too hard to stay in touch with someone who rejected me.  At some point in the 2010s, I saw her on Facebook where it suggests people you may know, and I recognized her even though she had a different last name.  I did not try to contact her.  If she were ever to initiate contact with me, I would accept, since she was my friend in the past.  But I still do not feel right reaching out to her, for the same reasons as before.

I did not understand it then, but growing apart from people is just a natural part of life, and there is not much I can do about it.  Not everyone was meant to be a part of my life forever, nor was I meant to be part of everyone else’s lives forever.  Haley would not be part of my life going forward, not romantically, not platonically, and at some point, I came to make peace with that.  I would make new friends.  Some of them would become part of my life forever, and others would pass out of my life a few years later just as Haley did.


Readers: Have you ever had a former love interest or significant other show up somewhere unexpected? How did that go? Tell me about it in the comments.

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Mid-October 1998.  I knew what I had to do. (#195)

The weather in Jeromeville was always beautiful in October.  Jeromeville got very hot in the summer, but by October the weather had cooled to a happy medium, still warm enough to be outside without the intense heat.  My routine this October was a little different from that of previous years, but I was settling into what would be my routine for this year.  Drive 19 miles down Highway 100 to Nueces for student teaching.  Come home.  Eat lunch.  Go to class in the afternoon.  I was still volunteering as a youth group leader at Jeromeville Covenant Church on Wednesdays, I was still going to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship’s large group meetings on Fridays, and I was in a Bible study with JCF on Tuesdays, led by my friends Courtney Kohl and Colin Bowman.

The baseball postseason was happening, but I was not following it.  The Bay City Titans were tied for the last playoff spot and lost the tiebreaker game.  Two players on other teams that year, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, had broken the previous record for home runs in a season; McGwire’s 70 had become the new record, which would only stand for three years.  While that had attracted many fans back to the sport that had lost fans in 1994 after a labor strike had ended the season early, many baseball purists would later look negatively on this era.  Many of the home run hitters of that time were using performance-enhancing drugs, or suspected of doing so, since baseball had more lenient rules about some substances that were banned in other sports.

I was also going swing dancing every Sunday at the University Bar & Grill.  Swing dancing was the big fad of 1998.  Many of my church friends had gotten into swing dancing over the last year, and while I resisted for a long time, having no interest in dancing, I finally gave it a try a few months ago and really enjoyed it.  My roommate Jed Wallace was really into swing dancing, and he went to the U-Bar on Sundays too, but many of my friends who were regulars there when I first started going had been there less often since school started again.

One Sunday morning that month, I sat in church trying to pay attention.  The worship team played a few songs at the beginning of the service.  Then the pastor got up and spoke something which I am sure was very nice, about some meaningful passage from the Bible.  But no matter how hard I tried, I could not pay attention, because I knew what I had to do today once the service was done, and that was all I could think about.

Of course, the world would not end if I did not go through with it.  This requirement for today was entirely self-imposed.  But I felt like I was going crazy, and whatever the outcome, good or bad, I knew that I would feel better once it was done.

It started a week ago.  Actually, it started months ago, but all of these thoughts intensified a week ago.  There was a welcome back potluck after church that week, to coincide with the start of fall classes.  Someone from the church had constructed a temporary dance floor out of plywood on the lawn between the church entrance and the parking lot.  After the potluck and dance party, the dance floor would be disassembled and used to build a new stage platform at the end of the church sanctuary building, where the worship team plays and the pastor preaches, about eight inches off the ground.  I dressed for church that day the same way I normally dressed for swing dancing: a white t-shirt, clip-on suspenders, black slacks, and a gray flat cap, the one I bought a while back when I went shopping with Bethany Bradshaw.  Bethany was not here this morning; she went to a different church.

Several non-dancers at church commented on my attire.  I said thank you and explained that it was for swing dancing.

After the service, after everyone had had time to eat, I heard swing music start playing.  I did not know the name of this song, but I had heard it before at the U-Bar.  I could not see who was controlling the music.  Maybe someone had just put on a Best of Swing Dancing CD of some sort.  The technology existed now to make custom CDs that were playable in ordinary CD players, so maybe someone made a custom mix CD of swing music.  I danced a few times with friends whom I knew were dancers.

About six or seven songs in, I saw Sasha Travis standing on the side of the dance floor, looking like she wanted to dance.  She wore a dark blue dress that came down to her knees.  Her hair was long and straight and brown, the same way she always wore it.  I walked up to her and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“Sure!” she replied, smiling.  I led her to the dance floor, and we began dancing to “Zoot Suit Riot” by the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies.  I was starting to get annoyed with this song; it was overplayed, it was always the first thing that people on the outside of the swing dancing revival movement associated with modern swing dancing, and Jed went on this whole rant recently about how much he hated this song and how it was not real swing music.  But I was willing to put all of that aside if it meant getting to dance with Sasha.

Step, step, rock-step.  I had been doing this for a few months now, and the basic step had almost become automatic to me.  I started doing some turns, lifting my arm and turning Sasha to the time of the music.  “I really like that hat,” Sasha said, smiling.

“Thanks,” I replied.  “It’s the same one I’ve been wearing for at least a month now.”

“I know, but I like it.”

A little bit later, I led Sasha into an inside turn, where she moved across the front of my body.  As she did, she playfully grabbed my hat and put it on her own head.  “That looks good on you,” I said, hoping that she would not notice that I was starting to get sweaty, and that the hat had absorbed the sweat of the last month and a half at the U-Bar.

“Thanks!” Sasha said, smiling.  I continued dancing with her for the rest of the song.  At the end of the song, I dipped her into my arm.  She tried to reach up to hold the hat on, but I knocked it off, grabbed it before it hit the ground, and put it back on my own head.

“Thank you for the dance,” I said.

“Thank you!” Sasha answered.  The two of us walked back to the side of the dance floor and talked with some of our mutual friends until people asked them to dance.


Ever since the moment Sasha stole my hat, a week ago now, I could not get her off of my mind.  It felt like I was thinking about her all the time, in the car on the way to my student teaching assignment, while I was helping those students learn math, while I sat in class.  

I took three deep breaths in my seat after church ended, and I walked outside.  I saw Sasha walk outside that door just a few seconds ago; hopefully she was not in a hurry to get home.  She stood talking to Courtney and Erica, her roommates.  I walked up, ready to ask Sasha if she had a minute to talk, but Courtney saw me first and said, “Hey, Greg!  How are you?”

“Pretty good,” I said.

“How was your weekend?”

“Nothing special.  Just catching up with studying and homework.  Probably going swing dancing again tonight at the U-Bar.”

“That’s fun!” she said.  “I won’t be there tonight.”

After Courtney turned to talk to someone else, I knew I had to force myself to say what I needed to say, or else I would chicken out again.  I walked up to Sasha and said,  “Sasha?  Can I tell you something?”

Sasha turned toward me, clearly not expecting this.  “Okay,” she said.  I stepped about ten feet away, out of earshot of anyone, and motioned for her to follow me.

“I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you these last several months,” I explained.  “I like dancing with you, and I enjoy hanging out.  I was wondering… I really like you, and I was wondering if you were interested at all in, you know, being more than just friends.”

Sasha gave me a strange look.  I was not sure what to make of it, but whatever would be the typical reaction of someone getting this news and being interested in return, this was not it.  “Greg, I’m sorry,” she said.  “You’re a really nice guy, I’ve enjoyed hanging out too, but I just don’t see you that way.”

I nodded slowly for a few seconds.  “That’s ok,” I replied.  “You don’t need to apologize.  I just feel like I’m at the point where I need to say something.  I needed to know.”

“I understand,” she said.  After a few seconds of silence, she added, “Don’t feel bad.”

“I won’t,” I replied.  “Will you be at the U-Bar tonight for dancing?” I asked.

“I won’t be there tonight.  But have fun!”

“I will,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.


When Jed and Brody moved into this house, Brody suggested that we do a communal meal once a week.  The rest of us approved of this idea.  Tonight it was Sean’s turn to make dinner, and he made some dish with chicken and rice.  I did not talk much at dinner.  I did not feel like talking.  Brody asked me at one point how my weekend went, and I just said fine without giving any details.  Brody mentioned that he would not be having dinner with us next week, because it was his birthday and his family was taking us to dinner.  Jed told us all about how he had just bought the album Americana Deluxe by a swing band called Big Bad Voodoo Daddy on CD.  After dinner, as we were cleaning up, Jed put his CD on; I recognized some songs from swing dancing at the U-Bar.

Later that night, I was in the large bedroom I shared with Jed, sitting at my desk reading for one of my classes.  Jed walked in and asked, “Hey, is everything okay?  You seemed kind of distant at dinner.”

“I just have stuff on my mind,” I explained.

“I don’t want to pry, but I have a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“After church, I saw you talking to Sasha,” he said.  My heart sank.  How much did Jed know?  Was he going to make a big deal and make fun of me, put me down for my choice of women?  Was he going to tell me it was inappropriate for me to feel that way, since she was only eighteen years old and I was twenty-two?  He continued, “I was talking to her a few minutes later, and she was acting really weird, not her usual self.  And you’re not your usual self tonight.  What were you two talking about?  Is this all connected?”

I sat in my chair, looking up at Jed, then looking off into the distance, trying to figure out how much to say.  I did not want anyone knowing about any of this.  I did not know that Jed would be talking to Sasha immediately after I did.  But he was not exactly being intrusive; he did not talk to her after church with the intention of finding out what I had told her.  He was simply being observant.

“This is just between us… promise?” I said.

“Yes.”

“I told her I liked her, and she didn’t like me back.”

Jed nodded.  “I wondered if it was something like that,” he said.

“Hmm,” I replied, still not looking Jed in the eye.  I wondered if my actions had been so obvious that everyone at church knew by now.  But then again, maybe not; had I been in his position, observing all that he had about me and Sasha today, the same thought probably would have crossed my mind.

“Sorry about that,” Jed said.  “Is it going to be weird seeing her at church and being friends with her roommates and everything?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.  I really did not.

“Have you been out with her a lot?”

“Not like one-on-one.  Just hanging out in the same circles, and dancing, and stuff like that.”

“She probably wasn’t expecting you to say that, then.”

“I guess.  I’m just so bad at this.”

“Everyone goes through this.  Don’t let it get you down.”

“I’m trying not to.  But it’s hard.”


Two days later, I was driving east on Coventry Boulevard, still thinking about Sasha.  I had managed to go all day Monday and Tuesday without seeing Sasha or any of her roommates on campus, and no one else had mentioned Sasha to me since I talked to Jed Sunday night.  But my destination tonight was Bible study, and Courtney, one of the leaders, was one of Sasha’s roommates.  If Sasha had been acting strangely after our conversation on Sunday, strangely enough to give Jed an outline of what was happening, then I assumed that her roommates were likely to know at least part of the story as well.  If she told them what she told Jed, though, I did not know if she had identified me as the guy who she rejected.

Things like this were why it had always been so hard for me to communicate my feelings toward women.  Back in the spring of 1990, as I was finishing middle school, my friend Paul Dickinson asked me if I liked a girl named Rachelle Benedetti, because he noticed I was often looking at her or trying to talk to her or something like that.  I admitted to Paul that I liked Rachelle, within a week it seemed like the whole school knew, and I was mortified.  I did not want everyone I knew to be in my business like this.

For an hour and a half, for most of Bible study, I thought that maybe I had gotten away with it.  Everything felt normal.  The only time I talked about things other than the passage of Scripture that we studied was when I got there and Colin asked me how student teaching was going.  But I was wrong.  After the study, I was usually in the habit of not rushing home, catching up with my friends first for a while.  Courtney came up to me a few minutes after we finished, and asked, “How are you doing?  I heard about what happened Sunday.”

“Yeah,” I said, not sure where to take this conversation.  Courtney seemed sympathetic, at least.  “I’m okay, I guess.”

“There’s someone out there for you,” Courtney said.  “Just keep praying about it.”

“I guess,” I said, trying to act appreciative of Courtney’s concern instead of rolling my eyes at the dumb cliché.

“They always say love finds you when you stop looking for it.”

Great, I thought.  An even worse cliché.  I heard that all the time, but how would love find me if I stop looking for it?  I was not really actively looking, I was just living my life, and no one had found me yet.  Of course love would find someone like Courtney when she was not looking for it; she was a pretty blonde girl, bubbly and friendly.  I was not so lucky.  I just said, “If you say so.”

“Everyone goes through this.  It’s just part of life.  You might need time, but someday you’ll wake up and feel like it’s time to get over it,” she said.  “Like when Brody and I broke up, I needed a few days to just sit with my feelings, but now everything is okay, and we’re still friends.”

More mildly angry thoughts bubbled in my mind.  I had no idea that Courtney and Brody broke up.  I was always the last to know anything.  These people were in the closest thing I had to an inner circle of friends.  Brody even lived at my house.  And yet I had no idea what was going on in their lives.  Apparently I was not in either of their inner circles, or anyone’s for that matter.  “That’s good,” I finally said, dejectedly.  “I’m not upset with her.  She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Who didn’t do anything wrong?” Colin asked, walking over to see what we were talking about.

“It’s nothing,” Courtney replied.  “Just something Greg said to someone that was taken the wrong way.”

“Yeah,” I said.  Courtney seemed to be deflecting the conversation away from the topic of Sasha now that Colin was within earshot, and for this I was thankful.  I did not want too many people to know about this.  But just in case, I added, “I don’t really want to keep talking about it, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine.”


I was still thinking about this when I drove home later that night.  I was twenty-two and had never come close to having a girlfriend.  Things were starting to feel hopeless.  I had no idea what I was doing, and it seemed to come so much more easily to everyone else than it did for me.  No girls liked me, and nothing I could do would change that.

Part of the problem was that I did not know how to communicate my feelings to a girl.  When I was interested in someone, I always felt like I had to keep it a closely guarded secret, so she had no idea.  Why was I like this?  Probably because I grew up constantly being teased for everything, so I was just used to doing whatever I could not to give metaphorical ammunition to bullies, even though I really had not experienced much traditional bullying as a university student.  Also, my mother and her extended family were always in everyone’s business, and I did not want my romantic interests to become public knowledge that everyone started talking about.

But, I realized, on those few occasions where people did know about my romantic interests, none of what I feared happened.  Sure, back in middle school, Paul told a lot of people that I liked Rachelle, but they did not make fun of me for it.  He was just trying to help.  At the end of that year, when we took the honor roll trip to the amusement park at Mount Lorenzo Beach, he let me sit next to Rachelle when we rode the Giant Wave.  Jed and Courtney were not making fun of me about Sasha either; they just did not want to see me get hurt.

That was pretty much it.  The topic of Sasha rejecting me never really came up again among any of my friends.  It stayed on my mind for a long time, though.  The next time I had to change my password, a few months later, my new password combined the numbers on Sasha’s license plate with the name of a villain character from a TV show.  I used that password for over a decade, long after she was no longer a daily thought.  And almost two years after she rejected me, when I was ready to buy my first car with my own money, I decided to make a decision on a car that day instead of sleeping on it, because the next day was Sasha’s birthday, and I did not want my car to have the same birthday as a girl who rejected me.

When Sasha first met the guy she ended up marrying, who was also one of my church friends at the time, it felt a little awkward being around them.  But Courtney was right about one thing: after a while, things would start to feel okay again.


Readers: Do/did you share with your friends who you are/were interested in romantically? Tell me why or why not in the comments.

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October 2, 1998.  Fall quarter this year felt very different from usual. (#194)

Decades before the Wordle game took the Internet by storm, the College Ready Mathematics curriculum had the Silent Number Game.  The two games worked similarly; in the Silent Number Game, students had to guess a two- or three-digit number, and the teacher would silently mark how many of the digits were correct and how many of the correct digits were in the correct position.  Both games were inspired by the board game Mastermind, which in turn was inspired by various pencil-and-paper folk games.  The CRM geometry textbook instructed teachers to play a few games with students over the course of a week, and some of the homework problems in the book asked questions based on this game.  By explaining what someone knows or does not know after a few turns, and why, students use thought processes useful for making mathematical proofs, a concept that is introduced soon after the Silent Number Game.

Mrs. Tracy, my master teacher in the geometry class, let me lead the class in a few rounds of the Silent Number Game.  The students were getting better at the game over the few days that we had been playing.  Mrs. Tracy walked to the front to take over and finish teaching the lesson; I took a deep breath, still feeling tense after what had happened earlier that day in the Basic Math B class.  At least no one in the geometry class cussed me out today.

After Mrs. Tracy finished, I walked around the room helping students with their work.  I happened to glance at Andy Rawlings’ paper as he wrote an answer to this problem:


Tara is playing the Silent Number Game.
923   1 correct, 1 in the right position
964   1 correct, 1 in the right position
945   2 correct, 0 in the right position

Tara thinks that the number must start with 9.  Explain how you know Tara is wrong, and find the correct number.


Andy had written, “Tara is dumb.”  I pointed at his answer and said, “Really?  That’s what you’re going with?”

“Come on, Mr. Dennison,” Andy replied.  “It even says she’s wrong.”

“Yes, but explain how you know.  Without calling her names.”

“Fine. Let me think about it.”  Andy erased his work as I moved on to the student behind him, Kayla Welch.  She had left the problem blank.  “Mr. Dennison?” Kayla asked.  “I don’t get this one.  I thought the number started with 9 too.”

“Let’s talk this out,” I replied.  “Why do you think it starts with 9?”

“Because the first two guesses started with 9, and she had one number correct and it was in the right position.  And the last one had two correct digits.”

“How many of the digits in 945 are in the right position?”

Kayla reread the problem.  “None of them,” she said, trailing off as she contemplated this information.  “But 9 has to be in the first position.”

“Let’s think about this.  If there is a 9 in the number, it has to be in the first position, because 923 had one digit correct and it was in the correct position.  But 9 can’t be in the first position because of what you said about 945.  What does that mean?”

Kayla thought about this, then said, “There isn’t a 9 in the number?”

“Right.  So which two digits of 945 are correct?”

“The 4 and the 5.”

“And, look at the other guesses.  Which digit is 4?”

“The last one.  Because 964 had one number in the right position.”

“So which of 923 is the correct digit?”

“Not the 9.  It’s the 2, because we already know the last digit is 4.  So the number is 524.”

“That’s what I got!  Good job!”

After the bell rang, Mrs. Tracy asked to talk to me for a minute.  “You did a good job of making Kayla think through that problem.”

“Thank you,” I said.  I sighed and added, “I don’t feel like I did a good job in Mrs. Matthews’ class this morning.  A girl cussed me out for telling her to get back to work.”

“That happens sometimes.  What did you do?”

“I looked over at Mrs. Matthews.  She gave me a Room Two form, and I filled it out,” I explained.  Everyone at Nueces High School knew that Room Two meant the room where students get sent out of class for misbehaving, and I learned this quickly during the week of teacher meetings at the start of the year.  “And I called her mom and left a message.”

“Then you did the right thing.  Don’t let it get to you.”

“I know.”

“Not every student is going to like you.”

“I know.  I’m learning that.”

“You did great today.  Don’t let it get to you.  Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll see you Monday.”

“Thanks.”


After I got home from student teaching, I made a sandwich, as I always did.  When I finished eating, I got on my bike and headed to campus.  Yesterday was the first day of classes for the University of Jeromeville’s fall quarter.  Classes started on a Thursday, as fall quarter always did, but fall quarter this year felt very different from usual.  For one thing, one of my classes for the student teaching program had already been meeting for a month.  Student teaching itself was an eight-unit class officially called Education 306A: Teaching Mathematics in Secondary Schools, consisting not only of the time I spent at Nueces High every morning but also an hour-long seminar every day.  The UJ academic year started later than that of public high schools in the area, but Ed 306A followed the public school schedules.  I had two other education classes this quarter that met on the university’s academic schedule.  One of them started yesterday, and the other would start on Monday.  Neither of these classes met on Fridays, so all I had today was the seminar.

The classroom was about half full when I arrived, but of course “half full” was a relative term, so this meant that eight students and Dr. Van Zandt were in the room when I arrived.  This class was exclusively for students in the mathematics teacher certification program.  There were seventeen of us in the program this year, and Dr. Van Zandt, who had been the professor for this program since 1990, said that it was the largest class of future math teachers he had ever had.

Today, Dr. Van Zandt asked if any of us had any experiences to share regarding difficult students.  I raised my hand.

“Yes, Greg?” Dr. Van Zandt said.

“Just today, I told two girls to get back to work because they were talking.  One of them looked me right in the eye and said, ‘I don’t effing have to do what you say.’  But she said the actual word.”

“What a little brat,” Ryan Gaines, another student teacher working at Nueces High, said.  Some of the others chuckled.

“And how did you handle that?” Dr. Van Zandt asked.

“Mrs. Matthews gave me the form to send the girl to Room Two.  That’s where misbehaving students get sent.  She took it and stormed off.”

“Then I think you did what you needed to.  Did you do any kind of follow-up after that?”

“I called her mom and left a message.  Mrs. Matthews said that was required.”

“She’s right.  According to State Ed Code, if you send a student out of class for the period, you have to contact the parents.  That’s called a class suspension.  And it’s always a good idea to make contact with the parents as soon as possible after any kind of discipline.  Thanks for sharing, Greg.”

I listened to others share stories of their own misbehaving students.  Although I handled it well this time, that kind of defiant behavior from students made me angry.  And although a conversation with the girl’s mother may be productive in the long run, I secretly hoped that she would not call back.  Talking to parents terrified me, mostly because I was barely twenty-two years old and did not expect to be taken seriously by parents of high school students who were probably twice my age.


For the last three years, the highlight of my Fridays had been the large group meeting of Jeromeville Christian Fellowship.  Again, I knew that this year would be different.  I was no longer an undergraduate, and for some reason I had yet to understand, there were very few graduate students attending JCF.  I only knew of one at the time, a guy named Andrew Bryant who was now in his second year of getting his Ph.D. in chemistry.  Of course, this might just be a consequence of the fact that most graduate programs are a lot of work, leaving students little time to be involved in campus activities outside of their program.  I did not see a need for my student teaching to take me away from my involvement at JCF, or from activities at church.  Being in the student teaching program, I was classified as a graduate student, but I was pretty sure that actual graduate students working toward master’s, doctoral, or professional degrees had a much greater workload than I did.

The most visibly obvious difference at JCF was the location.  Since I started attending JCF early in my second year, the large group meetings had been in Evans Hall, but this year they moved to Harding Hall.  The buildings were not far apart; Harding was on the corner of Davis Drive and Colt Avenue, diagonally across from Stone Hall, and Evans was just on the other side of Stone.  But psychologically, I always associated Evans with JCF.  I had never been inside Harding, so this would feel like unfamiliar territory.

Harding Hall, like many of the buildings on this part of campus, was an older building, dating to the 1940s.  The University of Jeromeville had a world-class School of Veterinary Medicine, one of the largest in the United States.  Harding Hall was the original location of the vet school, but many of the laboratories and the teaching hospital moved in the 1970s to a new location on the edge of campus, between Andrews Road and Highway 117.  The vet school still had offices and classrooms in Harding Hall, and the entrance of the building reflected its history; above the doors stood relief sculptures of various animals.

My housemate Jed was with me when we arrived.  “Have you had a class in here before?” I asked.

“No,” Jed replied.

“Me either.  I’m not sure exactly where the room is.”

I opened the door and walked into the lobby.  A large stairway led up, with hallways on either side..  A handwritten sign on poster board said “Jeromeville Christian Fellowship” with an arrow pointing up the stairs.  As I walked up the stairs, the soft din of voices that I heard upstairs gradually became louder.

“What’s up, G,” Todd Chevallier said from the table where he sat, handing out the weekly newsletter and writing name tags.  He wrote “G” on mine and stuck it on my shirt before I could object, then he handed Jed his name tag.

“‘G,’” I said.  “I guess I’ll be ‘G’ tonight.”

“It’s not a bad nickname,” Jed said.

“There are only two people who are allowed to call me ‘G,’” I explained

“Oh yeah?  Who?” Todd asked.

“When I was in high school, my friend Jessica always used to shorten everyone’s name.  Melissa became ‘Mel,’ Renee became ‘Nee,’ Kevin became ‘Kev.’  She called herself ‘Jess.’  I already went by a one-syllable name, so I became ‘G.’  And then later our other friend, Melissa, also started calling me ‘G’ sometimes, but not as often as Jessica.”

“That’s funny.”

“And now I guess I’ll have to tell people that story,” I said, patting my ‘G’ name tag with my hand.

The large lecture hall, room 2101 Harding Hall, held around three hundred students, larger than JCF’s previous location in 170 Evans.  The seats were steeply inclined, such that the entrance to the room, in the back of the seating area, was on the second floor, but the front of the room was level with the first floor.  The room was not very full yet.  Jed and I sat on the left aisle about halfway toward the front.  I skimmed through the newsletter, then watched the room gradually fill up.

I had been part of this group for long enough that I knew many of these people.  But I could not help but notice the absence of those people who had graduated last year and left Jeromeville.  Ramon Quintero, Sarah Winters, Krista Curtis, Xander Mackey, Raphael Stevens, Scott and Amelia Madison, Joe Fox, Alyssa Kramer, Evan Lundgren, and Haley Channing were all gone, among others.  There were some students from my year who had graduated but stayed in Jeromeville, as well as some from my year who had not finished their degrees; I said hi to one of those, Mike Knepper, as he took a seat down the row from Jed and me.

Brent Wang was a senior this year; he played keyboard and was this year’s worship team leader.  He led the group in a song.  Eddie Baker, who graduated my year and was now on staff with JCF, gave the announcements, followed by Brent and his band playing a few more songs.  After this, Todd and Brent, along with senior Ajeet Tripathi, a junior named Ellie Jo Raymond who was on the worship team with Brent, and sophomores Brianna Johns and Chelsea Robbins performed a skit based on the TV show “Friends,” which most people I knew were obsessed with but I could never get into.  The skit was amusing, but many of the references to the TV show went over my head.  I made a mental note that the first large group two years ago, with the Scooby-Doo skit, was funnier.  Of course, I was a little biased, since I was part of that skit.

The rest of the night was structured similarly to every other JCF meeting I had been to, except that Janet McAllen’s message was fairly light and general about following Jesus without including any heavy theological concepts.  This made sense, because new students who are just checking out all the groups on campus often came to the first meeting of the year, and we did not want to get too intense for students who are just checking out Christianity for the first time.

After the message, the band played one more song, and then the group dispersed.  Jed walked over to talk to a group of students from his year; I followed him.

“Hey, Greg,” Tim Walton said, looking at my name tag.  “‘G?’ Is that what we’re calling you now?”

“What’s up, G?” Brianna Johns asked, emphasizing the G and giggling.

“Todd wrote that as a joke,” I explained.  “How were your summers?”

“I just went home,” Tim explained.  “Nothing special.”

“Same,” Brianna added.  “I was just working.  How was yours?”

“It was good.  I just hung out in Jeromeville, doing youth group stuff with J-Cov.  And I started swing dancing.”

“Fun!” Brianna said excitedly.  “Are they still doing that at the U-Bar?  I went a few times back in the spring.”

“Yeah.  You should come back,” I said, adding in my mind without saying out loud that I could always use more beautiful women like you to dance with.  “And my student teaching program started five weeks ago, and one of my classes here did too.”

“Wow!  You’ve been busy!” Brianna said.

“How is teaching going so far?” Tim asked.

“Pretty good,” I replied.  “So far I’m just observing and helping answer students’ questions.  I’ll gradually start teaching soon, and a few months into the year I get to take over the class.”

Chelsea Robbins turned around, having overheard what I had just said.  “What grade are you teaching?”

“High school.  Geometry and Basic Math B.”

“Here at Jeromeville High?”

“No.  Nueces High.”

“You commute to Nueces every day?  Wow.”

“It’s not that bad of a drive.  And all my classes here are in the afternoon, because these classes are specifically for student teachers who are in the classroom in the morning.”

“That makes sense.  Have the students been nice so far?”

“Some are, some aren’t,” I explained.  “There’s this one girl in the Basic B class who is really mouthy and defiant.  I told her and her friend to get back to work, and she just looked at me and said, ‘I don’t effing have to do what you say.’  But she said the real word.”

“Wow,” Chelsea said.

“So what happened to her?” Brianna asked.

“She got sent to the detention room.  I got to call her mom, my first parent phone call as a teacher, but she didn’t answer.  I had to leave a message.  I can tell I’m going to have trouble with this girl.  On the first day of school, she came with a shirt that said ‘420.’  The master teacher sent her to the office to change on a dress code violation.  I had no idea what that even meant.”

Tim now rejoined the conversation, saying, “You didn’t know what ‘420’ meant?”

“No!” I answered emphatically.  “I grew up sheltered, my only friends were other honors students, and my social life in Jeromeville revolves around church.  How and why am I going to know marijuana slang?”

“You have a point,” he replied.


That night that Todd wrote my name tag as “G” happened during a time when I had lost touch with everyone I knew in high school.  Melissa Holmes was the last high school friend I had heard of, about six months ago.  I got back in touch with Melissa about a year later, and Jessica Halloran not too long after that.  Decades later, at our 30-year class reunion in 2024, I had already arrived when Jessica showed up.  She saw me and immediately said, “Hey, G!  How are you?”  I told her that she and Melissa, who was also at the reunion that night, were still to this day the only people allowed to call me “G.”

Dealing with students like Marie, the girl who cussed me out, was always my least favorite part of teaching.  My strength as a teacher is the subject matter, and it takes so long to walk to my desk and fill out the necessary forms when sending a student out of class that my natural inclination is to just ignore the misbehavior and move on with the material.  However, I also know it is necessary to deal with disruptions immediately, because small problems left unresolved become larger problems later that are more difficult to deal with.  This is true in many areas of life, not just issues of classroom management, and this is something that I am still learning now in middle age.  Early in the student teaching program, Dr. Van Zandt mentioned that teachers are lifelong learners, but we are all lifelong learners in some way regardless of profession.  Life is full of surprises, everything is constantly changing, and nothing I can do will change that.


Readers: What is something that is a key part of your job (or a key part of being in school, if you are a student) that you feel like you are not very good at and still have things to learn? Tell me about it in the comments.

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September 17-20, 1998.  An eccentric new housemate. (#193)

I arrived home around noon, after my student teaching assignment.  It was not a good day.  In the Basic Math B class, one student who was sitting there doing nothing had argued with me when I told him to get to work.  Ms. Matthews, who I had discovered was not exactly the friendliest teacher in the world, had taken a somewhat scolding tone toward me about not getting into arguments with students.

I changed out of my work clothes, and turned on the computer.  I answered emails, then I lay on my bed reading.  A little after two o’clock, I heard a large vehicle of some sort stop outside the house.  This was probably the moving van, I thought.  I peeked out the window and, seeing a familiar boy with bushy blond hair get out of the moving van and walk toward the house, I got up to open the door.  A middle-aged couple whom I did not know was with him; I assumed this must be his parents..

“Hey, Jed,” I said to him, opening the door.  “Welcome.”

“Hi,” Jed’s father said to me, extending his hand.  “Dave Wallace.  You must be either Greg, Sean, or Brody.”

“Greg,” I said, shaking Mr. Wallace’s hand.  “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Sherri,” Jed’s mother added.  “It’s nice to meet you too.”

“How was the drive?” I asked.  “Must have been long.”

“We left Sand Hill at seven this morning,” Jed explained.  “Stopped for lunch and gas in Ralstonville.”

“Yeah, that’s a long drive,” I replied.

“I think we should start with the bed,” Mr. Wallace said.  “Can you help us carry it?”

“Sure,” I replied.  “Sean is in the living room; he said to get him when it was time to help.”

After Sean introduced himself to Jed’s parents, we all walked back to the moving van. Sean and I pulled a twin size mattress out and awkwardly carried it toward the door.  I walked in first, walking backward, and hit my head on the wall behind me.  “Ow!” I cried out

“Move to your right,” Sean suggested.

“I can’t,” I said, pinned to the wall by the mattress.  Sean continued trying to get the mattress through the door in a position that could be easily moved down the hall to the bedroom I would be sharing with Jed.  I moved in the opposite direction, to my left, giving Sean room to get the mattress through the door, then we lifted it and pushed it down the hallway into the room.  We stood out of the way as Jed’s parents brought in a box spring the same way.  As Sean and I walked back out to the moving van, we passed Jed walking the other way with bed frame parts.

After helping Mr. Wallace carry in a large bookshelf, and bumping my body against the wall just as I had with the bed, I switched to carrying cardboard boxes small enough to be handled by one person.  I went to get a drink of water after carrying about five boxes, and when I got back to the bedroom, Jed was looking through one of the boxes, pulling compact discs out and putting them on the bookshelf.  The first two were music by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and the Squirrel Nut Zippers, contemporary swing bands that had capitalized on the recent revival of swing dancing.

“Do you know if they still have swing dancing at the U-Bar on Sundays?” Jed asked me.

“Yes!” I replied.  “I’ve been going since the end of June.”

“Nice!  How do you like it?”

“I’m not very good, but I’m having fun with it.”

“I went once with Ben Lawton last year.  I found a place to dance back home and got really into it.  It’s been fun.”

“That’s awesome.”

He then unpacked three CDs by the Celtic-Canadian folk musician Loreena McKennitt and asked me if I had ever heard her music.  “I only know that one song that’s popular right now,” I explained.

“She has a song that’s popular?”

I was surprised that Jed did not know this; apparently he was a fan of hers before she was popular.  “‘The Mummer’s Dance,’ or something like that.  They play it on 100.3.”

“Oh,” Jed replied dismissively.  “I don’t think that’s her best work.”  I said nothing in return, since I was unfamiliar with Ms. McKennitt’s music.  Jed changed the subject when he unpacked a large hardcover book, put it on the shelf, and said, “This is my prized possession.”  I read the cover: it was J.R.R. Tolkien’s entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, all in one volume.

“Nice,” I replied.  “I’ve actually never read that.”

“You’ve never read Lord of the Rings?  We might need to fix that.”

“Maybe,” I replied.

“I read it twice a year.  And I have another copy in paperback to lend to people, whenever you’re ready to read it.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“They’ve started working on a new Lord of the Rings movie series.  It’s gonna be so good, but it’ll be a few years before it’s done.  They haven’t even started shooting yet.”

“That’ll be fun.”


A couple hours later, Mr. Wallace told Sean and me that we were invited to go to dinner with them.  “Jed said something about a Mexican place right around here that’s a little different from most other Mexican places, but he couldn’t remember what it was called.”

Dos Amigos,” I said.  “Santa Fe style Mexican food.  I love that place.”

Dos Amigos was only a quarter mile away, so Jed, his parents, Sean, and I all walked there, down Acacia Drive, right on Maple Lane, and across Coventry Boulevard to a strip mall.  “You’re not driving all the way back tonight, are you?” Sean asked.

“No,” Mrs. Wallace explained.  “We got a room in downtown Jeromeville tonight, at the Colt Inn.  We’re leaving in the morning.”

“We have another son who is old enough to stay by himself for a night,” Mr. Wallace explain.  “Hopefully he won’t burn the house down.”

I could not tell if Mr. Wallace was being serious or sarcastic.  “How old is he?” I asked.

“Fifteen.”

Probably sarcastic, I thought.  Fifteen was old enough to stay alone overnight; at least that was the way most people saw the world in 1998.

After we ordered and sat at our table, Mr. Wallace said, “So, Greg.  Jed tells me you’re in the teacher certification program at UJ, studying to be a math teacher.”

“Yes.  I’m doing my student teaching in the mornings at Nueces High.”

“I’m a high school vice principal.  When you’re done with the program, I might have a job for you if you want to move south.”

“Wow,” I said.  “Thank you.”  I had not considered moving across the state to Sand Hill, but I also did not want to rule anything out.

“What curriculum are they using in Nueces?”

“CRM. College Ready Mathematics.”

“That’s really popular up here, apparently.”

“Yes.  One of my professors co-wrote it.”

“We tried that for a few years when it first came out,” Mr. Wallace explained.  “Then we threw it in the trash where it belongs.”  I nodded, not saying anything, as he continued.  “It’s cheap, because the books are paperbacks; that’s how it got so popular.”

“I’ve heard Dr. Samuels speak about it,” I said, a little nervously considering how hostile Mr. Wallace had been to CRM.  “It sounds like it’s meant to be implemented a certain way.  My brother used it for one year, and from what I heard, his class wasn’t doing it right.”

“That’s because there is no right way to do it.  You’ll see.  And hopefully you’ll figure out what works for you and what doesn’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Sean?  What did you say your major was?” Mr. Wallace asked.  I relaxed a little as the conversation turned to another topic.  I did not want to argue the pros and cons of the College Ready Mathematics curriculum with someone more experienced on the subject than me, especially given my personal connection to Dr. Samuels.


With Jed back in town, there would be one more familiar face at swing dancing every week, although he was a guy so I would not be dancing with him.  The following Sunday night, three days after Jed moved in, he came with me to swing dancing at the University Bar & Grill.  As we headed south on Andrews Road, Jed asked, “Are there a lot of people swing dancing this summer, with school being on break?”

“It’s a decent crowd size,” I replied.  “There are still people around.  But I didn’t start going until the beginning of summer, so I don’t know what the crowd was like during the school year.”

“That’s true.  The place I went dancing back home had a pretty big crowd, but some of them came from farther away.”

“Yeah.”

“The first time I was there,” Jed said, “about midway through the night, this knockout blonde walks up to me, and asks me to dance.  I was like, ‘Hello, nurse!’”

“Huh?” I said, confused.  “Nurse?”

“‘Hello, nurse!’” Jed repeated.  “Animaniacs?”

“I never got into that show,” I explained.  “That was around the time I stopped watching kids’ cartoons.”

“Really?  You never watched Animaniacs?” Jed sounded like he was having a hard time believing this, much as he had reacted a few days earlier when I told him of my unfamiliarity with Tolkien.  I was used to getting that reaction when people talked about movies and television shows I had not seen.  “That show was so good!  ‘Hello, nurse!’ was what they said when they saw a pretty girl.”

“I see.  I guess I just never took the time to get into it.”

“So anyway, this blonde girl walked up to me and asks me to dance.  I asked her for her name, and she said, ‘Trouble.’”

“Her name was ‘Trouble?’”

“It was a nickname, but that’s what everyone calls her.  She’s a really good dancer, though.”

Jed stopped talking about Trouble when we arrived.  We each paid the cover charge and walked toward a nearby table where Erica Foster and Sasha Travis were sitting.  “Hey, Greg,” Erica said.

“Do you two know Jed?” I asked.  I looked back at Jed.

“I’ve seen you at church before,” Erica replied.  “You two are roommates this year, right?”

“Yeah.  Jed, this is Erica, and Sasha.”

“Nice to meet you!” Sasha exclaimed.

“You too,” Jed replied, shaking Sasha’s hand, and then Erica’s.

“Are Courtney and Cambria coming tonight?” I asked.

“No,” Erica said.  “They’re packing for Outreach Camp, and they didn’t want to stay out too late.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How come you’re not going this year?  Don’t you usually go to that?”

“I have student teaching,” I explained, still a little disappointed that I would not be joining the rest of Jeromeville Christian Fellowship at their camp next week.  “School at Nueces High already started three weeks ago.”

“Oh, that’s right.  How’s that going?”

“I’m getting used to it.  Mostly I’ve just been watching, and occasionally answering student questions.  One of the master teachers is going to let me try teaching a lesson soon, though.”

“That’s exciting!”

“Do you go to J-Cov too?” Jed asked Sasha.

“Yeah.  I’ve been going there all my life.  I grew up in Jeromeville.”

“Nice!”

“My dad is on the elder board.  And Erica and I have been best friends for a long time.”

“You want to dance?”

“Sure!”

Jed went onto the dance floor with Sasha, and I followed soon after with Erica.  When the song was over, we came back to the table where Erica and Sasha had been sitting.  A girl I did not know asked Jed to dance, and I just sat watching for the next song.

One of the quirks of this time of year in a university town like Jeromeville is gradually seeing people who went away for the summer reappear.  About half an hour after we arrived, I noticed a familiar face walking by.  She had straight brown hair halfway down her back, and glasses, and she wore a medium-length black dress.

“Candace,” I said as she walked by.

Candace turned around and looked at me, surprised to see me.  “Oh, hey,” she said.  “I didn’t know you danced.”

“I just started a couple months ago.  Have you been doing this for a while?”

“I started in March or April, maybe?  Before I went back home for the summer.”

“That’s cool.”

“Are you coming back to chorus this year?”

“Probably not.  My schedule is pretty much set for the whole year, in the student teaching program.”

“That’s right.  You graduated last year.  So that’s what you’re doing now?  Getting your teaching certificate?  What are you teaching?”

“I’m teaching math, at Nueces High.”

“That’s cool!” Candace said.  “Good luck with that!”

Jed walked up at that moment, and I asked him, “Do you know Candace?  I know her from when I was in chorus.”

“I’m Jed,” he said, extending his hand to shake hers.  “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Candace replied.

“Jed is my roommate for this year,” I explained.

“Oh, okay.”

“Would you like to dance?” Jed asked Candace.

“Sure,” she replied.

“Save me a dance later?” I asked Candace.

“Of course!”

While Jed and Candace were dancing, I went to the bar to order a Roy Rogers.  After I got my drink, I saw Bethany Bradshaw walk in with a group of people presumably from University Life, the student-age group at her church.  Bethany was one of the first friends I made from dancing, and I knew a few others in her group, so I walked over to talk to them.  “Hey, Greg,” Bethany said, giving me a hug from the side.

“Hi,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.  “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good.  What have you been up to?”

“The usual.  Jed moved in a few days ago.”

“That’s right.  Jed is your roommate this year.”

Ben Lawton, one of the other U-Life people I knew, overheard us and turn around, asking, “Jed?  Jed Wallace?  Is he here tonight?”

“Yes.  I drove him here.”

Ben scanned the room, saw Jed dancing, and said, “I need to go say hi to that guy once he’s done dancing.  He came with us once last year.  I didn’t know he was still dancing.”

“He told me he got really into it back home over the summer.”

“Good for him.  I always told him he would like it.”

When a new song began, I asked Bethany if she wanted to dance.  She said yes; I put my drink on a table near the U-Life group and led Bethany to the dance floor.  After the song, she told me that she thought I was getting better; I was not sure what she saw in my dancing that had improved, but it was nice to get a compliment.


It was a good night overall.  I got brave and asked a total of four girls I didn’t know to dance, and two of them actually said yes.  Jed and I stayed until the last song that night.  As more people came back to Jeromeville for the summer, I was hoping that more people I knew would come dancing regularly.  That would be nice.

Living with Jed would be interesting this year.  He was definitely not a typical university student.  He marched to his own beat.  I never did become familiar with any other works of Loreena McKennitt, other than that one song.  And I never accepted Jed’s offer of borrowing his Lord of the Rings paperbacks, although I did read the trilogy a few years later, when the first of the movies was finally being released and heavily hyped.

Jed was eccentric, in a good way.  People like that either find people willing to accept their differences and live very happy lives, or they are rejected by people in the mainstream who are unwilling to accept someone who is different.  I have always felt different, and I have experienced both kinds of reactions from society around me at different times in my life.  Looking back, I do not know if Jed had experienced as much difficulty as I have at times in finding people who accept him, but regardless, tonight ended up being a major positive milestone for him, because I had just unknowingly introduced Jed to his future spouse.  But that is a story for another time.


Readers: Do you have any friends who are eccentric, quirky, or unusual, but in a positive way? Tell me about them in the comments!

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