Tag: 1990s

March 5, 1999.  Bowling with freshmen. (#210)

~ Greg Dennison ~ Leave a comment

“When my brother went here, he used to go see this band called Lawsuit,” the voice behind me said as I stood around after Jeromeville Christian Fellowship ended, looking for people to hang out with.  “I was listening to their CD in the dorm earlier with my door open, and this guy down the hall heard it and said, ‘What is this?  I’ve never heard anything like this, but it’s good!’  I don’t even know if Lawsuit is still together.”

This caught my attention.  I had not heard anyone speak the name Lawsuit in years.  Whoever this was, I had to give him the bad news that they broke up two years ago.  But if this person lived in a dorm, he was probably a freshman, not one I expected to be familiar with a defunct local band.  But he mentioned learning of them from an older brother.  I turned around, and suddenly it all made sense; the speaker was Brennan Channing, a freshman who indeed had two older siblings who had also attended the University of Jeromeville.  Christian, two years older than me, had been involved with JCF when I first started attending in my second year, and Haley, my age, had broken my heart the year after that.

“I hate to be the one to break the bad news, but Lawsuit broke up,” I said to Brennan.

“Oh, bummer,” he replied.  “You know them?”

“Yeah.  I saw them play the Spring Picnic my first two years here, then I saw them twice more after that.”

“Do you know why they broke up?”

“I don’t know the details.  But, wait.  You said you have a CD of theirs?  Which one?”

“The one with the pink cover.  Emergency something.”

“Emergency Third Rail Power Trip,” I said.  “Would you let me borrow that sometime?  I made a tape of someone else’s CD my freshman year, and now that I have a computer that can copy CDs, it would be nice to have it on CD.”

“Sure!  Are you coming bowling tonight?  I have my bike, I can go back to my room and get the CD and then give it to you at bowling.”

“I haven’t heard anything about bowling.  Am I invited?”

“Sure!  Jesse said to invite anyone.”

Many of the freshmen involved with JCF I did not know well, but I saw someone standing nearby wearing a name tag that said Jesse.  That was probably him.  None of my friends at JCF closer to my age had mentioned hanging out afterward, so apparently I was going to meet some younger students tonight.  “Sounds like fun,” I said.  “I’m in.”

“Jesse!” Brennan called out.  “Greg is coming!”

“Nice!” Jesse replied, turning to me.  “I’m Jesse.  I don’t think we’ve ever officially met.”

“I’m Greg.  Nice to meet you.”

“You’re a senior, right?”

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

“Nice!  You’re gonna be a teacher?  What grade?”

“High school.  Math.”

“Math was always my favorite subject.  I’m a civil engineering major.”

“Nice,” I said.  “I don’t usually get people reacting positively when I say I studied math.”

“I get that.”

A total of eleven people ended up gathering to go bowling.  Brennan left on his bike to go get the Lawsuit CD for me, telling us that he would meet us there.  The only other student I knew in the group headed to the bowling alley was Lacey Kilpatrick, who came to the X-Files watch parties at the De Anza house sometimes.  She and Marlene, one of the other regulars at the X-Files parties, knew each other in high school.  As we walked toward the bowling alley, I repositioned myself within the group so that I was next to Lacey.  “Hey,” I said.

“Hi, Greg!” she replied.  “How was your day?”

“Not too bad.  The usual.  What about you?”

“I turned in a paper.  So I’m glad that’s over.”

“I get that.”

“Do you go bowling a lot?” Lacey asked.

“Not really a lot.  But sometimes.  I took the bowling class here sophomore year.”

“There’s a bowling class?”

“Yeah.  A half-unit PE class.”

“And you learn how to bowl?”

“Yeah.  By the end of the class, I was better than I was at the beginning, at least.”

“I’m not good at bowling,” Lacey said.   “But I have fun with it!”  My friends and I used to go bowling a lot in high school.”

“Having fun is what’s important.  I’m not really good at controlling the ball.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, I learned in bowling class that you’re supposed to use a ball one-tenth your body weight.  That would be about 21 pounds for me.  They don’t make balls that heavy.  And even the heaviest 15- and 16-pound balls are really hard for me to control.”

“Can you try a smaller ball?”

“I remember toward the end of the bowling class, I went back to using a little bit smaller ball,” I said. “I probably will again tonight.”


The University of Jeromeville had a bowling alley on campus, an unusual feature for a university.  It was open to the public, being the only bowling alley in Jeromeville.  Even more unusual was the fact that it was underground.  A door in the Memorial Union building next to the campus store led to a wide stairway going down, ending in a large room called the Memorial Union Games Area.  In addition to sixteen lanes of bowling, the Games Area featured a couple of pool tables, as well as some coin-operated standing video games and two pinball machines.

After we paid, I walked over to the balls and looked for one that was not the heaviest one available.  I grabbed a 13-pound ball with finger holes drilled wide enough to fit my large hand.  We needed two lanes for a group our size, so when I got back to our lanes, I asked, “Which lane am I on?”

The Memorial Union Games Area still used paper score sheets, on which Lacey was currently writing everyone’s names.  “You’re on lane 8,” she said.  “With Stephen, Ngoc, Brennan, Emma, and Jesse.”

I noticed that Brennan had just arrived and was sitting in one of the seats for lane 8.  “Hey, Greg,” he said to me, handing me the Lawsuit CD.

“You found it,” I replied.  “Good.  I’ll give it back to you next week at JCF.  Does that work?”

“Sure!”

Many bowling alleys of that era used computerized score systems, but the MU Games Area still used paper score sheets, and most of the time when I came here, I kept score, because the people I was with just expected me to know how to keep score for bowling.  Apparently I just gave off that impression.  I did know how to keep score, but tonight I was relieved to see that Jesse was already sitting in the chair at the scorekeeper’s table.  That would give me one less thing to pay attention to, so I could concentrate on bowling, and being social when the opportunity arose.

Brennan got a spare on his first frame, and I was up after him.  I hit seven pins on my first roll, and two of the remaining three on the second roll.  I went to sit back down, a little disappointed in myself for not getting the spare, although nine was certainly not a bad first frame for me.  I bowled a strike on my second frame, eight on my third, and then two strikes in a row.  I pumped my fists into the air excitedly as I turned to sit back down.  Our group had two separate games going, but the players did not appear to be separating themselves; everyone sat on either side of the scorekeeping seat and ball return machine, regardless of which lane we were bowling on.  I sat in an open seat on the lane 7 side next to Lacey.

“Good job!” she said.  “Two strikes in a row!”

“Yeah.  And another one earlier in the game.  I’m doing better than usual.  And strikes score more when you get them back to back.”

“That’s right,” she replied.  “No strikes for me.  I got three on my last frame.”

“But are you having fun?  That’s what counts!”

“Yeah!  So what’s that CD you’re borrowing from Brennan?”

“A local band from Jeromeville who broke up a couple years ago, but Brennan knew them from when his brother went here.  I saw them four times.  I made a tape from my friend’s CD freshman year, but I have a CD player in my car now, and a computer that can burn CDs, so I’m going to copy Brennan’s CD.”

“Nice! What do they sound like?”

“Not like most other bands I’ve heard,” I explained.  “Like rock with horns.  I’ve heard them called ska, but they don’t really sound like other ska bands.”

“Interesting!  I’m up.  I’ll be right back.”  I watched as Lacey stood up, took her ball, and walked to lane 7.  The ball slowly rolled down the lane, headed to the right corner, knocking over one pin.  Lacey grinned at me sheepishly, and I smiled back, feeling kind of bad and hoping that she did better on her second roll.  I had seen Lacey around all year, at JCF, at church, and at the X-Files watch parties, but we had really only had a real conversation once before.

Lacey had better luck on her second roll, landing just off the center pin and knocking down seven more pins.  I clapped as she returned to the seat next to me, which was still open.  “Good job!” I said, putting my hand up to give her a high five.

“Thanks!” she replied enthusiastically.

“What’s your major?  Did I ever ask?”

“Psych, and I was going to do a Human Development minor.  But now I think I’m going to switch and have Human Development be my major.  I’m thinking of being a teacher too, but for younger kids.”

“That’s great!”

“Like probably second or third grade, ideally.  If I get my choice.”

“Yeah.  You don’t always get to pick what grade you want; it just depends on what’s open when they hire you,” I explained.  “But the longer you stay at a school, you can switch grades when something you want opens up.”

“That’s true.”

“Greg!” I heard Brennan call me from lane 8.  “Your turn!”

“Make it three in a row!” Lacey exclaimed.  I smiled as I walked to the other lane and picked up my ball.

I stood, holding the ball, looking at the pins down at the other end of the lane.  In bowling class, I learned to release the ball to the right of center and spin it just enough to hook back and hit the center pin at the angle.  But I always either put too much spin on the ball or not enough.  So tonight, as was usually the case, I had not been standing as far to the right as my bowling teacher had recommended, attempting to err on the side of not enough spin.  I hoped that those adjustments would cancel out and still lead the ball to hit the center pin just to the right, with enough spin to ricochet and hit all of the pins.  I straightened my arm in front of me, swung it back, and approached the lane, releasing the ball just as it came forward.  It rolled down the lane, slightly to the right of center, then began to curve back toward the center pin, the 13-pound ball moving faster than the 16-pound balls I had used the last few years usually did.  The ball hit the pins with a mighty crash; all ten pins flew upward and fell on the lane.  I turned around to loud cheering from everyone in my group.  All eyes were on me now; if they had not seen my roll, they would have heard the loud crash of the pins.  Three strikes in a row, or in bowling slang, a turkey.  Brennan high-fived me, as did Lacey, walking over from the other lane.  Someone else had taken the seat next to Lacey, so I sat in an open seat next to Brennan.

“Well done,” Brennan said.  “Three in a row.”

“Pretty sure we know who’s going to have the top score for this game,” Jesse said from the scorekeeper’s seat.

“I can’t remember the last time I had three strikes in a row,” I said.

“Do you know your best score of all time?” Brennan asked.

“Yes,” I said.  “When I took the bowling class here a few years ago, the best I ever did was 178.  I used to go bowling with my friends from high school sometimes, and one of them, Melissa, she told me that same year that she bowled 178.  For both of us, it was our best game ever.  So we went bowling the next time we saw each other, and you couldn’t have written the ending more perfectly.  We were both bowling great games, and she finished with 179, and I finished with 180.  So that’s still my highest score ever.”

“Really?” Brennan said.  “You both beat your personal bests, and you won by one?”

“I swear.  It really happened that way.”

Lacey, who was just returning to her seat after her turn, in which she hit a total of six pins, overheard the end of my story.  “Did you just say you’ve bowled 180 before?” she asked.

“I said that was my personal best, not by any means my average game,” I explained, “but yes.”

“Wow.  Are you beating that now, with those three strikes in a row?”

“It’s possible, if my game ends strong.”

“Well, good luck!”

Brennan got his ball and walked to the lane.  He hit nine pins on the first roll and completed the spare on his second.  “This is one of my best games ever too,” he said as I stepped up to find my ball.  “Two strikes and three spares.”  Brennan looked at the score sheet that Jesse was filling out as I waited for the pin setting machine to finish placing the pins.  Once this finished, I positioned myself just as I had before.  I tried the best I could to recreate what I had done the last three frames.  As I released my ball, I watched it roll down the lane in much the same trajectory as my previous ball.  Like the last one, it hit the lead pin at an angle with a loud crash, sending all ten pins tumbling.  I turned around, and Brennan and Lacey and all the others in our group cheered loudly.

“Whoa!” a guy on our lane named Stephen Giordano exclaimed.  “Did Greg just get another strike?  How many is that now?”

“Four in a row!” I shouted excitedly.  “Five total for the game.”

“That’s pretty impressive, man.”

“Thanks!”

I looked at the score sheet.  Since the score for a strike depended on the bowler’s next rolls, my score for this frame was uncertain, but a little quick math told me in my head that the lowest score I could get for this game was 125, and we were only in the seventh frame.  But by the ninth frame, my status of being the clear highest score on our lane was in question.  Brennan had bowled two strikes in a row following his spare in the seventh frame, and my streak of consecutive strikes had ended at four when I hit eight pins in the eighth frame and was unable to complete the spare.  I took a deep breath as I approached the lane with my ball, the pressure now on for sure.  I took another deep breath and sent the ball sailing down the lane, just as I had many times already tonight.  The ball hit the lead pin from the right, not quite as hard as some of my strikes before, but I breathed an excited sigh of relief as I watched all ten pins fall.  My sixth strike of the game overall.  I pumped my fist high.

But even this was not enough to be assured of the highest score on our lane.  Brennan bowled another strike in the tenth frame, positioning him for an exceptionally high score.  The strike in the tenth frame earned him two bonus rolls, which he did not bowl well, finishing with an excellent score of 175.  “My best score ever,” he said to the group, then turned to me and added, laughing, “Beat that.”

I looked at the score sheet.  Stephen Giordano finished with 122.  Ngoc, a thin Vietnamese girl whom I had seen around but never met before tonight, had a streak of luck at the end of the game, bowling strikes in the ninth and tenth frame, plus a third consecutive strike in her first bonus roll.  After a string of bad frames in the beginning of the game, this sudden outburst of strikes gave her a respectable final score of 99.  If I hit no more pins, my score would be 159.  I had a strike in the last frame, so essentially this roll and the next would count twice.  Eight pins would tie me with Brennan at 175.  A strike or spare would give me a chance to beat my all time best score of 180, depending on the bonus rolls.  Of course, all of this was just a friendly game, but the competitive side of me still felt intense pressure.  I went through my usual motion, released the ball, and got excited when I saw pins fall with a resounding crash, but the excitement dampened as I saw one pin in the left corner still standing.  I had beaten Brennan and was guaranteed the highest score of the six of us on this lane, but picking up this spare would give me 179, and I would then need only two pins on my bonus roll for my best game ever.

The approach I had tried for most of the game would not work here.  If the ball reached the pins where I had been aiming most of the game, it would sail past the empty space where these pins had already been knocked down, missing the one I needed to hit.  So I stepped to the left before my approach.  I watched in anticipation as the ball rolled down the lane, farther to the left than the last one.  It grazed the side of the one standing pin with just enough force to knock it over.  Everyone cheered.  I considered turning to the others and telling them that I needed two pins on the last roll to have my best score ever, but I decided not to.  Bragging about one’s own accomplishment during a sporting event felt like bad luck.  Two pins.  All I needed was two pins.  I took the ball back, but my hand slipped as I released it, sending it far to the left of center. The ball stayed out of the gutter and hit three pins on the left, giving me a final score of 182.

“Not my best roll,” I laughed as I walked back to my seat.  “But still my best total ever.”

“What’d you get?” Lacey asked excitedly.

“182.”

“That’s awesome,” Brennan said.  “We both had our best nights ever tonight.  I kind of wanted to save the scoresheet, but you earned it.”

“Thanks so much,” I replied.


We bowled a second game after that.  I scored 121, not nearly as good as my first game, but still fairly decent for me.  I brought the score sheet with me to campus Monday morning, went to the coin-operated copy machine in the library, and made a copy of the score sheet.  I gave it to Brennan the next time I saw him, at which time I also returned his Lawsuit CD.

To this day, that 182 game is still the best game I have ever bowled.  I taped that score sheet to my wall in my bedroom, where it hung for another two and a half years.  I do not bowl often these days; I probably average around 100 on the rare occasion once a year or so when I do go bowling, and I have not gotten anywhere close to 182 since then.

I wondered if I looked out of place being a twenty-two year old university graduate hanging out with a group of freshmen.  Lacey in particular I knew was even younger than most freshmen.  The address and phone list from 20/20, the young adult ministry at Jeromeville Covenant Church, also had birthdays on it, and Lacey’s birthday had caught my eye: “10/20/80.”  All multiples of ten.  Something about the rhythm of those numbers made my mathematical mind happy.  But if Lacey was born on October 20, 1980, that means that she would have still been seventeen when classes started in the fall, and she would have just turned eighteen a couple weeks earlier when I met her at X-Files in November.

I was probably overthinking this.  It just felt weird having friends born in the 1980s, now that many of my friends from my undergraduate years, who were born in 1975 and 1976, had graduated or would do so soon.  I had also had a bad experience recently with my unrequited crush on Sasha Travis, also a freshman born in 1980.  But Lacey and Brennan and Jesse and Stephen and the others did not seem to have a problem including me in their bowling night tonight.  Some of my friends had graduated, but I was still living in Jeromeville and taking classes, and now I was making new friends.

Readers: Do you like bowling? Tell me about it in the comments.

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February-March 1999.  Math baseball. (#209)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 7 Comments

As I drove home from student teaching on Highway 100 east, I could not help but notice that something felt different about today.  The uncomfortable cold that I had often felt walking from the classroom to the parking lot was not present today, and while I would not call the air particularly warm, it was comfortable, around seventy degrees.  Often around this time of year, the weather would turn sunny and pleasant for a week or two; this Fake Spring would be followed by more wet, cool winter weather for a while.  Today felt like it could be the start of this year’s Fake Spring.  The orchards on the side of the highway were blooming, and the vibrant green grass of the pastures stood out against the blue sky.

I decided to try something different today.  When I got home, I left the math textbook on my desk and put the textbook for the string cheese class in my backpack.  But instead of getting on my bike, I walked toward Andrews Road.  And when I reached Andrews Road, instead of waiting at the bus stop, I continued walking south, toward campus.  I crossed Andrews Road at Redbud Drive, across the street from the elementary school where we had filmed a few scenes for the Dog Crap and Vince movie last year, and took a zigzag path through a quiet, tree-lined residential neighborhood, eventually leading to Elm Street.  I was pretty sure that I had never been on this street before, and if I had, it was not one that I traversed often.

I turned south on Elm Street and crossed West Eighth Street at a light.  The stretch of Elm Street that I was now on, between Eighth and Fifth, was unusual in that it had no intersections for about a third of a mile.  Neither Sixth nor Seventh Street extended this far west.  I had read in the local news that some residents of this street had petitioned the City Council for more streetlights, because it gets unusually dark at night.  Their petition was rejected, because of the Jeromeville City Council’s pathological obsession with feeling like a small town, despite the fact that Jeromeville had a population of well over 50,000.  According to Jeromeville’s elected officials and their ilk, as they would say, streetlights would bring traffic and crime to the area.  I found this laughable; I grew up in the real world, and I knew that it was dark streets, not bright ones, that attracted crime.  But I had no concerns walking this street early in the afternoon on a sunny day.

I crossed Fifth Street, which was also the border between the city of Jeromeville and the University of Jeromeville campus, at another light.  Directly in front of me was a field used for recreational sports; I walked at a slight angle across the field until I reached Colt Avenue and continued south until the street narrowed to a bicycle path near Stone Hall and Ross Hall, where my undergraduate chemistry and physics classes had been.  Education classes were in the confusingly-named Academic Building VIII, a little ways past Ross Hall.  The name became even more confusing when considering the fact that Academic Buildings II, III, and VI existed, but Academic Buildings I, IV, V, and VII did not.  I wondered if the missing numbered buildings had existed at one time, but had been renamed after wealthy donors who wanted their names on those specific buildings.  Academic Building VIII was about two miles from my house, and it had taken thirty-two minutes to walk there.  Not bad, especially on a nice day like this.

Today was my long day of classes.  First I had the seminar with the other math student teachers.  I had nothing too significant to report.  Dr. Van Zandt talked a little bit about our upcoming portfolio project, where we would put together a portfolio of work from this year to go with our résumés and letters of recommendation, and this would be submitted with job applications.  In April, the University of Jeromeville School of Education would host a job fair right here on campus, where school administrators from all over the region would come to Jeromeville to conduct job interviews with student teachers.  I needed to think about what I could include in my portfolio.  It was overwhelming to consider that, in a couple of months, I would be applying for actual jobs as a teacher.  I was hoping that I could just get hired at Nueces High.  I was having a good year student teaching there, and Nueces was reasonably close to Jeromeville that I could still live in Jeromeville and stay involved at Jeromeville Covenant Church.

Next, after a quick bathroom stop, I walked down the hall for the string cheese class.  The class was officially called Reading In Secondary Schools, and as the title suggested, we learned about how reading skills integrate into classrooms of subjects other than reading or English.  All these years later, the thing I remember the most from this class was string cheese.  The class met once a week for three hours, from 3:10 to 6:00.  Because of this difficult schedule, Dr. Austin, the professor, gave us a snack break in the middle of the class, with each of us responsible for bringing something once during the quarter.  Early in the quarter, someone brought string cheese for the snack break, and it was such a hit with everyone that someone would make sure to bring string cheese every week.

At the start of each class, Dr. Austin, passed out a handout with the outline for the class, so we could take notes.  I was intrigued by the final topic on today’s outline.  Usually, at the end of class, Dr. Austin would demonstrate some kind of technique that could be used to stimulate classroom discussions.  For today’s outline, though, the final segment of the class just said one word, not a word I expected to see on this class outline: “Baseball.”

By the time we reached the “Baseball” part of class, it was 5:17pm, and I was full of string cheese and potato chips.  I had also eaten a banana and a bunch of grapes, because fruit made my snack healthy and that was totally how nutrition worked.  Dr. Austin passed out a two-page article for us to read as he explained that Baseball was an activity for classroom discussions.  Our tables were arranged in a U-shape around three walls of the classroom, and as we read the article silently, Dr. Austin placed four empty chairs in the middle of the classroom in the shape of a diamond, positioned like the four bases on a baseball field.  

“So I have some questions about the article that I prepared on cards here,” Dr. Austin explained.  “We’re going to take turns being the batter, and the batter will answer the question and build on the last batter’s discussion.  I’m just going to go around the circle, taking turns.  Mike, you’re up first.  What is the author saying about the use of reading materials in classrooms?”

Mike, a student teacher from the science program, looked at his copy of the article and replied, “Reading material in classrooms needs to be age-appropriate.”

“Good,” Dr. Austin said.  “You can go to first base.”  Mike sat at the chair in the first base position as Dr. Austin continued, “Melissa?  Anything to add?”

Melissa Becker, from the math student teaching program, said, “He said here that not all students are ready for grade-level reading material.  So it’s important to make accommodations for students who aren’t.”

“Good.  So you now go to first base, and Mike, advance to second base.”

I continued watching, answering a question myself when it was my turn, as we moved from one base to another.  I also tried to think about how to adapt this for a math class.  We did not read and discuss articles in math class, obviously.  But maybe I could have students answer math problems in order to advance on the bases.  I could work with this.  I had walked to campus today, but I did not feel like walking home two miles in the dark.  I took the bus home, thinking about making Dr. Austin’s baseball activity into a math activity the whole time.


About a week and a half later, after much planning, I walked from the teacher’s lounge at Nueces High to Judy’s classroom, ready to try my new idea in my actual student teaching classroom.  I arrived to the classroom a few minutes early and put signs on the four walls, labeled “First Base,” “Second Base,” “Third Base,” and “Home.”

“You have a test tomorrow, remember,” I announced to the class.  “Today we’re going to try a new activity I learned from one of my professors.  It’s called Baseball.”  At the mention of baseball, a few excited gasps and murmurs arose from the class.  “Everyone get out a sheet of paper,” I instructed them.  I had discussed my idea with Judy earlier this week, and she suggested having everyone do the problems on paper, whether or not it was their turn at bat, so that I could collect the papers and grade it like an assignment.  This gave every student an incentive to participate.

After I explained the rules of the activity and answered students’ questions, I shuffled the cards that had the students’ names on them and picked one.  “Andy,” I called out.  I had prepared slides in advance with problems like those from the upcoming test, and stacked them in random order.  Andy Rawlings looked up as I put one of these problems.  “Find x,” I told Andy.  “Everyone else, you find x too.  Write your work on the paper.”  Andy solved the problem without much difficulty, using cosine to find the missing side length in a right triangle.  “Go to first base,” I said, pointing at the sign on the wall.  Andy got out of his desk and stood at the First Base sign.

Next I called on T.J. McDuff, a quiet freshman whose proficiency in mathematics many of his classmates did not recognize.  He had the only perfect score on the last unit test, and when the students were comparing their scores with the others sitting near them, many of T.J.’s neighbors in the class seemed surprised that he got a perfect score.  I put another straightforward problem with trigonometric ratios on the screen, which T.J. solved correctly.  He walked to first base, and Andy walked to second.

I called Kayla Welch next, and put a problem on the screen that was a little more complicated, requiring the inverse tangent to find an angle measure.  Kayla thought about what to do, tried something on her calculator, and sheepishly said the wrong answer.  “Sorry, that’s incorrect,” I said.  The next card was Eduardo Ortiz.  I said, “Eduardo?  Same problem?”  Eduardo answered the problem correctly, and moved to first base, advancing T.J. and Andy to the next bases.

Angelica Maldonado raised her hand, and asked, “Mr. Dennison?  What’s the object of this game?”

“We’re just practicing the kind of questions that will be on the test?”

“Are we keeping score?”

“Mostly just for fun.  You want to try to get on base and get your teammates home.”

“We should play in two teams, against each other,” Andy said from where he stood on third base.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.  “This is my first time doing anything like this, so I’m open to hearing your suggestions.  Maybe I’ll do things differently next time.  Let’s continue what we’re doing today, and you can tell me your thoughts at the end of the period.”

I continued running the baseball activity as I had planned, calling on students and giving them practice test problems, as the students walked the bases around the classroom.  But even before the period ended, before I asked any of them for suggestions, I knew that Andy was right.  Baseball was meant to be a competitive game.  Dr. Austin’s suggestion might work well for classes where students discussed articles that they had read.  But mathematics was not this kind of class.  Math had problems to be worked out with correct answers, which did not always lend themselves to the kind of discussion that Dr. Austin had led in his activity.  For next time, I needed to turn this into a competitive activity with two teams, and I needed to keep score.


A few weeks later, the geometry class was preparing for a test on surface area and volume.  Two days before the test, I began class by saying, “I thought about some of your suggestions for the baseball review game, and I think this is going to be more fun.  First, you’re going to be competing against each other.”  I pointed with my finger, making an imaginary line down the middle of the classroom, then pointed to one side, and then the other, as I said, “This side of the room, you’re batting first, and this side, you’re fielding.”  Some students reacted excitedly to this as I continued.  “I’m going to call on one person from each team to answer the same question.  If the team that is batting gets it right first, then the batter gets to go on the bases, like last time.  But if the fielding team gets the question first, then the batter is out.  And after three outs, we switch which team is batting and which is fielding, just like in real baseball.”

“I like this game better,” Andy said excitedly.

“I hope you will.”  I pointed to my stack of overhead projector transparencies, on which I had written the questions, and continued, “Also, the questions are either singles, doubles, triples, or home runs, depending on the difficulty of the question.  I have put the questions in random order.  And you can get help from your teammates, but if you get help, it counts as a walk.  You only go to first base, and the other runners don’t advance if they don’t have to.  But if you get the question on your own, before the fielding team, you get to go however many bases the question is worth.”

Andy spoke up again.  “This is gonna be fun.”

“I’m glad you think so,” I said, “but please don’t talk when the teacher is talking.”

“Sorry.”

The first problem in my stack of slides was a straightforward one about finding the volume of a triangular prism.  T.J. answered correctly and advanced to first base.  Next, I put up a word problem, involving a solid block of metal that had to be melted down to make cylindrical coins.  “How many coins can you make from this block of metal?” I asked.  After working for a few minutes, Andy answered correctly for the fielding team.  “One out,” I said.  Turning to Andy, I added, “Good thing you got that one, because it would have been a home run.”

“Aww,” several members of T.J.’s team said.

T.J. did score when a teammate answered the next question correctly for a triple, but the fielding team got two correct in quick succession after that for the second and third outs.  The runner stranded on third went back to his desk.  I continued calling names and giving questions; the batting team got enough questions right to load the bases, but the fielding team had answered two right for two outs.  “Kayla batting, Eduardo fielding,” I called.  The two of them walked up to the chalkboard, and I put a problem on the screen, to find the volume of a shape that looked like a truncated cone, with the tip cut off.

Eduardo stared at the problem and started writing some calculations on the board for finding the volume of a cylinder.  He quickly raised his hand for me to check his answer.  “Incorrect,” I said.  He looked confused, having not figured out yet that a truncated cone was not a cylinder.  The circle at the top was smaller than the one at the bottom.

Kayla, meanwhile, had written the formula for the volume of a cone, but when she realized that the figure was not a cone, and also not a cylinder, she called on her teammates for help.  Andy and Angelica ran up to the board to help Kayla.  Andy copied the truncated cone to the board and drew dotted lines above it to fill in the missing part of the cone. “Subtract the volume of the big cone minus the small cone that’s missing at the top,” he said to Angelica and Kayla.  They began working on this excitedly, but paused a few seconds later when they realized that they did not know the height of the missing part.  The three of them whispered to each other, trying to figure out what to do, but keeping it quiet enough so that Eduardo and his teammates would not hear.  Eduardo had also asked for help, and his team seemed to get stuck at the exact same place.  I watched the whole thing, wondering if anyone would figure this out.

Suddenly, maybe thirty seconds to a minute later, I heard furious scribbling on the batting side.  Angelica had drawn a right triangle, representing the axis, radius, and slant height of the cone, with a smaller right triangle embedded inside where the missing part would be.  She had labeled the missing height “x” and was solving a proportion to find the missing height, something that we had covered extensively in an earlier chapter of the textbook.  She ran to her desk to get a calculator as Andy stood in front of the board, making sure that the other team could not see the breakthrough that they had discovered.  I turned and looked at Judy, who smiled and nodded at me.  She clearly seemed to have a positive impression of my skills at getting the class to participate and work together, at least today.  Score a win for the student teacher.

Kayla, Angelica, and Andy enthusiastically raised their hands.  “Mr. Dennison!” Kayla called out.  I looked at their work and said, “That is correct.”  Kayla’s entire team erupted into applause.  “That’s only a walk, since you had help, but the bases were loaded, so the runner scores from third.”  

Kayla’s team scored once more, and that score of two runs to one held to the end of the period.  “One more thing,” I announced.  “I put all of the problems for today on a worksheet.  So, the paper you’ve been writing on today, staple it to this worksheet, and any problem from the worksheet that you didn’t do in class today, that’s your homework.  I passed out the worksheet as the students packed up their things.

“I liked this baseball game better than the last one,” Andy said.  “You should do this every time we have a test.”

“Yeah!” Kayla added.


In my decades of experience teaching, as I write this, I have been made to attend many training sessions and professional development workshops.  A significant number of them have dealt with the topic of reading and writing in subject area classrooms.  And, almost always, these sessions have something in common: the presenter will say something like, “And you can use these techniques in every subject area classroom.  Except math.  I couldn’t find an example of how to use this in math class.”  In some years, the school where I was working focused schoolwide on reading, or writing, and I was required to do certain reading and writing activities in my math class.  It always felt so forced and inauthentic.

I have continued leading games for the students to review for tests throughout my career.  Over the next few years, I would refine the rules of Math Baseball to allow for more scoring.  I also included a feature where, if the player got the question right on the first try without help, the team got to draw a card with the name of a special baseball play on it, like Double Play, or Sacrifice Fly, or Stolen Base.  These could be used on future plays.

I also experimented with other games; some were more successful than others.  Early in my paid teaching career, in addition to Math Baseball, I also started playing Jeopardy!, based on the TV game show, to review for tests.  And I modified Math Baseball slightly to make Math Football, where the questions were worth different numbers of yards based on difficulty, and I kept score like in football instead of baseball.  I have also continued my idea of making a worksheet with all of the problems, and then assigning whichever problems were not already done in class for homework.  Most of the time, students enjoyed these games, although some definitely got into it more than others.  These games tend to be something that students remember about my class for years to come.

At the time, when I was student teaching, the Math Baseball experience felt like an indication that things were starting to come together.  I had found something to do in my role as a teacher that engaged the students in a way that they enjoyed.  The job fair was coming soon.  I would have an opportunity to present these successes to people looking to hire new teachers, and by the fall, I would be employed as a teacher in a high school somewhere, playing Math Baseball with a new class of students.  Hopefully they would enjoy my teaching as much as Kayla and Andy and Angelica seemed to.  All of those years of confusion, coming to Jeromeville with no clear idea of what I wanted to study, the rude awakenings in classes that were more difficult than I expected, the disillusionment with mathematics research after that summer in Oregon, all of that was behind me now.

Readers: Tell me in the comments about something you have done, for a class or for your job, that went really well.

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.

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February 12, 1999.  My master teacher made me cry. (#208)

~ Greg Dennison ~ Leave a comment

Last month, when the new semester at Nueces High School started, some students changed their schedules.  In third period geometry with Judy Tracy, one of the classes I was assigned to for student teaching, eight students left over the first week of the semester.  I asked Judy why everyone was leaving, and she said that the school had a very open policy about letting students change their schedules.  “Sometimes they just don’t like the teacher. Or they want to be in class with their friends,” she explained. “Personally I think they shouldn’t let students change just to be with their friends, or with another teacher.”

“They don’t like the teacher? So these students switched out of this class because they don’t like me?”

“No!  Well, we don’t know.  We don’t have to ask them why they changed,” Judy explained to me.  “Also, some of them might have wanted to change one of their other classes, and it didn’t work out with their schedule unless math class changes too.  So it might have nothing to do with you.

“Hmm,” I said.  I still felt like all of this sent a message that some students did not like me.  It was discouraging.

One new student did transfer into the geometry class, a sophomore girl named Angelica.  She seemed like a decent student.  Judy had her in a different period the first half of the year, and she got a B.  Kate Matthews’ Basic Math B class got two new students this semester.  One was a loud redhead named Brittany who often made jokes about smoking marijuana.  I was not sure what the chances were that I would have two red-haired stoner girls in the same class, but it was pretty much the last thing I needed to deal with.  Marie, the other red-haired stoner, did not seem to talk often with Brittany, but I made sure to seat them at opposite ends of the room, just in case.  The other new student was a teaching assistant, not a math student, a senior named Kara.  I usually had Kara do routine tasks like passing back papers, when I needed her to, but I often did not have much work for her to do.  Nothing in my teacher training had really prepared me to have a TA.  And because of that, I had a misunderstanding that led to one of my worst days of student teaching.

Everything seemed normal when I left for Nueces on that Friday morning.  Monday was the Presidents’ Day holiday, so the youth group kids from church were leaving at noon for Winter Camp.  I had lots of fun at Winter Camp last year, but this year I was not going. I would not get back from student teaching in time, I had class this afternoon, and I had a lot of studying to do this weekend.

I arrived at Nueces High just three minutes before the first bell, much later than I wanted to.  Police cars and tow trucks were clearing an accident on the freeway, and traffic slowed down for a while.  Also, approaching a school a few minutes before the start of the day always creates a traffic mess, as students and their parents all drive to the school at the last minute. I parked in my reserved spot and rushed to Kate’s classroom, at the opposite end of campus from my parking spot.

“Where were you?” Kate asked when I walked in.  “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “Sorry.  There was an accident on 100, and traffic was backed up.”

“The bell is about to ring.  I’m going to head to the work room.  Do you have everything under control?”

“I think so,” I said.  I did not yet realize that I did not have everything under control.  I wrote today’s assignment on the board, took attendance, and then realized that I had a problem.  When I was attending school at Plumdale High, we would listen to the announcements read every day over the public address system.  This was the norm in 1999, as it still is in schools today.  But Nueces High currently occupied a building constructed in 1950, and there was no public address system.  The morning announcements were printed on paper, and placed in each teacher’s mailbox, to be picked up when we arrived at school that morning.  Since I had mostly taken over first period Basic Math B, I had been getting the announcements from the mailbox and reading them to the class myself.  Kate would sometimes spend time in the teacher work room, leaving me to myself in the classroom.  I liked that level of independence; it made me feel like a real teacher.  But, since I had arrived late today, the only thing on my mind was to make it to the classroom on time, so that I could get class started.  I had not taken the time to stop by the office, and now, as a result, I had no announcements to read.

I started to panic.  The announcements must be read.  Students must know this important information.  This aging campus also had no phones and no computers in the classroom, so I had no way of getting a message to the office that I needed the announcements.  I looked around the room, trying to stay calm, when my eyes fell on Kara.  Of course.  She could help here.

“Kara,” I said.  “I forgot to get the announcements from my box in the office this morning.  Can you keep an eye on the students?  I’ll be back in two minutes.”

“Sure,” Kara replied.

I jogged from the portables in the back, across the outside of the smaller of the two permanent buildings, and into the office, grabbing my copy of the morning announcements.  I turned around to jog back when I heard Ms. Matthews’ voice call out, “Greg!  Who’s watching the students?”

“Kara is in there.  I’m going right back now.  I forgot to get the announcements.”

“Don’t ever leave students unsupervised in the classroom!” Kate said, almost shouting.  “Go!”

I turned and ran back to the classroom.  Ms. Matthews seemed really upset.  I did not see it as that big of a deal.  When I was in high school, I had teachers occasionally leave their rooms unlocked at lunch with students inside.  I could remember at least one time when the teacher actually had to go to the office during class time, and he left the class unsupervised for a few minutes.  When I got back to Kate’s classroom, everything seemed in order, and Kara and the other students were sitting in their seats waiting, so I calmly read the announcements.  After that, I continued presenting the lesson and walking around while the students worked.  Kate returned about ten minutes before the end of the period and sat at her desk.  I could see a hint of disapproval in her expression.

The bell rang, ending the period, and students left the classroom.  The campus of Nueces High was so large and spread out that students had a long eight-minute passing period between classes.  This gave Kate plenty of time to lecture me after the students left, while her second period students trickled up to the closed door and waited outside.

“You can’t ever leave students unsupervised,” she said sternly.  “It’s not safe.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I forgot to pick up the announcements, I was running late because of the accident on the highway, and I didn’t know what else to do.  I figured–”

“Why didn’t you send Kara to pick up the announcements?”

Of course there was a simple solution.  At least there would have been, for someone experienced with working in schools and having a student TA.  But that was not me.  “I didn’t know she was allowed to leave class,” I explained.  “I didn’t think of that because I’ve never had a student TA, I’ve never had experience with student TAs, and no one ever explained that to me.”

“What if something happens to one of the students?  And if you leave students unsupervised, they’re going to steal things off the desk and destroy things in the classroom.  Someone could have stolen your stuff out of your backpack.  Did you ever think about that?”

“Obviously not!” I said, irritated and close to tears.  “I’m sorry.”

“You’re lucky nothing happened while you were gone,” Kate said.  “Don’t ever leave students unsupervised again.”

“I know.”

“I need to let second period in.  And you probably have work to do.  Just remember, you have Kara as your TA.  You can have her do things like that for you.”

“I know,” I said.  I grabbed my backpack and walked to the teacher work room in the office, tears clearly visible now, hoping that no students who knew me would see me crying.  I sat at the table in the teacher work room, grabbed a nearby box of tissue, and let the tears come, no longer trying to hold back.

With no class assigned to me second period, I had gotten to know some of the other teachers with prep time second period, since they were often in the work room at the same time I was.  Two of them were there when I arrived, an older woman named Sally Stein who taught English, and a middle-aged man named Jim Emerson who taught science.  “Are you okay, Greg?” Sally asked as I cried and blew my nose.

“No,” I blubbered.  “I messed up.  And Kate yelled at me.  Well, not yelled.  Scolded.”

“What happened?” Jim asked.  “Kate understands you’re still learning.”

I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself.  “I got here late because there was an accident on the freeway and traffic was slow.”

“You were in an accident?” Sally asked.

“Not me.  The accident happened before I was there.  But traffic was slow because they were still clearing it and a lane was blocked.”

“Oh, okay.  I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Since I got here late, I forgot to stop at the office and get the announcements.  When I realized that, I ran up to the office with students in the room.  I didn’t think it was that big a deal, since I was only gone two minutes maybe.”

“Yeah, that’s probably not a good idea,” Sally explained.  “But it sounds like Kate could have handled it better.”

“I had teachers leave the room unlocked at lunch sometimes when I was in school.  And once my teacher went up to the office for about five minutes in the middle of class,” I explained.  “Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a teacher.  Most of the students in that class have bad grades.”  I grabbed another tissue and started crying again.

“Greg?” Jim asked.  “Do you want to go for a walk with me?  Would that help?”

That was not the reaction I was expecting, but at this point, a chance to talk this out with someone one-on-one sounded appealing.  “Sure,” I said.

“Sally, will you be here to watch our things?” Jim asked.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Go walk.”

Jim and I walked across the parking lot out toward Buena Vista Avenue.  “You were probably in honors classes when you were a student,” he said. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Your teachers who left students alone in the classroom, they probably knew that you were good students who behaved, so they trusted you.  And I don’t want to sound judgmental, but most students aren’t trustworthy that way.”

“That makes sense,” I replied. “Especially those Basic Math B students first period. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It’s okay.  We were all new teachers once, learning to do this.  We all have good days and bad days.  Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I’m trying.  It’s just been so hard lately.  The students can be so mouthy.  And yesterday only four of them turned in their homework.”

“That sounds like a typical Basic Math class,” Jim replied, chuckling.  “But don’t think of yourself as a bad teacher. I overheard some of my students yesterday talking about how much they love your class.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  It was Stacie Edwards and Kayla Welch.  They were lab partners a few days ago, and they were talking about you. I don’t think they’re in Basic Math, though.”

“Kayla’s in Judy’s geometry class that I took over.  And Stacie is in the honors Algebra II class with Mitch Bowles that I’m helping out with.”

“Well, they think you’re a great teacher.  So focus on that instead.”

“I’ll try.”

“Hey, can I pray for you?” Jim asked.  “Are you comfortable with that? I know Josh McGraw told me you both go to the same church in Jeromeville.”

I was vaguely aware from reading announcements that Jim was the advisor for the student Christian club that met weekly at lunch.  Someone to pray with sounded like exactly what I needed right now.  “Yes,” I said.

Jim stopped walking and gently laid a hand on my shoulder.  “Father God, I thank you for bringing Greg here to Nueces High.  I thank you for all that you are teaching him about education, and his future.  Please, now, give him comfort on this difficult day.  Remind him that it is okay to still be learning.  Help him to move on from this and come out stronger on the other side.  I pray for the rest of his classes today, that he will have positive experiences with the students, and that he will know that he is making a difference in their lives.  I pray that you will continue to put him in the right place, giving him the words to meet these students where they are, and to show them the kind of love that Jesus shows us.  I pray that you will speak to him, and remind him that he is a beloved child of God.”  I nodded as he continued, “In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

I looked up and took a deep breath.  “Thank you,” I said.

“We should head back now, to make sure we get there in time.”

“Yeah,” I said.  Nueces High was a couple hundred yards behind us now; we were across the street from the fast food restaurants that students frequented for lunch.

As we turned around, headed back to the school, Jim asked, “Which church do you and the McGraws go to?”

“Jeromeville Covenant.”

“Okay.  I’ve heard of that one.  I know some people in Jeromeville, but they go to First Baptist.”

“I know where that is.  I know some people who go there too.”

“My family and I go to Grace Baptist Church, on Nut Farm Road.”

“I don’t know that one off the top of my head.”

“It’s good.  It’s been around for a while.  We’ve been going there since we moved to Nueces, in 1982.”

“That’s good to be a part of a community for that long.  I’ve only been at J-Cov for a little over two years, since the fall of my junior year as an undergrad.  I grew up Catholic, and I went to Mass at the Newman Center before that.”

“Interesting.  Have you had any problems with your family, with you leaving Catholicism?”

“Not really.  Mom has always had the attitude that other Christians follow the same Jesus too.  Grandma was a little uneasy at first, since she’s always been much more traditional.  But… Are you familiar with the Urbana convention for Christian students, in Illinois?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I went to that in ’96, and Mom told me that Grandma was worried that I was running off to join a cult.  But then Grandma told that to one of her old lady friends, and that lady said that her son went to Urbana in the ’60s, and suddenly Grandma was okay with it, knowing that her friend was okay with it.”

“That’s funny.  Your grandma sounds nice.  Do you see her often?”

“Yes, whenever I go see my parents in Plumdale, every few months.  Grandma lives in Gabilan, less than ten miles from Plumdale.  She’s 78.  And Grandpa just turned 81.”

“I like that part of the state.  My wife and I take weekend getaways to Santa Lucia a couple times a year.”

“Nice.”

As we stepped back on campus, Jim said, “It’s almost time for class.  Will you be okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks for listening.  And praying.”

“Any time.  Let me know any time you need to talk.”

“I will.”

When I walked into Judy’s classroom for geometry, before class started, she asked me if I was all right.  Apparently she noticed that I had been crying.  “I had a rough morning,” I explained.  I told her briefly about everything that had happened.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Judy said.  Then, lowering her voice, she added, “Just between you and me, Kate isn’t always the nicest person to be around.”

“I see,” I replied, chuckling.


The rest of that class went just fine, as did fourth period assisting in Mitch’s class.  When I got to the car to drive back to Jeromeville, that song that says “I want to push you around” was on the radio.  Maybe Kate wanted to push me around, to make me feel like a bad teacher, but I just needed to make sure I did not let her.  I made a mistake today, but I would learn from it, and I would come out the other side a better teacher, knowing more about how the world of education worked.

I had Jeromeville Christian Fellowship that night.  Eddie Baker, my friend who graduated with me last year, was now on staff part time with JCF.  He got paid to be a leader for the group, being supported by contributions from individuals and churches the same way that full-time missionaries are.  It was his turn to speak tonight, and he spoke about John 4, when Jesus talks to the Samaritan woman at the well.  “The Scripture says that Jesus ‘had’ to go through Samaria.  But if you look at a map of Jesus’ route, he does not have to go through Samaria at all.  He went out of his way to go to Samaria, because he knew that he had work to do there, to talk to that outcast woman.”

After JCF ended, I walked around the room to talk to people, and I told Eddie, “I was kind of on the receiving end of a moment like that today, being the outcast who got prayed for.”  I went on to tell him about everything that had happened at school today.

“Wow,” he said.  “God put that other teacher in your life so that your paths would cross at this very moment, when you needed him.”

“Yeah.  I guess so.”

“And maybe someday you’ll be like that, being just the person a student needs.  You can’t really pray with students in public school, but you can be like Jesus to them without openly praying.”

“Yeah.”

“Or maybe you’ll find yourself praying with a new teacher who is struggling, like what happened to you today.”

“Yes.  I like that perspective.”

I worked at one other school later in my career that did not have a public address system, and in seven years I never once forgot to pick up the announcements from the office in the morning.  My career as a teacher has not been easy.  I had many more rough days, and I will have many more before I retire.  That was just how life worked.  I felt like a screw-up sometimes.  I felt like a bad teacher sometimes.  But I also had many good moments.  I just needed to remember to focus on the positive, do the best I could, and not beat myself up for not being perfect.  And I needed to remember to look for those moments like Jesus had at the well, or like Jim had with me today, or like I had with my friends freshman year when I blew up after a bad day and they prayed with me.  Maybe I was going to be exactly the positive influence that some outcast out there needed.

Readers: Has a teacher or supervisor ever made you cry? Or have you ever been in that role and made someone else cry? Tell me about it in the comments, if it isn’t too painful to talk about.

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.

February 3-7, 1999.  Burning CDs on the new computer. (#207)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 5 Comments

I sat hidden on the third floor of the library on a dreary, drizzly Wednesday afternoon, reading the textbook for the string cheese class (technically called Reading in Secondary Schools).  All of the tables in the Memorial Union were full when my class got out, and instead of circulating, waiting for someone to get up so I could share a table with strangers, I decided to walk back across the Quad and try one of my other favorite study spots.  The massive four-story library building encircled a central courtyard; it was a curious mashup of architectural styles, owing to its history of being added onto multiple times.  Two sections of the building, on the second and third floors, had windows overlooking the courtyard, but the wall was about three feet thick in these spots, so the windows were recessed from the rest of the room. This gave me a place to park myself for the afternoon, reading from the textbook and highlighting main ideas.

Around 4:30, it dawned on me that it was Wednesday, and I had to go to church tonight for The Edge, the junior high school age youth group for which I was a volunteer leader.  If I walked as fast as possible right now and then ran to the bus stop once I was out of the library, I might catch my bus and get home in time to eat a quick dinner.  I quickly packed and headed for the stairs, skipping the sometimes slow elevator.  I passed a bathroom but chose not to use it, in the interest of saving time.

I caught my bus about a minute before it pulled away from the curb, but by the time I got home, I had to pee so badly that I was almost shaking.  I had a hard time putting the front door key in the keyhole accurately, and as soon as I got the door open, I went straight to the bathroom, the one in the back of the house attached to the large bedroom that I shared with Jed.  When I finished, I walked to the living room and checked to see if anyone had checked the mail.  Someone had, and it was all junk.  Jed was sitting on the couch, playing Final Fantasy VII on his PlayStation; with him here in Jeromeville and his brother back home, they could no longer share a gaming console, so Jed had gotten his own for Christmas.

“How’s it going,” I said to Jed, tired from the long day, knowing that I only had less than an hour to gobble down something quick for dinner before it was time to leave for The Edge.

“Hey, Greg,” Jed replied.  “You noticed those boxes in there for you, right?”

“What?  Where?”

“In the bedroom,” Jed said, gesturing toward the bedroom.

I was expecting a package later this week.  This would have been an unusually early delivery.  Besides, I just walked through the bedroom; how did I miss two large boxes?  Did my overwhelming desire to use the bathroom blind me to my surroundings?  I walked back to the bedroom, and sure enough, someone had placed on the floor next to my dresser a large box, roughly a cube close to two feet on each side, with another slightly smaller box on top of it.  Both boxes were white, with black spots on them in a pattern reminiscent of a cow, with the green corporate wordmark “Gateway” printed near the top of each box.

Gateway was a computer manufacturer, headquartered in an industrial park in South Dakota, near the Iowa state line.  The cow-patterned box was a corporate trademark of Gateway, referencing the company’s location in a part of the United States known more for farming than technology.  Gateway was one of the first computer manufacturers to offer customizable home computers, and I had recently placed an order for one.  The email that I had received from Gateway gave an estimated delivery date of February 5, but here it was, only February 3, and my new computer was here.

And I would have to wait another four hours to open it, because of The Edge.

I put on a jacket and walked to the church; it only took about five minutes, and by now the drizzle had stopped.  Adam White and Faith Wiener were already there, since both of them were church employees, and Noah Snyder, Taylor Santiago, Jamie Dodson, and Martin Rhodes had arrived before me, with the other leaders trickling in over the next ten minutes.  I tried to focus on what Adam was saying during our meeting, but I kept thinking about how much I wanted to get home and set up the new computer.

“Greg?” Adam said, snapping my attention back to reality.

“Huh?  Sorry.”

“Prayer request?”

“Sorry I wasn’t listening. My mind has been elsewhere, because I had a new computer delivered today.”

“Nice!” Noah said.

“Exciting!” Jamie exclaimed.

“What kind?” Taylor asked.

“I had it custom built from Gateway.  Windows 98, with a CD burner.”

“Awesome!  Now you’re gonna copy all your friends’ music collections?”

“I’ll probably do a little of that, honestly, but I’m also excited about making mix CDs.  Pick out just the right collection of songs to fit a certain mood.  And I need to get a CD player for the car, so I can listen to them on the way to work.  So I guess my prayer request is that everything will work okay when I take it out of the box.”

“Yes,” Adam agreed.  “That’s important.”

We went around in a circle, praying for each other, as we always did before the students arrived.  When we opened the doors, some students were already waiting outside, and others gradually trickled in as they got dropped off over the next ten minutes.  I walked around, saying hi to the students I knew.

I walked around the room, watching students run around, shoot baskets, and just talk to each other.  The cacophony of noise overwhelmed me a little, but I was used to it by now, after having done this every week for two years.  I heard someone call out, “Greg!” I turned; the voice belonged to an eighth-grader named Phillip.  He was standing against the wall talking to three other boys named Stephen, Alex, and Gavin.  These three boys were among those who seemed to have taken a liking to me.  Two years ago, some boys from the youth group invited me to go to lunch with them after church, and this led to me volunteering as a leader.  Noah always said he thought it was funny how the students chose me as a youth leader, instead of me having chosen to volunteer on my own.  Those boys had moved on to high school since then, though, and now I usually ended up with Phillip, Alex, and Stephen in my small group at the end of the night, when we would discuss that week’s Bible lesson.  Gavin was in my group too if he showed up; he only did around half of the time.

“What’s up?” Phillip asked me.

“Guess what showed up at my house today?” I replied

“What?” 

“Two large cow-colored boxes.”

“A new computer from Gateway?” Stephen asked excitedly.

“Yes!” I replied.  “With a CD burner.”

“More like ‘Gay-way,’” Gavin remarked snidely.

What? I thought.  That was rude.  What was wrong with Gateway?  Did they have a bad reputation among the tech savvy?  I had always heard good things about Gateway.  Maybe Gavin came from one of those snooty families who worshiped Apple products and found all other computers to be inherently inferior.  Or maybe he was affluent enough to afford all of the latest high-powered gadgets, better than any ordinary computer I could afford.  I ignored his comment, but just to be safe, I did not mention the new computer to anyone else that night.


I got home from The Edge around 9:30.  As soon as I walked in, I heard Jed from the other room say, “Time to unpack the computer?”

“Let’s go,” I replied.  I walked to the bedroom as Jed followed, with Sean and Brody, our other housemates, close behind.  Apparently unpacking my computer would be an event of great importance for the whole house.

I opened the first box, the one containing the actual computer.  “It’s small,” Jed pointed out.  It was definitely smaller physically than my current computer; when I was building the computer, the size option was called “mini-tower,” which seemed fine because the full-sized “tower” option was much larger than the computer I had currently.  But the “mini-tower” was smaller than I expected.  No big deal, though, as long as it worked, and besides, that meant it would take up slightly less desk space than the current computer.

Also in this box was a keyboard, a mouse, a power cord, and a telephone cable for connecting to dial-up internet, which was unnecessary since the one I already had worked just fine.  I unplugged my old computer and monitor and moved them out of the way, under the table.  I put the new computer on the table, turned sideways so that I could access the ports for connecting cords in the back.  I plugged the keyboard, mouse, and phone cables into the back of the computer, then pushed the power cord down behind the table, but I did not plug it in yet.

I unpacked the instruction manuals and installation discs that remained in the first box.  “Look at this,” I said.  “It came with two blank CDs.  So I can start burning CDs right away.  That’s good, because I probably won’t have time to buy blank CDs until the weekend.  I don’t even know if any store in Jeromeville carries blank CDs.”

“Is the other box a monitor?” Sean asked.

“Yes.  A little bigger than this one.”

Next, I opened the second box and carefully lifted the bulky cathode-ray tube screen onto the table.  I plugged it into the back of the computer and screwed it finger tight; computer monitors in those days used the blue VGA D-type connector with the two screws to hold it in place.  Finally, I inserted the power cord into the back of the monitor and plugged in both the computer and monitor.  I turned on the computer.  “Here we go,” I said.  Jed made an exaggerated face of excited anticipation.

I waited excitedly as I heard the new computer whir to life.  The Gateway logo appeared on the screen with various power-on self test messages scrolling across the bottom, then the screen went blue with a message proclaiming “Welcome to Windows 98 Setup.”  I then did a lot of waiting, and a little bit of typing when I was prompted to enter the product key from the certificate of authenticity, set the date and time, and provide other such information.  When Windows 98 was finally finished setting up, about half an hour later, Jed applauded.  Sean and Brody joined in.

“So what’s the first CD you’re gonna burn?” Brody asked.

“Probably a mix CD of old songs from albums that I don’t listen to all the way through much anymore,” I explained.  “But that’ll have to wait until tomorrow, because it’s getting late.”

“Aww.”

“I do want to get my email set up, though.”

“I’ll let you get to that, then.”

“Glad everything works,” Sean added.  The others went back out to the living room.

Setting up my email was straightforward.  I had a message from Michelle923, an Internet friend from Michigan whom I had been talking to off and on for a while.  She was just catching me up on her last few days, so I replied, doing the same.  Everything on this computer worked beautifully and ran smoothly.  Suck it, Gavin, I thought.  I wanted so badly to keep fiddling with the computer, but I knew that I had student teaching and class tomorrow, and I was starting to get tired, so I powered down the computer and headed to bed.


I did a fairly good job of focusing on what I had to do Thursday morning at Nueces High.  The students in Basic Math B were their usual selves; a few of them were still trying, but the rest sat there and did nothing.  In geometry, we discussed ratios and similar triangles.  When I got home, instead of heading to campus right away as I usually did, I installed the software to burn audio CDs.  I did not have time to actually make a mix CD yet, though, if I wanted to get to my class on time.  This would give me time to contemplate what songs to put on it, which I did during the bus ride to campus.

I came straight home after class.  No one else appeared to be home, unless Brody or Sean was sleeping in another room, and I preferred this.  I did not want the others watching over my shoulder as I burned my mix CD.

This computer did not have nearly enough hard drive space to hold thousands of songs, as the computers I would have in the 21st century would, nor did it have any currently installed means to use a compressed file format like MP3 to store music.  So, with this particular hardware and software, I had to save all the song files one at a time in uncompressed form, write them to the blank CD, and then delete all of these files from the computer, since they took up a significant amount of space on the hard drive.  This all seemed quaint compared to the technology of my later adulthood, but it was much better than the alternative at the time, which was making mixes on lower-quality audio cassettes.

For the last couple years, although I still listened to mainstream pop-rock and classic rock on the radio, I had mostly only been buying CDs of Christian music.  I had a number of CDs from the last few years that I rarely listened to all the way through these days, so my plan was to start by making a mix CD of greatest hits from these albums.  I took these discs out of the CD shelf and put them on the desk next to me.  Aerosmith’s Big Ones.  Hell Freezes Over, the Eagles’ four comeback songs and live reunion album.  Pearl Jam’s Ten.  Cracked Rear View by Hootie and the Blowfish.  Crash by the Dave Matthews Band.  The Spin Doctors’ Pocket Full of Kryptonite.  Soundgarden’s Superunknown.  The untitled EP from the now-defunct Jeromeville local band Lawsuit.  Classic Queen.

The new computer had two optical drives.  One was a read-only drive that read both compact discs and the higher-capacity digital video discs; in addition to computer software on those discs, it could also play music CDs and video DVDs.  I had no video DVDs, since this was a very new technology at the time.  The second drive could both read and write CDs, but the reading speed was much slower on this one, so I put each of the music CDs I had taken from the shelf into the read-only drive, one at a time, to copy the songs I wanted from each to the computer.  A blank CD could fit 74 minutes of audio, and as I arranged the songs in the order I wanted, I noticed that I would have to cut something in order to fit on the CD.  I deleted Soundgarden’s “Spoonman” from the list of songs to record, leaving fifteen songs on the disc.

I put the blank CD in the CD writer drive and clicked Burn.  And now I waited; a progress bar popped up a few minutes later, estimating a little over half an hour to finish the disc.  I did not want to risk opening other windows on my computer while it was working, since any disruptions to the computer could possibly cause the disc to fail.  Recordable CDs could only be used once, so if the recording failed, the entire disc was useless, except possibly as a coaster.

The blank CDs that came with the computer came with cases and paper sleeves, for writing the contents of the disc.  I took this paper out and began writing the track list.

Mix 1

1. Hotel California – Eagles
2. Amazing – Aerosmith
3. Hold My Hand – Hootie & the Blowfish
4. Black – Pearl Jam
5. Dude Looks Like a Lady – Aerosmith
6. Two Princes – Spin Doctors
7. I Want It All – Queen
8. So Much To Say – Dave Matthews Band
9. Black Hole Sun – Soundgarden
10. Let Her Cry – Hootie
11. Useless Flowers – Lawsuit
12. Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong – Spin Doctors
13. Under Pressure – Queen featuring David Bowie
14. Not Even The Trees – Hootie
15. Take It Easy – Eagles

When the disc was done burning, I wrote “Mix #1” on it in permanent marker, then put it in the CD player on my stereo.  I pressed Play, and a few seconds later, I heard the familiar opening notes of the Eagles’ 1994 live acoustic version of Hotel California coming through the speakers.  Perfect.  It worked.  I turned on the old computer, now under the table, and began using floppy disks to copy files from the old computer to the new one, as I listened to Mix 1.

Jed came home somewhere in the middle of “Two Princes.”  He walked to the bathroom attached to our bedroom, and by the time he was out of the bathroom, the next song, “I Want It All,” had started.  “Wait a minute,” he said.  “That’s a different singer.  Is this your mix CD?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed.

“Awesome!  Would you be ok with me using it sometime, if I ever need to burn a CD?  I can buy my own blank CDs.”

“Sure.  Just let me know first, to make sure you aren’t tying up the computer when I urgently need it.”

The song ended, and the next one, “So Much To Say,” began.  “That’s so cool,” Jed said.  “You can really make every CD your own, exactly the songs you want and none that you don’t want.”

“I know,” I replied.


For the rest of Thursday night, I graded geometry homework from Mrs. Tracy’s class while continuing to use floppy disks to transfer files from the old computer to the new one.  That Saturday, I made an overnight trip home to my parents’ house in Plumdale.  I brought the old computer with me and dropped it off in my parents’ attic.  It would stay there until 2010, when Mom and Dad dropped it off at one of those charity fundraisers where someone collects old electronics and gets paid by some organization for disposing of them properly.

A couple years earlier, Mom had gotten me a computer game, Beavis and Butthead: Virtual Stupidity, based on the popular cartoon of the same name.  It would not run on my old computer.  I asked Mark, my seventeen-year-old brother, if I could take it home with me; after all, it was technically mine, and now I had a computer that could run it. My brother had not played it in a while, so he was okay with that.  Also, I said that, if it worked to do so, I would copy the game onto a blank CD and give the copy back to him next time I saw him so he could have his own copy.  I also asked my brother if I could take the Super Nintendo console and games back with me.  Now that Jed had his PlayStation in the house, I wanted to be able to play video games too.  Mark had the newer, faster Nintendo 64 console now, so he was okay with me taking the older console home with me.

On the way back from Plumdale, Sunday morning, I took a short detour through Willow Grove and stopped at the Fry’s Electronics superstore.  Fry’s was a small chain of very large stores scattered throughout the western United States, and some of the buildings had unusual themes to their architecture.  The one in Willow Grove was shaped like a pyramid and had an ancient Egyptian theme.  I bought two ten-packs of blank CDs, a Sony Discman portable CD player, and a CD wallet to store discs in the car.  Most cars back then had cassette players, but no auxiliary audio port, so the Discman came with an adapter shaped like an audio cassette, but with a wire coming out of it that plugged into the Discman, to run the sound through the cassette player.  The Discman could be powered either by batteries or by plugging into the 12-volt cigarette lighter outlet in the car.  I opened the box for the Discman and connected it to the cassette player and the lighter outlet, and listened to Mix #1 as I drove north on Highway 6 toward Jeromeville.  After playing the entire CD, I played it again; it was the only CD I had with me in the car, since this was my first time having a CD player for the car.  I got home while track 7, “I Want It All,” was playing for the second time.

Over the next decade or so, I made dozens more mix CDs, and occasionally after that as well.  Some contained songs all meant to fit a certain mood, given major events going on in my life.  Some had songs from a certain time period.  One mix CD I called “Where Did All This Music Come From,” after I made some Internet friends in the early 2000s whom I often traded MP3s with, leaving songs on my computer for which I could not remember who had sent them to me or where I got them.  I also used the CD burner to copy entire albums from friends sometimes.  Although I am not proficient in any instruments, listening to music has always been a big part of my life, tied closely to memories and changes I have seen in the world over the decades, and these mix CDs have helped me connect with those various times from my life.

I know that there is one discrepancy between the playlist in the story and the one in the photo. While this is based on a true story, I take liberties with the details sometimes, and I changed the playlist in order to be consistent with a time earlier in the story when I took some liberties with the details.

Readers: Do you enjoy making playlists? Tell me about some of your experiences making playlists (or mix CDs, if you were alive in the late 1990s and early 2000s).

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.

February 1, 1999.  Three-dimensional graphs, a pretty girl, string cheese, and Delaware. (#206)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 3 Comments

In the mathematics education program at the University of Jeromeville, students were assigned to two classrooms for the year, one for students on grade level and one for students below grade level.  After spending the first couple of months observing and assisting the classes, we would gradually begin taking on more responsibilities in the class, so that by January we would be doing all of the teaching and lesson planning for those classes.  I was doing that now for Basic Math B with Ms. Matthews first period, and for geometry with Mrs. Tracy third period.

Starting at the halfway point of the year, each of us in the program added a third class to just observe and assist, but with no plans to take over that class.  So in addition to the other two classes, I was now attending Algebra II with Mr. Bowles fourth period.  This kept me at Nueces High until around noon, an hour longer than I had before.  On my first day in Mr. Bowles’ class, I noticed that a few of the students already seemed to know who I was, presumably because they had friends in one of my other two classes.  For example, one blonde freckle-faced girl from Mr. Bowles’ class, Stacie Edwards, was best friends with Kayla Welch, one of the more memorable students from Mrs. Tracy’s class.  Stacie seemed to take an instant liking to me.

“Mr. Dennison?” Stacie asked.  “Can you help me with this?  I don’t get this at all.”

Today Mr. Bowles had demonstrated how to graph a linear function in three dimensions.  I remember being Stacie’s age and seeing a lot of my own classmates struggle with this, mostly just because of the difficulty of drawing a three-dimensional surface on two-dimensional paper.  “I remember how to graph lines,” she said, “but why is there this third axis going diagonally?”

“It’s not diagonal,” I explained.  “It’s three-dimensional.  There are three variables, x, y, and z, so we need three axes in three dimensions. Imagine it coming out of the paper.”  I pointed to Stacie’s pencil pouch and asked, “Can you grab me two pens or pencils out of there?  I want to show you something.”

“Sure,” she replied, handing me a pen and a highlighter.  I picked up the pencil she already had on her desk and held the three writing implements carefully in my hand, arranging them mutually perpendicular to each other.  “These two are the ones that look like a two-dimensional graph on the paper, and the one that’s drawn diagonally is this one.”  I awkwardly gestured with my few free fingers to the third axis, coming out from the other two at a right angle.

“Oh!” Stacie exclaimed.  I see!  It’s like when you draw a box, like this, and you have to make these sides diagonal so it looks 3-D.”  Stacie sketched a three-dimensional box in the margin of her paper.

“Exactly!” I said.  I reminded her how to find the intercepts on each axis, and then I told her to connect these three points to make a triangle.  “Instead of a line, like a two-dimensional graph, the graph of a linear equation in three variables is a plane, a flat surface that goes on forever.  And it’s the flat surface that contains this triangle.  So if you imagine that this triangle goes on forever in all directions, then any point on that flat surface, you can plug into the equation and it’ll be true.”

“I think I kind of get it now!” Stacie said, smiling.  “Thank you!”

I looked up and continued walking around the room.  I noticed that Mr. Bowles had been watching our entire interaction; he smiled and nodded.

The bell for the end of fourth period rang a few minutes before noon.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I said to Mr. Bowles.

“Yes!” Mr. Bowles replied.  “Good job today, Greg.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

Although this varied widely from place to place, back in my parents’ generation in this part of the world it was common for a high school to have an open campus.  Students were allowed to leave campus as long as they made it back in time for class, so students would go off campus for lunch sometimes.  By the final years of the twentieth century, open campi were less common, because of concerns over student safety and students misbehaving in the community.  When I attended Plumdale High as a student in the early 1990s, it was a closed campus, although it would not have mattered much since Plumdale High was in the middle of a field, two miles from the nearest restaurant.

Nueces High still had an open campus in 1999; a few fast food restaurants were within walking distance from the school, and some older students would drive farther into town to lunch.  As I walked to the parking lot, I saw groups of students leaving the school for lunch.  Tim Rich and Matt Hernandez, two lovable loudmouths from my class with Ms. Matthews, saw me going to my car.  Tim asked, “Where are you going for lunch, Mr. Dennison?”

I was confused for a minute, because I was not going to lunch.  It took my brain a few seconds to process the fact that Tim was unaware of my schedule as a student teacher.  “I’m not going to lunch,” I said.  “I’m only here in the mornings.  In the afternoons I have classes back at Jeromeville.”

“What classes are you taking?” he asked.

“Classes where you learn how to be a teacher!” Matt explained.

“Yes.  That’s exactly it,” I said.  “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Enjoy your lunch.”

“Bye, Mr. Dennison!” Tim shouted as he followed Matt to his car.


I took the bus to campus that day, since it would be dark by the time I got home.  The bus arrived around 1:30, giving me half an hour to kill before my class.  “Woo-hoo-hoo, it’s all been done, woo-hoo-hoo, it’s all been done,” I quietly sang to myself as I walked across the street from the bus stop to the Memorial Union.  I had heard that song in the car on the way home, and it had been stuck in my head for the entire bus ride.  I liked that song.  A few days earlier, Mom had sent me an email, just catching me up on her last couple days, and she had written, “I heard this new song on the radio the other day.  I forget what it was called, but I liked it, except in the chorus there’s this annoying ‘woo-hoo-hoo’ part.”  That was all I needed to know exactly what Mom was talking about; I replied, “That song you heard, could it be ‘It’s All Been Done’ by Barenaked Ladies?”  Mom replied in her next email that that was in fact the song she was thinking of, and I laughed that I knew it just from the lyrics “woo-hoo-hoo.”

I grabbed a copy of the Daily Colt with the intention of reading it and doing the crossword puzzle before I had to walk to my class, but secretly hoping that I would run into some friends instead and be able to hang out with them before class, which happens sometimes in the Memorial Union Coffee House. When I got there, I looked around, wondering if I was going to have to sit at a table with a stranger, since I did not see any empty tables at first glance.  As I walked across the room, scanning for an empty seat, I spotted a familiar head of curly blonde hair sitting alone at a table, eating a bagel.  With my luck, she was probably saving the table for some kind of private meeting, but it was worth asking.

“Brianna?” I asked.  “Can I join you, or are you saving these seats?”

“Greg!” Brianna replied.  “Go ahead!  I’m meeting Chelsea at 2, she has class until then, but you can stay here until then.”

“That’s perfect,” I replied. “That’s when I have class.”

“Great!  Did you have class this morning?”

“I have student teaching every morning,” I explained.  “At Nueces High.”

“Oh, that’s right!  I knew that.  I forget sometimes, you have a different schedule.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m old.  I graduated.”

“Oh, come on,” Brianna chuckled.  “You’re not that old.  You just graduated last year.  You’re, what, twenty-two?”

“Yeah,” I answered.  Brianna was nineteen, a sophomore.  I wondered sometimes if I was too old to be hanging around younger students, but so far it had never seemed to be a problem.

“How long is the student teaching program?” she asked.  “Are you done after this year?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed.  “During spring quarter, we’re gonna learn about putting together portfolios for job applications.  And there will be a career fair here on campus, where school districts around the state will have preliminary job interviews.”

“That’s exciting!”  Brianna took a bite of her bagel, and then said, “I saw Jed Wallace a few minutes ago.  He sold me this bagel.  He’s your roommate, is that right?”

“Yeah.  He started working here at the beginning of winter quarter.  He seems to like it.”

“Are you guys going to live together again next year?”

“We haven’t really talked about it.  Our house is owned by an individual, not one of the big corporate apartment complexes, so we don’t have to follow the same schedule that the others in town follow, where everything goes up for lease March 1 and they’re all full by March 15.  Jed is your year, and Brody is a junior, so they’ll still be in town.  Sean is graduating in June, so we’ll have to fill his spot.  And as for me, it’ll all depend on whether I get a job close enough to commute from Jeromeville.  I might, I might not.  Hopefully our landlord will be okay with me not knowing until May.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that, you looking for a job.  So it sounds like you want to stay in Jeromeville if you can?”

“I could go either way.  I really like it at Nueces High, and if they have a job for me next year, I’d like to stay there.  But that’s no guarantee.  I have a community here in Jeromeville, and I’m involved with enough things at church that it feels like home now.  But I’m not gonna limit my job search to here.  Maybe I’ll find somewhere I like better.”

“That’s a good idea.  Keep your options open,” Brianna said.  “Chelsea and I are going to live together next year.  That’s what we’re meeting to talk about.  My roommates this year are making other plans for next year, and some of hers are too.  I hope we can get a house, and not have to live in an apartment again.  We’ve talked to Morgan and Jill about looking for a house together.  We might have room for more than four, depending on how big of a house it is.”

“That would be nice.  Good luck with that.”  After a lull of a few seconds, I asked, “So how was your weekend?”

“It was good!  Didn’t do much.  Just caught up on studying.  And laundry.  How was yours?”

“It was good.  I was at the De Anza house yesterday.  They had a men-only football championship game party.”

“I heard about that.  What was up with that?  Why was it only for men?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “I didn’t make the rules.  And I didn’t really care who won, Denver or Atlanta.  I just know I was excited to watch the game with those guys again.  Three years ago, it was on the weekend of the pro football championship that I first met Eddie Baker and the housemates he had then.  That weekend changed my life.”

“Aww.  That’s sweet.”

“Yeah.  Now that I think about it, I think Eddie and John Harvey are the only ones from that house who are part of the De Anza house today.  And they didn’t live on De Anza then.  They were on Baron Court in south Jeromeville.  A lot of JCF groups lived right near each other that year, on Baron or around the corner on Valdez Street.”

“I see.  Is that why there was no X-Files watch party last night?  Because of the men’s football party?”

“Not just because of the party, because of the game in general.  X-Files wasn’t on last night at all.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“So are you done with class today?” I asked her.  “Just waiting for Chelsea?”

“I wish.  I have English at three.”

“You’re still gonna get home before I do.  Monday is my long day of class.  I have my student teaching seminar at 2, and then after that a three-hour class on Reading In Secondary Schools.”

“Reading?  But you’re gonna teach math, right?”

“Yes.  This is a required class for secondary teachers of all subjects.  Students have to read in every class, so we learn how reading affects all subjects.”

“That makes sense.  Did you say three hours?” Brianna asked, incredulously.

“Yeah.  So I’m on campus until 6:00.  I only have this class once a week, though.  I don’t know why they didn’t do three one-hour classes or two hour-and-a-half classes, like literally every other class ever.  But I don’t make the schedule.”

“I would probably fall asleep in a three-hour class, unless it was, like, a lab or something.”

“This is the first time I’ve had a three-hour class that wasn’t a lab.  But there’s a snack break halfway through, so that’s nice.”

“That’s a great idea!” Brianna exclaimed.  “Does the professor bring the snacks, or do you have to bring your own?”

“The professor brought the snacks the first week, then everyone had to sign up for one future class meeting to bring snacks to share.  My turn will be next week.”  I trailed off, then wondered out loud, “I wonder if there will be string cheese this week.”

“String cheese?”

“The second week of the quarter, the first time students brought snacks, someone brought string cheese.  It was such a huge hit with everyone that every class meeting since then, someone has brought string cheese.  It randomly became a tradition.”

“That’s so random!  I love it!  I wish I had a class where I got to snack on string cheese!”

I looked at my watch and noticed that it was time for me to leave for class.  I said, “I should get to class now.  I hope you and Chelsea figure out your living plans.”

“Thanks!  Have a great day!  I’ll see you Friday at JCF?”

“Yes!  If not sooner.”

“Of course!”  Brianna waved as I stood up; I waved back as I walked toward the exit.

I opened the door and stepped out onto the Quad.  I saw another familiar face, short with brown shoulder-length hair and blue eyes, walking toward me, toward the door I had just exited from.  “Chelsea!” I called out.

“Hey, Greg!” Chelsea replied, smiling and looking up.  “How are you?”

“I’m just headed to class, but I saw Brianna in there.  She’s waiting for you.”

“Oh, good!  We’re gonna talk about rooming together next year.”

“That’s what she told me.  That’ll be nice.  I’ll see you Friday?  At JCF?”

“Yeah!  I’ll probably be there.”

I continued walking across the grassy Quad, along a row of decades-old oak trees with branches soaring above me, stepping on the remains of acorns that had dropped months ago.  I enjoyed my conversation with Brianna.  She was cute, and friendly, and as far as I knew, for reasons I did not understand, she did not have a boyfriend.  At least there was no guy that was always around her, as far as I could tell.  She seemed like the kind of girl that would be popular with guys. I thought about hypothetical future conversations with her as I walked to class.


I finally walked into my front door around 6:20 that night, so full of crackers, cookies, and string cheese that I did not even bother making dinner.  Jed was sitting at the desk in the large bedroom that we shared.  As soon as I sat down and turned on my computer, he said, “Guess what happened at work today?”

“I was talking to Brianna today, and she said she went through your line. But I have a feeling this is something else.”

“Yes, something else. A guy reached into his pocket to pay.  He was trying to make exact change, and he apologized, because he thought he gave me a Canadian quarter.”  I nodded, knowing now where Jed was going with this.  “After I rang him up, I said, ‘Oh, by the way, that wasn’t a Canadian quarter.’  The guy goes, ‘Huh?’”  Jed reached over to the non-Canadian quarter, still sitting on his desk, and dramatically flipped it across the room to me. I carefully caught it in mid-air and looked at it.

The United States Mint made some changes to the design of the quarter-dollar coin for 1999, and Jed and I were talking about this a few weeks ago.  Every year from 1999 through 2008, the design on the back of the quarter would change every ten to eleven weeks, with a total of fifty different designs being minted in the upcoming ten-year span.  These fifty different designs would represent the fifty states of the United States.  I looked at the shiny, unscratched 1999 quarter that Jed had just flipped to me.  The front had the same bust of George Washington that I had seen on quarters all my life, but some of the mottos and printing normally on the back of the coin had been moved to the front, and the date of minting was missing from the front.  The back of the quarter said “Delaware 1787” at the top, with the date of minting, “1999,” at the bottom.  The inscription “Caesar Rodney” appeared on the back, next to a figure of a man, presumably whoever this Mr. Rodney was, riding a horse.  Above the horse’s hindquarters was the inscription “The First State.” Since Delaware was the first state to ratify the 1787 Constitution, the same Constitution still used today, Delaware’s quarter design was the first one minted, with the other twelve original states to follow in the order that they ratified the Constitution, and the rest following in the order that they were admitted to the Union. Canada’s quarter was the same size as a United States quarter, with a caribou on the back, so it was understandable that Jed’s customer, unaware of the recent changes in United States coinage, might have mistaken Caesar Rodney’s horse for the Canadian caribou.

“Nice,” I said after admiring it for a minute.  I flipped the quarter back to him.

“And we’re gonna get forty-nine other cool designs over the next ten years.”

“I know!”

“Who was Caesar Rodney?  Do you know?”

“I’ll look it up.  I was going to dial up to check my email.”  I connected my computer to the dial-up Internet, but instead of going directly to my email, I opened a Web browser and went to the website for the U.S. Mint, the government agency responsible for coins.  I clicked on the link for “50 State Quarters” and scrolled down to read about the designs.  “Looks like he was a signer of the Declaration of Independence,” I said.  “He made a long ride on horseback from Delaware to Independence Hall in Philadelphia just in time to vote in favor of the declaration.”

“That explains the horse,” Jed remarked.

“Yes.  Hopefully I’ll get one soon.  I’ll start paying for everything in cash so I get change back.  I don’t see change every day at work, like you do.”

“You’ll find one soon.  And if I start getting a bunch of them, I’ll save one for you.”

“Thanks!”


A few months later, I was browsing at the now-defunct Borders Books, the one that had been so controversial when it was first planned.  I found the same series of blue cardboard coin collecting folders that I had used as a child, with slots to save one coin from each date and mint mark.  The publisher of these had made a new one this year for the state quarters; I bought it that day.  By then, I had saved several of my own Delaware quarters, as well as a couple of Pennsylvania quarters.

I graduated from the University of Jeromeville last June, and many of my friends from my year who also graduated had moved away.  But I was in the unusual situation that, last year, as a senior, I made a lot of friends with freshmen.  That was how I knew Jed, and also how I knew Brianna and Chelsea.  A large group of freshmen got involved with Jeromeville Christian Fellowship that year, and most of them would be in Jeromeville until at least 2001.  So if I did end up getting a job within commuting distance from Jeromeville, I would still have some sense of a group of friends here in Jeromeville for another few years.  And I was involved enough at church that, at the time, I thought I would have been perfectly content to stay in Jeromeville forever.  Of course, life never seemed to work out exactly how I expected, but those are stories for another time.

Readers: Do you collect anything? 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.

January 22-23, 1999.  The BWF Seminar. (#205)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 2 Comments

It was seven years ago this month that I started this long story. Thanks to all of you for joining me on this journey. If you are just seeing this blog for the first time, click here to go back to the beginning and catch up.

“Hey, Greg!” Carrie Valentine said.  She was sitting at the welcome table at Jeromeville Christian Fellowship that night, filling out name tags.  She wrote “GREG” in all capital letters.  Carrie always wrote in all capital letters, which I thought was unusual for a girl.  She seemed genuinely happy to see me; we had settled into a comfortable pattern of being friends without any openly lingering awkwardness from the time she turned me down a little over a year ago.  Having had two classes together last spring, despite having very different majors, certainly helped that.

“How was your week?” I asked.

“It was good!  What about you?  How’s student teaching going?”

“Pretty good.  The students just took finals.”

“How’d they do?”

“So far, some of them did fine, and some of them, well, didn’t.”

“That’s how it always is, right?  Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”  Carrie picked up a copy of the weekly JCF newsletter. She was the one who volunteered to type and print the newsletter this year.  She pointed at a small blurb at the bottom of the page.  It said:

BWF SEMINAR
“Male-Female Interactions”

Saturday, January 23
Jeromeville Covenant Church
Room 2

For more information, contact Brent (555-5653) or Taylor (555-5574)

“BWF Seminar?” Carrie asked.  “Isn’t that your Brent Wang Fellowship?  Are you really having a seminar?”

I laughed.  “Yes, it is.  Taylor always wanted this to be a group where Christians can safely discuss issues related to dating and relationships.”

“So this is a real thing?  I was typing up the newsletter yesterday, and I thought this was going to be a joke!”

“It’s real.  I’ll be there.  Taylor has been planning this for a while.  Are you coming?”

“I’m going to be back home with my family this weekend, but it sounds interesting!  Will you be wearing that shirt with Brent’s face on it?”

“I sure will!  Oh my gosh, a couple weeks ago, the last time I wore that shirt, the funniest thing happened,” I said.  “I was at the grocery store, and this middle-aged man walks up and asks me, ‘Who’s that on your shirt?’  I just said, like it was the most obvious thing ever, ‘That’s Brent Wang.’  And he nodded and said, ‘Oh, okay.  I’m not good at recognizing famous people.’”

“He thought Brent was famous!” Carrie exclaimed.  “That’s so funny!”

“I know!”


Taylor and Brent were the kind of friends who would stay up insanely late having deep philosophical discussions, followed by sleeping through their classes the next morning.  The Brent Wang Fellowship came from one of these ideas.  The two of them were contemplating the fact that most advice from Christian youth and college groups regarding dating revolved around not dating at all, or at least placing strict boundaries to prevent people from giving into sexual temptation.  What was missing, however, was healthy, positive discourse on how to establish a Christ-honoring romantic relationship.  Taylor came up with an idea for a group where people would be classified in one of three stages, depending on whether they were single, dating, or married. The married couples would disciple the dating couples, and the dating couples would encourage the singles.  He also got the silly idea to name the group after Brent and print T-shirts with Brent’s face on it.

They made the shirts last spring, eight months before tonight’s first actual meeting.  On the back of the shirt was a graphic with Christian fish symbols in positions representing the three stages.  Stage 1, “The Eternal Quest,” was a group of single fish swimming around trying to find each other.  Stage 2, fish coupled up, was called “Equally Whooped.”  The name of the stage was a play on the phrase “equally yoked,” meaning being in a couple, and ultimately married, to someone with similar beliefs.  The phrase has its origins in the Bible, in 2 Corinthians 6:14 where Paul writes, “Do not be yoked together with unbelievers.  For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common?  Or what fellowship can light have with darkness?”  The third stage was called “The Ultimate ‘Gift’,” in which the two fish were happily married forever, touching at the mouth as if kissing.  I was never clear why “gift” was in quotation marks.

“Hey, Greg!  Welcome to the BWF Seminar!” Taylor said as I walked into Room 2 the night of the seminar.  This was normally a children’s Sunday school classroom, but Taylor and Brent had brought in some full-size folding chairs and arranged them in a circle.  This way, we would not have to sit in undersized chairs for young children.  Taylor handed me two papers, a program for the event and an explanation of the stages with the BWF mission statement.  A few others had arrived before me, all friends of ours either from church or JCF or both.

“Thank you,” I said.

“We’re gonna start in a bit.  You can just hang out until then.  On that table over there, where Jen and Jen are, I have all the books from the Recommended Reading List, if you want to peruse them.”  Taylor pointed at the Recommended Reading List on the back of the paper with the program for the night.

There were three sophomores named Jennifer, all going by “Jen” for short, who attended the college group here at Jeromeville Covenant, and all three of them attended JCF as well.  Two of the Jens were looking at the books that Taylor had placed on display.  I noticed that the books on the table appeared to be a mix of those written for Christian and secular audiences, because brown-haired Jen Aldrich was flipping through the pages of I Kissed Dating Goodbye by Joshua Harris, and blonde Jen Powell was reading the back cover of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus by John Gray.  The third Jen did not appear to be in attendance tonight.

“Hey, Greg!” Jen Aldrich said, looking up from the book.  Jen Powell looked up and smiled at me as Jen Aldrich continued, “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I said.  “Got everything done for the weekend.”

“That’s a good feeling!  Not me.  I have to study for a midterm tomorrow.”

“Good luck.”

“Have you read I Kissed Dating Goodbye? I hear a lot of people talking about this book.”

“I haven’t.  But I’ve heard a lot about it too.”

“There’s a list here if you want to sign up to borrow any of these books.  Looks like I’m the first one on the list for this book.  You want to sign up to read it after me?”

“Sure,” I said.  I wrote my name under Jen’s name.

I flipped through a few of the other books on the table, but did get enough of an impression of any of them to know what I wanted to read.  Probably best to read one book at a time, and I had already signed up to read I Kissed Dating Goodbye, the one I was most curious about at the moment.

A few minutes later, Taylor called us to order and asked us to find a seat.  I looked around and noticed that several more people had arrived while I was looking at the books, including the third Jen.  “Welcome to the first ever Brent Wang Fellowship Seminar!” Taylor announced.  He continued, explaining the history of the group, the mission statement, and the three stages.  “We’re here tonight,” he continued, “to talk about male-female interactions.  Platonic, romantic, interested in each other, whatever.  We thought we’d start with this: what is your definition of a date?  Turn and discuss this with the people sitting near you.”

Jen Barton, the Jen who had arrived after the other two, was sitting to my right, and Barefoot James to my left.  “That’s a good question,” I said.  “I’ve never really thought about this.  And that’s something I’ve been confused about.”

“I think a date is when a guy and a girl are interested in each other, and they make plans to spend time together,” Jen Barton said.

“Seems simple enough,” James added.

“But how do they know they’re interested in each other?” I asked.

“They’ve probably talked about it before,” Jen explained.

“Sometimes, they can tell they’re interested in each other without having to come out and say it,” James added.

“Do people ever come out and say it?” I asked.  “Like, I go up to a girl I know and say, ‘I like you, can I take you out?’”

“Yeah, sometimes,” Jen said.  “You’ve never done that?”

“Hmm,” I said, not answering the question.  This thought had never occurred to me, to just say to a girl that I was interested in her.  I had always thought that when I was interested in a girl, I had to keep this secret buried.  Did other people not do this?

A couple minutes later, Taylor called us back to attention.  He said, “Brent and I talked about this at length.  We came up with the definition that a date is a casual meeting with at least one prior instance of expressed interest.  Also, it’s important to note that a date is one event, and dating,” he continued, emphasizing the “ing,” “is Stage 2, a specific stage of the relationship.  A date and dating are not the same.”

I was still confused about this.  I raised my hand and asked, “What does this ‘expressed interest’ look like?”

“Like, you’ve talked at least once about how you like the other person,” Brent explained.

“I don’t understand how to do that.”

“It’s not that hard,” Taylor said.  “Like, you’re just hanging out with a girl you already know well, and if you’re interested in her, just say something.  Like, ‘I would really like to get to know you better than just friends.  Would you like to go out sometime?’”

“And that works?”

“It works if she’s interested back.”

This seemed so simple, but so impossible.  Nine years ago, in middle school, a guy noticed that I appeared to like a girl, I admitted it, and he told everyone.  I was so embarrassed.  And my parents often made fun of me when I expressed interest in women.  I was too ashamed to express interest in a girl, and apparently this was why I was not going on dates.

Taylor continued, emphasizing that marriage should be the end goal of a dating relationship, and it was important to keep that in mind, but it should not be the focus at the beginning.  Thinking about a future of marriage on a first date would put too much pressure on that one date, and set a relationship on a path to failure.  The whole idea that I was old enough to get married in the first place was kind of mind-blowing.  Abby Bartlett got married on her 22nd birthday, she was Abby McGraw now, and I was at her wedding, yet she was younger than me by one day. And Andrea Briggs, a math major from my year, got married the summer after junior year, at age 21.  She had been Andrea Wright for over a year now.  I felt discouraged that I had still never even had a girlfriend.

Taylor continued speaking.  He had those of us who brought Bibles read James 1:17: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.”  We then read 1 Corinthians 7:1: “Now for the matters you wrote about: It is good for a man not to marry.” “Singleness is a gift from God,” Taylor explained.  “When you’re single, you’re more able to do God’s work in the world.  When you’re married and you have a family, you are more concerned with being a husband and father than doing God’s work.  Paul says that later in 1 Corinthians.  Now, of course, being a husband and father are not bad things, by any means.  The point of this verse is that you have different responsibilities as a single person than you do when you’re married, but both are good and both are important.”  I smiled and nodded.  Maybe that was how I should be looking at things.

A little later, Taylor let Brent have a turn speaking.  “This next part of the discussion is meant to be productive and informative, not confrontational.  So please remember that as you speak and listen.  Find a partner or two of the same sex, and discuss, what’s something that the opposite sex does that you don’t like?  We’ll share after you’ve had time to brainstorm.”

I turned toward Barefoot James; Ajeet Tripathi was sitting on the other side of him, and he joined our discussion.  “What I hate the most,” Ajeet started, “is when a girl says ‘you’re a really great guy’ as a way to make you feel better after she turns you down.  It doesn’t make me feel better.  I’m guessing it doesn’t make either of you feel better either.”

“Nah,” James replied.

“I agree.  If I’m so great, then why won’t you give me a chance?  I’d rather you just tell me what you don’t like about me, so I’ll know if there’s anything I can learn from that.”

“Exactly!” Ajeet agreed.

The group came back together, and a freshman named Kurt Ross said, “I hate, like, when a girl doesn’t like me back, and she says, ‘You’ll be a great husband someday.’  That doesn’t help.”  I nodded; Kurt had the same thought I did.

After a few others shared ideas, Brent started calling on some women to talk about what they did not like about men.  Jen Aldrich raised her hand and said, “I think guys need to act more like gentlemen.  Like, if you want to ask me on a date, ask me on a date.  Don’t just say, ‘Hey, let’s hang out’ and not have a plan.  Make a plan, hold the door for me, pull my chair out, stuff like that.’”

“That’s a good one,” Taylor concurred.  I nodded.  Made sense.  Cambria Hawley raised her hand next, and Taylor gestured to her, saying, “Let’s hear from our Stage 2 ambassador.”  A few people chuckled, including myself, when he called her that; Cambria had been dating Noah, who was Taylor’s best friend of eight years, for several months now.

“This kind of piggybacks on what Jen said, but too many guys don’t want to commit,” Cambria said.  “Like they’ll just be ‘hanging out’ with a girl for months at a time, and she doesn’t know if he really wants to be with her long term.”

“That’s a big one,” Taylor replied.  “It’s important to define what you are to each other and where you’re going.  That way, the expectations are completely clear.

The seminar continued with Taylor and Brent talking about topics that included where singles fit in among the church and the importance of marriage as an end goal.  “Finally,” Taylor said, “the most important thing to remember is that God loves you, and you should keep your focus on God through this whole process of forming relationships.  It’s important to keep all of this in prayer. But you also have to keep in mind how you’re praying.  Asking God to make a specific person like you isn’t likely to do much for you.”  I grinned sheepishly and looked around the room, remembering all of the unrequited crushes I’d had over the years, and all of the prayers I’d prayed that God would make each of them like me.

Brent took over speaking, adding, “Instead, we should be focusing on what we bring to the relationship, and how we can serve God.  Philippians 2:3 says, ‘Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.’  Too many relationships will fail because people get into them for selfish reasons.”  Brent and Taylor explained a little bit more about selflessness in relationships, then they said a prayer to close the seminar.

I stood up, all of the ideas from the seminar swirling around in my head.  In my early teens, when I first started thinking about girls, I always had daydreams about girls just walking up to me and being interested in me.  As life went on, I was continuously learning that the reality was much, much more complicated, and while most of what we talked about tonight made sense, it also made things feel much more confusing.

“What’d you think?” Jen Barton asked.

“That was good,” I replied. “A lot to think about.”

“Yeah. Have you read any of the books over there?”

“I haven’t.  But I signed up to borrow I Kissed Dating Goodbye after Jen Aldrich is done with it.”

“I think I signed up for that one too.  I’ve heard it’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“I need to get home and study, but will you be at church tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Great!  I’ll see you then!”


After we put the room in order for Sunday school the next morning, a few of us went to the West 15th house, where Noah lived, to play Settlers of Catan.  I played two games that night and lost the first one badly.  My mind was a bit distracted, trying to think about everything I had learned that night.  I focused better the second time and came within one turn of winning, but as often happens with Catan, I jumped out to an early lead, I frequently got blocked by others, and that gave Taylor time to get the resources he needed to catch up.

I knew all of this made sense.  I knew Taylor was right.  God had a reason for not bringing that special someone into my life yet, and it was not necessarily a bad thing.  But I still just found the whole situation frustrating.  I did not know how to express interest in a woman without it sounding awkward.  Hopefully, reading some of those books would provide clarity on the situation from a Christian perspective, and when the right woman came along, I would be ready.

I started wondering who the right woman might be.  I had met a lot of girls who were not the right one.  Maybe it was someone I already knew.  Brianna Johns from JCF was not here tonight, but she was really cute, and friendly.  That freshman Lacey whom I met a couple months ago at the X-Files watch party, she seemed really nice, although she might be too young for me.  But obsessing over them like this was not going to get me anywhere.  My next step would be to take the time to get to know these girls, and others, just as friends, without acting like I was looking for anything more.  Of course, I had no idea that night that things were about to get much more complicated and frustrating, but that is another story for another time.

Readers: Let’s go with the same question from the seminar this week. What is something that people of the sex and gender you are interested in do that you do not like? 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.

January 17-21, 1999.  Writing from a dark place. (#204)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 12 Comments

My mind had been in a dark place all weekend.  Friday morning, in my student teaching class, I had problems with a student talking back to me.  I started to argue back, and Ms. Matthews told me condescendingly that I could not do that as a teacher.  Friday evening, I was at Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, but everyone was either too busy to hang out afterward or already had specific plans.  Sunday morning at church, I was talking to Pete Green and Caroline Pearson, and they mentioned having taken a day trip to Ralstonville yesterday for Sarah Winters’ wedding.

Sarah, a mathematics major like me, was one of my best friends during my undergraduate years. Sarah and I, and Pete and Caroline, were all in the same dorm as freshmen.  I had heard from Sarah much less frequently after she graduated in June and moved back home, where her fiancé was.  While weddings often left me feeling bittersweet at best, dwelling on my own lack of a girlfriend, I certainly would have gone to Sarah’s wedding, had I been invited.  “No one told me about Sarah’s wedding,” I said, feeling confused and left out.

“They wanted a really small wedding,” Caroline explained.  “There were only about twenty people there.”  This was no consolation to me, because if I were to get married right now, Sarah would probably be among the first twenty people I would want to invite.

To add insult to injury, I had a song stuck in my head: “Kiss Me,” by Sixpence None the Richer.  This song had been all over the radio in the last few weeks, and I was still making up my mind how I felt about this song.  I had heard of this band before; they got their start in Christian music, and these days, I took notice whenever a Christian band had a hit song on mainstream radio.  But this was not a Christian song; it was about kissing. I had spent the last three years listening to talks and sermons about taking things slow in relationships, not rushing physical contact, so I still had yet to experience my first kiss.  Now, vocalist Leigh Nash was over here singing in her soft, breathy voice about that thing I was not supposed to think about.  It was unfair.  Yet the song was hauntingly catchy, and growing on me.

What if I never met anyone?  What if I grew old and died alone?  Would anyone remember my life?  Would anyone care?  Would these intense feelings of loneliness and rejection, coupled with the romantic and sexual fantasies frequently playing in my head, drive me to madness?  I got home and made myself a sandwich for lunch, and by the time I finished eating, the ideas in my head were coming together to form a short story.

I sat down and started typing.  When it came time to name the characters, I still had that Sixpence None the Richer song stuck in my head, so the love interest character became “Leigh,” after the band’s vocalist.  I wrote for about three hours that night. I had time to finish a first draft the next day, because of the school holiday for Martin Luther King’s birthday. I did some editing during study breaks over the next few days.  By Thursday night, I had perfected the story enough to print and share.  I clicked Print on the computer, and the inkjet printer on my desk buzzed and whirred as five pages of my story emerged.

“Leigh’s Boyfriend”
By Gregory J. Dennison

“It’s good to see you tonight, Leigh,” Ryan said as they met outside the theater.

“Good to see you too,” Leigh replied, kissing Ryan on the lips.  “Shall we go in?”

“Sure,” Ryan replied, putting his arm in Leigh’s.  They walked into the theater and gave the employee their tickets.  The theater was not very crowded, so Ryan pointed toward the middle of the room, not too close to the screen but not too far in the back, and turned toward Leigh with a questioning glance.  She nodded.  He would have been happy sitting anywhere but the back row, though; the back row held bad memories for him.  The last girl Ryan brought here had wanted to sit in the back.  Ryan told her after the movie that he was interested in a relationship, and she turned him down.  Six days later, she started going out with his friend.  None of that mattered anymore, now that he had Leigh, but he still wanted to sit in the middle of the theater.  Leigh walked to the seats first, and Ryan followed her.

The lights dimmed a minute later, and the previews began.  Ryan took Leigh’s hand again.  He could sense her smile in the dark as her hand tightened around his, and he responded with a smile of his own.  He had felt so happy ever since he and Leigh had started dating.  Ryan had only had a girlfriend once before, in high school, and that had lasted about a month.  But Leigh was everything Ryan could ever want in a woman.  For years he had hoped for a woman he could take to the movies, or to dinner, or shopping, or just somewhere where they could talk and share each other’s lives.  And at last, Leigh was that woman.  He put his arm around her and began kissing her.

Ryan woke up Thursday morning at six to the sound of his alarm.  He looked at the empty bed next to him, and reconstructed the events of the previous night.  He brought Leigh home after the movie, and they snuggled on the couch for a while.  She left a little after midnight, and Ryan went up to bed.


Ryan showered, ate breakfast, and drove to work still thinking about Leigh.  When he arrived, he went to his desk to get his stuff prepared for the day.  He looked at his watch and saw that he was right on time, as usual.

“Good morning, Ryan,” his coworker Paul said on his arrival.

“Hi, Paul.  How are you?”

“I’m doing well.  Finishing up a project.  How about yourself?”

“Not bad.  I saw a movie with Leigh last night.”

“Which one?  How was it?”

Ryan gave Paul the movie’s title.  “I actually enjoyed it.  I wasn’t sure what to expect going into it, but it looked good,” Ryan said.

“I haven’t seen it yet.  I’ll have to tell my wife we should see it.  How is Leigh doing?”

“She’s doing well.  She started working at Value Foods a month ago.  She likes her job.”

“Good!  You’ll have to introduce me to Leigh sometime.  I’ve never met her.  Do you want to come over for dinner sometime?  You and Leigh, and me and Maria?”

The thought of a well-cooked meal appealed to Ryan’s bachelor taste buds instantly.  “Sure,” he said.  “When’s good for you?”

“How about Saturday night?”

“Sure.  I’ll check with Leigh and call you this afternoon to make sure it’s okay.”

“Sounds good.  Maria and I are looking forward to meeting Leigh.  She sounds nice.”

“Oh, she is,” Ryan said.  Another co-worker walked up to Paul’s desk as he finished his sentence, so Ryan turned his attention back to his work.


Ryan looked around the coffee shop.  “It’s not usually this full,” he told Leigh.

“You’re right.  I don’t know why it’s full tonight.”

“Excuse me.  May I join you?” a strange voice said.

Ryan jumped in his seat, startled, as if awakening from a dream.  He looked up to see a man standing next to his and Leigh’s table.  The man held a cup of coffee and was looking for an open seat.  Ryan’s table had only two chairs next to it.  “Sorry.  We’re busy,” Ryan explained.

The man looked at Leigh, then looked at Ryan, as if he were having difficulty processing Ryan’s response.  “Sorry,” the man said.  He walked away.

After the man walked away, Ryan turned back to Leigh.  “That guy scared me.  Is it just me, or was it rude for him to ask to share with us?  I mean, this is a two-seat table, isn’t it?”

Leigh nodded in agreement.  Ryan turned and looked out the window as it began to rain.  Rain used to make Ryan depressed, but he hasn’t been as depressed in general the last couple months.  He looked at Leigh.  “It’s raining,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.

Ryan looked into Leigh’s watery blue eyes and smiled.  She smiled back.  He took a sip of his mocha.

“I don’t suppose you’re up for a walk in the rain?” Leigh asked.

“Not particularly.  I’d rather do something indoors tonight.”

“Me too, now that you mention it.”

Ryan watched a car drive by out the window.  “You ready to go?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied.  Ryan opened the door of the coffee shop, holding it open for Leigh.  He opened his umbrella, and they both stood under it as they walked back to Ryan’s car.

“Where do you want to go now?” he asked.  “My place?  Yours?  Somewhere else?”

“How about your place?” she suggested.

“Sounds good.”  Ryan suddenly remembered something.  “Paul and Maria invited us to dinner Saturday night.  Can you make it?”

Leigh thought for a minute.  “Sure.  I don’t have to work at all on Saturday.”

“Paul keeps saying he wants to meet you.”

“I want to meet your friends too.  That’ll be fun.”

Ryan pulled into his driveway.  He opened the umbrella again and shared it with Leigh as they walked up to the porch.  He unlocked his front door, and she walked in, with him following.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” she replied, smiling.  “Come on,” she said, taking his hand.  Leigh turned the corner and went into Ryan’s bedroom.  She sat him down on the bed and joined him.  She took off her sweater and then proceeded to remove Ryan’s sweatshirt.  She put her arms around Ryan and kissed him passionately.

Ryan put his arms around Leigh and ran his fingers through her straight brown hair.  Leigh grinned and giggled; he knew she liked that very much.  Leigh reached down and pulled Ryan’s pants down around his ankles; Ryan did the same to Leigh.

Soon afterwards, Ryan and Leigh began a beautiful love-making session.  Ryan told Leigh how much he loved her several times.  And he did love her.  She was everything he could ever ask for in a woman.  Ryan had always known that the woman he ended up with would be someone who knew him inside out, someone who could understand all his quirks.  When he was with Leigh, he felt like she did understand.  He could, and did, talk to her about anything, and he could always trust her to help him through.  And now he and Leigh shared the most intimate parts of themselves with each other.

“Hold me,” Leigh said after they finished.

“Of course,” Ryan whispered.  He pulled Leigh’s back toward him and put his arms just below her bare breasts.  This was the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep.


Ryan woke up to the sound of his alarm, as usual.  One more day of work, and then the weekend.  As he crawled out of his empty bed, he realized that something felt wrong to him.  He also noticed that it was probably time to wash the sheets again.

Ryan walked into the office Friday morning with a smile on his face.  He replied to an asynchronous chorus of greetings with a wave.

“Hey.  I saw you at the coffee shop last night,” Paul said.

Ryan looked puzzled at first, but the look of puzzlement soon disappeared.  “Oh, yeah.  I had coffee with Leigh last night.”

“With Leigh?  I didn’t see anyone else with you.  It looked like you were sitting by yourself at a table in front of the window.”

“Hmm,” Ryan said.  “Maybe she was hidden behind something.”

“Maybe.  Are you two still coming for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah.  I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting Leigh.”

“I have to go make some copies.  I’ll be right back.”


Paul had just sat down to watch a basketball game on Saturday afternoon when the telephone rang.  Maria answered, and then called out to Paul, saying that the telephone was for him.  Paul walked to the telephone and took the receiver from Maria.  “Hello?” he said.

“Paul?  It’s Ryan,” the voice on the phone said.

“Hi, Ryan.  Are you and Leigh still coming for dinner tonight?”

“Well, that’s what I was calling about.  Leigh just found out she has to work today.”

“Oh, no,” Paul replied.  “I was looking forward to finally meeting her.”

“I’m really sorry about this.  There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”

“Well, Maria was still planning on having company tonight.  I know it won’t quite be the same, but do you still want to join us?  Just the three of us?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, sure.”

“Great,” Paul said.  “Tell Leigh I said I’m sorry she couldn’t make it.”

“I will.  Bye, Paul.”  Ryan hung up.

Paul replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle.  “Leigh can’t come,” he said to Maria.  “I told Ryan he could still come, though.”

“That’ll be nice to have him over,” Maria said.  “I just noticed a few minutes ago that we need tomatoes for the salad.  I’m going to run up to the store and get some.”

Paul thought about this.  “Can I get the tomatoes for you?”

“Sure,” Maria said.  “That’ll help.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  Paul grabbed his keys and wallet and left.


Something had told Paul that he should be the one to buy the tomatoes, and he thought he knew why.  He was curious about something, and in the heat of the moment his curiosity exceeded his patience.  He drove into the Value Foods parking lot and walked toward the store.  As he got there, he noticed a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair gathering shopping carts left in the parking lot.  Paul walked up to the young woman.  “Excuse me?” he called out.

“Yes?” the woman said, turning around.

Paul’s eyes instantly darted down to her name tag.  LEIGH, EMPLOYEE SINCE 1998.  Paul’s hunch was correct after all.  “Aren’t you Leigh Hawkins?”

”Yes,” Leigh said, examining Paul to determine how he knew this.  “Do I know you?”

“I’m Paul Richards.  I work with Ryan.”  Paul expected that Leigh would suddenly make the connections necessary to determine why she would know him.  However, her face maintained its prior look of confusion.  “Ryan Mathewson.  You and Ryan were supposed to have dinner with my wife and me tonight, but he told me you had to work.”

“Ryan?  He never invited me to dinner.  Are you sure you have the right person?  How did you know how to find me?”

“Ryan told me where you worked.  You’re Leigh Hawkins.  Ryan’s girlfriend.  Right?”

“I’m Leigh Hawkins, but I’m not Ryan’s girlfriend.  Ryan and I went out twice last month, but we’re not dating.  Things didn’t really work out like that.  What did he tell you about me?”

Suddenly, things seemed clear to Paul, and he did not like what he was figuring out.  “I’m sorry, Leigh,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“That’s okay.”

“I guess I got my stories a little mixed up.”

“That’s okay.  Have a nice day.  And tell Ryan I said hi.”

“Okay,” Paul said, although he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t.  It would do more harm than good at this point.


“Could you pass the mashed potatoes, please?” Ryan asked.

“Sure,” Maria replied.

“Thanks for still having me over.  I’m sorry I had to come alone.”

Paul waited for about a five-second lull in the conversation.  Ryan was about to break the silence when Paul spoke.  “I know why Leigh isn’t here,” Paul explained.

“Because she got called to work,” Ryan replied.  “I told you.”

“Ryan, it’s okay.  I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you can be honest with me.  I was at Value Foods today, and I talked to Leigh.”

Ryan looked at Paul.  His jaw dropped slightly.  No words came out of his mouth, though.  The look on his face was one of pure terror.  His last line of defense had fallen.

“Ryan, I want to help you.  I don’t know why you created this delusion, but you can get help for it.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to be embarrassed.  Let’s just finish dinner.”

Ryan stood up.  “I’m insulted,” he said.  “First you go spy on me by talking to Leigh behind my back, then you claim that I’m lying about our relationship.  Well, I’m not!  We—”

“Ryan, I didn’t spy on you.  I had to go to the store for something else, and I thought I would go meet Leigh.  And I’m trying to help you.  As a friend.”

“Some friend you are.  I’ll be sure to get your permission before Leigh and I go out again,” Ryan said sarcastically.  He stomped out the door, leaving his food uneaten.

Ryan started his car and pulled away from Paul’s house.  He had probably lost Paul as a friend for a while, but he thought that was all the better since he did not want friends who spied on him.  He was probably just jealous.

Ryan opened the door to his apartment.  “Hey, babe,” Leigh said from the couch.

“Leigh?  I thought you were at work.”

“I got off early,” she said.  “I thought I’d come hang out here for a while.”

Ryan sat on the couch next to Leigh.  She immediately snuggled up next to him.  Ryan put his arms around her and kissed her.  He loved everything about Leigh’s kisses, especially the way they always tasted like couch cushions.  He reached down and slowly unzipped Leigh’s pants; he felt her smooth legs as his hands ran along the surface of the cushion foam filling.  He took off his shirt and rubbed the cushion against it, with a blissful grin on his face.

“It’s weird,” Jed said after reading the story.  “But I like it!”

“Thanks,” I replied.  I wanted to share my story with someone, particularly to see how someone else would react to the twist in the ending, and since my roommate Jed was home, I started with him.

“What’s weird?” Brody, another of our housemates, asked, walking into the living room.

“I wrote a story,” I replied.

“Can I read it?”

“Sure.”  I handed Brody the printed copy of my story, and he said he would read it later.  Shortly before bedtime that night, he told me he thought the ending was hilarious.  That was not a word I would expect one to use to describe a serious, dark story, but he was right.  It was hilarious.

Fortunately, my actual life had not yet gotten to the point where I was making up an imaginary girlfriend.  But I had no one special in my life, except for a couple of silly unrequited crushes, and every time I tried to express interest in a girl, one of three things happened.  She was often not interested back, like Haley Channing junior year.  My words might get taken the wrong way, like what happened with Carrie Valentine last year.  Or I would get to know a girl as a friend first, the way that I was told to, and while I was getting to know her, she would run off and find someone else, like Sadie Rowland had.  This weekend, I would be attending something that I hoped might give me some answers about all of this, so I was feeling slightly optimistic and not completely consumed by darkness yet.  But that is a story for next time.  

Readers: Tell me about a time you channeled your dark thoughts into something creative.

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January 6, 1999. Low expectations, and hiding in plain sight. (#203)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 6 Comments

The hills looked unusually beautiful this morning, I thought as the gas stations and fast food restaurants on the eastern outskirts of Nueces approached.  The sun was just rising, and although this was my third day back at Nueces High School for student teaching after winter break, the first two days had been cloudy.

I had just driven through those hills five days ago.  Brian Burr, my older roommate from two years ago, was long known for throwing great parties. For many years, he had given a party for the New Year back at his parents’ house in Valle Luna.  He was now a student at New York Medical College, but as he had last year, he returned home for the winter break and threw another party.  I did not enjoy this one as much as the previous year.  Not as many of Brian’s friends from Jeromeville, the ones I knew, were there.  Brian spent most of his time catching up with people he had grown up with in Valle Luna, and now that he was twenty-five years old, many of his friends had entered the real adult world and did not have much in common with a student like me.

I brought a sleeping bag, the same one I got for the Moonlight Cove trip a few years ago, and stayed the night on the floor of the Burrs’ living room, along with about ten of Brian’s other friends who were not local to Valle Luna.  Being a light sleeper, I woke up earlier than the other guests, and since I anticipated this, I brought a book to read: The Regulators by Richard Bachman, who was actually Stephen King.  Early in his career, Stephen King had written books under the pseudonym Richard Bachman, and when the media discovered that the Richard Bachman books were actually written by Stephen King, he staged a mock funeral for his alter ego.  A decade or so later, he wrote two books set in parallel universes with connections between the stories; one was published under his real name, and the other as Richard Bachman. The introduction to the book called it a posthumous work supposedly found among Mr. Bachman’s things by the nonexistent man’s nonexistent widow.  Reading kept me busy for about an hour until Brian woke up.  I left after telling Brian good morning and thanking him for inviting me.

It was around this time of morning on that day, January 1, with the sun just rising, as I left Brian’s house.  I was flipping around on the radio on the way home, looking for a good station, and a few minutes after I left Brian’s house, I heard the song “1999” by Prince.  The song was from 1983, but being that it now actually was 1999, I had a feeling I would be hearing this song many times over the next few days.  I heard it twice more on other stations before I got to Jeromeville that morning.

Now, five days later, I was almost halfway through the school year, and in my student teaching assignment, I had transitioned to a role as the primary teacher in both of my classes.  Basic Math B was doing a lesson on arithmetic and geometric sequences; as was usually the case in that class, the students who paid attention and did their work regularly seemed to understand, and the ones who did not pay attention struggled and did not care.

The other class was called Geometry, but the curriculum that Nueces High used took a more integrated approach.  Some geometry topics were introduced in the previous year’s Algebra 1 class, and some algebra topics were explored this year, particularly those that connect algebra with geometry.  Dr. George Samuels, one of my professors from the University of Jeromeville, was a co-author of this textbook.  The geometry class was learning about lines in slope-intercept form, and Kayla Welch had raised her hand to ask a question about a problem on the homework.  “Write an equation for the graph, then use the equation to find the cost of renting the bicycle for 4.5 hours,” she read.

I talked Kayla through finding the slope and y-intercept of the line on the graph; she correctly deduced that renting the bicycle cost a $12 fee, plus $8 per hour. I continued, “Now we put 4.5 hours into the equation to find the cost.”  I wrote the equation that Kayla had figured out on the board using function notation, f(x) = 8x + 12. “So what do I do to find f of 4.5?” I asked.

“Wait.  What is f?”

“That’s the equation of my function.  F of x equals 8x plus 12.”

“But where did you get f times x?”

“That doesn’t say f times x.  That’s function notation.”

Another student, Andy Rawlings, raised his hand.  “What’s a function?” he asked, confused.

Suddenly, a clear but disturbing picture of the reason for these students’ confusion began to emerge.  “You’ve never seen function notation?” I asked, pointing at the symbol “f(x).”

“No,” several of them replied.

I shook my head in frustration.  “I’m going to have a talk with Dr. Samuels,” I said angrily.

This comment lost them even further; I could tell by the looks on their faces and some confused noises that none of the students had any idea what I was talking about,  Apparently, not only had they not learned about function notation in Algebra I, like I had, but they also forgot that I knew one of the authors of their textbook.  I had told them once that I knew Dr. Samuels before, hoping that they would be impressed, but they apparently were not.  “Never mind,” I continued.  “Let’s start over from here.” I rewrote the equation without the function symbol, “y = 8x + 12,” and asked, “Does this make sense to you?”  The students who usually participated in class nodded and answered in the affirmative.

The rest of the period went on as normal.  After the bell rang, Mrs. Tracy motioned for me to come to her desk.  “They don’t see functions until next year, in Algebra II,” she said.

“I learned function notation in Algebra I,” I replied, genuinely confused.

“You were probably in all the honors classes.  These kids aren’t like you.  We just need to get them through this class so they can graduate from high school.  Most of these kids aren’t going to go to college, and if they do, it’ll probably just be Fairview Community College.  Maybe one of them will go on to a school like Jeromeville.  They aren’t ready for advanced topics like function notation.”

I just nodded, not sure what to say.  “Mmm-hmm,” I eventually replied.

“Just keep things simple.  Get them through your class.”

“I guess.”

“It’s not a bad thing.  You’re doing well so far overall.  Just think about that.”

“I will,” I said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.  See you then.”


This conversation was still on my mind that night when I showed up to The Edge, the junior high school age youth group at Jeromeville Covenant Church.  We always began the night with a short leader meeting.  The leaders sat in a circle on the floor of the fellowship hall, waiting for Faith Wiener, the intern in charge of junior high ministry whose name was probably amusing to some of the junior high school boys, to start the meeting.

We had quite a bit of turnover in our staff this year.  Adam White, the youth pastor, was still there.  Taylor Santiago, Brody Parker, Martin Rhodes, and Erica Foster were still on The Edge staff.  Hannah Gifford, the girl whom I had personally invited to join The Edge staff last year, had signed on for a second year. Noah Snyder, who held Faith’s position last year, was still on The Edge staff, but just as a volunteer.  Noah, like me, was studying to be a teacher, but for elementary school, and he was doing his student teaching through the other university in this region, Capital State.  Since he needed to focus on his teaching this year, he stepped down from the part-time paid position.  Five others from last year had left The Edge staff for other ministry opportunities. Josh and Abby McGraw had moved on to work with the high school group this year, as had Barefoot James.  Courtney Kohl and Cambria Hawley had both left The Edge to be Bible study leaders with JCF; I was in Courtney’s Bible study.

Since the start of the new year, one new leader, a freshman named Jonathan, had joined the staff of The Edge.  He showed up one Wednesday in October wanting to work with kids, after having been to J-Cov on a few Sunday mornings.  Jonathan’s heart seemed to be in the right place, although he did not act like the typical church kid.  Something about him rubbed me the wrong way.  And tonight there was someone else sitting in on our leader meeting, a taller than average, slim girl with dark brown hair that contrasted with her pale skin and blue eyes.  I knew this girl from JCF, although I had no idea that she would be here tonight.  She looked up and recognized me, so I said, “Hi, Jamie.  Are you going to work with The Edge?”

“Yeah!” she said.  “I’m going to check it out.  I was just thinking about what else I could get involved with at church.”

“Welcome!  It’s good to see you here!”

A few minutes later, when everyone had arrived, Faith called our meeting to order.  “We have a new leader tonight,” she said in her North Carolina drawl.  “This is Jamie.  Apparently you know Greg.”

“Yeah,” Jamie replied.  “From JCF.  And I know Hannah from JCF too.”

“Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself, and why you came to work with The Edge.”

“Well, I’m a freshman.  I’m from Ashwood.  I haven’t decided on a major yet for sure, but I’m thinking psychology or something like that.  And I’m looking at The Edge because I used to work with kids at my church back home, and I want to get back into that.”

“Sounds good!  Welcome!”

We went over the order of events for the night, starting with the game we would be playing.  “We’re gonna be doing the leader hunt tonight,” Faith explained.

“I love this one,” Martin said.

“Five of you will be hiding somewhere on the church property, and the kids will be looking for you.  You’ll each have a pen, and the students will have a card, and you’ll initial their card when they find you.  They’ll have five minutes to find as many of you as you can.  I’m thinking Jamie probably shouldn’t be one of the leaders hiding, since the kids don’t know you.”

“Good idea,” Jamie replied.  “That’s fair.”

“The bushes in the back behind the parking lot are always a good place to hide,” Adam explained.  “And I know Martin once hid in the church van and left it unlocked.  Are you gonna do that again?”

“I think so,” Martin replied.

“In a few minutes, when we’re done talking but before the kids show up, you can look around for good hiding places if you need to.  Plus, it’s dark, so it’s easier to stay out of sight.”

During the rest of the meeting, I thought about the layout of the church grounds, trying to think of a good hiding spot.  I had not investigated the bushes behind the parking lot well enough to know if that would work for me.  After the meeting, I walked around outside, looking to see what might offer a reasonable amount of concealment, and I suddenly got an idea for a somewhat nontraditional way of hiding.

The students began to trickle in. I overheard a girl wearing a shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch admiringly pointing out that Jonathan was also wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt. “Yeah, I like their clothes,” he said. “They’re kind of expensive, but that’s my style. I can’t help what I like. And people complain about how they use sweatshops, but I just like to think I’m giving some Third World kid a job.”

Calm down, Jonathan, I thought. No one cares about your style that much. And do 13-year-old kids really think about Third World sweatshops? I walked to the other side of the room and watched some boys playing basketball on the small-sized basketball hoop and backboard attached to the wall.

After the students had arrived, Adam called them all to attention.  “Tonight, we’re going to be playing the Leader Hunt game.  If you’re hiding, stand up.”  Faith, Hannah, Martin, Taylor, and I all stood up.  “These five leaders will be hiding somewhere on the church grounds, and you have to find them.  While they’re hiding, the rest of us will read you the announcements.”

I walked outside with the others who were hiding.  “Where are you hiding?” Faith asked when we were far enough away from the building for students not to hear.

“I was thinking, I’ll just hide in plain sight,” I explained.  “I’m going to sit on the bench at that bus stop over there, looking in the opposite direction, and act like I’m waiting for the bus.”

“That’s a great idea!  Do you think it’ll trick anyone?”

“Probably not many, but it’s funny.  Unexpected.”

I walked to the bus stop as Faith went to find a hiding place in the other direction.  I was not even sure if the buses ran at this time of night.  The local buses in Jeromeville were jointly run by the city government and the student association, with schedules meant to accommodate university students traveling to campus.  Another bus agency, called Arroyobus, ran local routes in the two other cities in Arroyo Verde County, as well as commuter buses between those two cities and other cities nearby. The Arroyobus route connecting Jeromeville and Woodville also stopped at this bus stop.  I knew nothing of the Arroyobus schedule, but I assumed that a bunch of youth group kids in their early teens also knew little about bus schedules, so they not be suspicious of seeing someone waiting for a bus at 7:30 at night. This would not affect the legitimacy of my hiding place.

Jeromeville was relatively quiet at night.  Most of the noise I heard was just from traffic passing by on Andrews Road.  Andrews was a fairly busy street, and across the street a little to my left was a large shopping center anchored by a grocery store. Just on the other side of the shopping center was Coventry Boulevard, the major east-west thoroughfare in the northern parts of Jeromeville.  This time of year, it was already dark by the time The Edge began, but the church grounds were illuminated by lampposts, and there was a streetlight not far from me, so with all of that, plus the non-hiding leaders keeping watch, it was safe for these students to run around the church property at night looking for leaders.

I heard voices as the students left the fellowship hall to start looking for us, but it sounded like most of them were headed in the opposite direction from me, toward the parking lot in the back.  I looked to my right, south on Andrews Road away from the church property, then I turned and looked to my left, slightly more visible.  I did not see any students coming, but I did see two young men on bicycles wearing white dress shirts, ties, and name tags.  Jeromeville was one of the most bicycle-friendly places in the United States, so seeing people riding bicycles at night was not at all uncommon here, but these two were too well-dressed to be students.  This could only mean one thing, which was confirmed when the two of them approached me and one of them asked, “Excuse me, sir?  We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions while you’re waiting here for the bus.”  He was now close enough that I could read his name tag: ELDER SIMMONS, THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS.  The words “Jesus Christ” were larger than the other words, just as they were on signs at their churches and logos on their promotional materials.

I had mixed feelings about Mormons and the Latter-Day Saints church.  They all seemed like nice people who favored traditional family values.  But from what I knew, they believed in additional Scriptures besides the traditional Old and New Testaments, and much of what I had learned about the Bible in the last few years seemed to suggest that there was no true Word of God beyond the Old and New Testaments.  I had Mormon cousins, because my grandpa on the Dennison side divorced Dad’s biological mother when Dad was a child and married into an LDS family.  I had only met those relatives a few times, but I always got along with them.  I had Mormon friends in high school, including Jason Lambert, who was in a lot of classes with me.  Jason and I once had an extremely liberal history teacher who we used to like to argue with.  More specifically, Jason liked to start the argument, because Jason was a lot more confrontational than me, and a bit cocky as well.  Jason was a great guy, but he rubbed me the wrong way sometimes.  Kind of like how Jonathan rubbed me the wrong way, with his Abercrombie & Fitch shirt and giving kids jobs in sweatshops. Maybe I should tell Elder Simmons to go get Jonathan to join the LDS church.

“Oh, sorry,” I said to Elder Simmons, realizing that my mind had been wandering for a few seconds, and that I had never replied to him.  “Actually, I’m not waiting for the bus.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.  I’m hiding from a bunch of kids.  I’m a youth group leader, at this church.”  I subtly emphasized those last two words as I motioned toward the buildings of Jeromeville Covenant Church behind me.  My experience had been that LDS missionaries tend to seek people from outside the church entirely, and they leave me alone when they find out that I attend a church.

“That sounds like fun,” Elder Simmons replied.  As he said that, a girl named Katie Hunter, from a family very active in the church, walked up to me with two of her friends.  They all handed me index cards.

“I found you, Greg,” she said.  “Sign this.”

“I see how the game works now,” Elder Simmons observed aloud.

After I signed the cards, the girls ran off to look for other leaders.  “I’ve been working with this group for about two years now,” I explained.  “One Sunday, that girl’s older brother came up to me out of nowhere and asked me if I would take him and his friend to McDonald’s.  We hung out all afternoon, and my friend heard about it and said I should be a youth group leader.”

“That’s a great story.”  A few other kids came up to me with their cards, and after I signed them, Elder Simmons continued, “I’ll let you get back to your game, then.  Here’s my card; you can let me know if you have any questions about our church.  Or you can come visit us; we’re on Eighth Street, down here and then turn left.” He handed me a card with his contact information on it.

“Okay,” I replied, with no intention of actually contacting him but wanting to be polite.  “Thank you.”

“Have a great night!” the other LDS missionary said.  They continued down the road on their bikes.


At the end of the night, some of the leaders talked about how the Leader Hunt game went.  Most of the students eventually found me at the bus stop.  The majority of them missed Martin in the church van.  I told Martin and Taylor about the LDS missionaries, and they thought that was funny.

That night, as I tried to sleep, I said a prayer for Elder Simmons and his friend.  I thanked God that they had some knowledge of Scripture and the truth.  I prayed that God would reveal the full truth to them, and that they would know Jesus Christ personally.  Only God knew for sure whether Elder Simmons and his friend were true believers in their hearts; it was not my place to judge.

My mind kept drifting again to earlier that morning, to what Mrs. Tracy had said about her students at Nueces High.  She did have a point.  I had a lot of classes in high school that were mostly honor students, and I had spent the last four and a half years taking classes at a relatively prestigious university, where virtually all of the students had been honor students in high school.  I was not used to students who were not in advanced classes, and I did have to remember that not all of my students would be going on to college.

The way I saw it, though, that was no excuse for low expectations.  Even if not all students were college bound, all students should at least know about the options for their future, so that they can be in control of their futures as much as possible.  The best teachers should be approaching their classes from the point of view that everyone can succeed, and I hoped that I would never have such a negative view of my students’ collective future as Mrs. Tracy had that day.  And I genuinely did believe that function notation was an Algebra I topic, which Geometry students would have seen before, because that was how it was in my own schooling.

The new year was almost a week old at this point.  I was really hoping for a good year.  For the most part, 1997 and 1998 had not been bad, but each one had had a few major letdowns.  I was not expecting 1999 to be perfect, by any means, but I was hoping that my life would continue on an upward trajectory.  This whole training to be a teacher thing was giving more clear meaning to my life, and if all went according to plan, by the end of the year I would be a paid full-time teacher with a classroom of my own, full of fun teenagers who called me Mr. Dennison.  Maybe then I would finally feel grown up.

Readers: Was there a best calendar year in your life so far? Tell me about it in the comments.

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

~ Greg Dennison ~ 3 Comments

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)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 3 Comments

“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.

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