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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, but I like it.”

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

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

“Thank you for the dance,” I said.

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


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

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

“Pretty good,” I said.

“How was your weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you been out with her a lot?”

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

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

“I guess.  I’m just so bad at this.”

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

“I’m trying not to.  But it’s hard.”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s fine.”


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

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

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

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

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


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

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August 16, 1998.  Josh and Abby’s wedding, and two birthdays. (#189)

“Bride or groom’s side?” the usher asked.  I knew quite a few guests attending this wedding, but I did not know this usher.

“I know both,” I said as I heard people approach behind me.  “I’m not sure which side I should be on.

Apparently one of the people approaching behind me was Taylor Santiago, because next I heard his voice say, “Come sit with us!”

“Okay,” I said.  I followed Taylor to a row in the middle of the church where Noah Snyder, Cambria Hawley, Erica Foster, Sasha Travis, Brody Parker, and Martin Rhodes were sitting, on the groom’s side, along with Adam White, the youth pastor here at Jeromeville Covenant Church.  I knew Abby and Josh through several different connections, most notably that Josh and I had been roommates for two years, but all of these connections ultimately led back to church and to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship.  The two of them had been leaders with the junior high group, along with me and the others I was sitting with.  Abby and Josh were going to switch to the high school group for next year, though, because both of them were close with students who would be starting high school.

Dan Keenan, the college pastor at J-Cov, began speaking about God’s divine and holy purposes for marriage.  Dan’s Sunday school teaching, and his sermons when he occasionally preached on Sundays, often followed some kind of acronym.  Since Abby and Josh were avid snowboarders, Dan explained four important keys to a Godly marriage using the acronym S-N-O-W.

I started to get bored about ten minutes into Dan’s sermon, so I looked around the room.  I recognized many faces, but I did not know everyone at this wedding.  Abby and Josh each had friends from before they came to Jeromeville, as well as people who they met from places other than church, and family members.  Weddings were still a new experience for me.  I attended a couple of weddings of relatives as a young child, then none for many years, but this was now my second wedding right here at J-Cov in less than two months.  I was now twenty-two years old, with a number of my friends in very serious relationships or engaged, so I expected that I would be going to many more weddings over the next couple of years.  And while I was happy for Abby and Josh, they were perfect for each other, I was finding weddings to be boring and unrelatable to me.  I had never had a girlfriend, I had never been in love, I had never come close to anything like this happening to me.  I had no frame of reference for what it was like to be pledging my life to be committed to someone in love.

After Pastor Dan’s sermon, Josh and Abby recited vows to each other and exchanged rings.  At Scott and Amelia Madison’s wedding, the one I had been to earlier this summer, one of the groomsmen stepped out and played sound effects of metal being forged, then returned with the ring.  Nothing silly happened with Josh and Abby’s ring presentation, though.  Dan pronounced the couple husband and wife, and everyone stood and clapped as Josh and Abby walked down the center aisle.

“How’s it goin’, Greg?” Noah asked once the newlyweds had left the room.  “Happy birthday, by the way!”

“Yeah, man!” Taylor added.  “Happy birthday!”

“I forgot it was your birthday!” Cambria said.  “Did you do anything exciting?”

“Today’s your birthday?” Sasha asked.  “Isn’t it Abby’s birthday too?  I heard someone say she was getting married on her birthday.”

“My birthday was yesterday,” I explained.  “I didn’t really do anything.  I was at my parents’ house last week, so they took me to dinner the night before I left to come back here.”

“Well, happy birthday!” Sasha replied.

“And you were right, it is Abby’s birthday today.  I’m one day older than her.”

“I think that would be kind of weird, getting married on my birthday.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because then my birthday would also be my anniversary, and I wouldn’t get a special day anymore.  I’d have to share it with my husband.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I said.  “But on the other hand, that means Josh is never going to forget Abby’s birthday.”

“He better not forget his wife’s birthday anyway, whatever day it is.”

“True.”


This wedding and the Madisons’ were the only ones I had been to as an adult, so I naturally found myself comparing the two wedding ceremonies and receptions in my mind as the day went on.  As I drove from the church to the reception, I kept expecting this reception to be significantly scaled down compared to the Madison wedding two months earlier.  Both wedding ceremonies were at Jeromeville Covenant Church, but the Madisons’ reception was on the other side of the Drawbridge, in a fancy ballroom in downtown Capital City.  Abby and Josh had rented the much simpler, and geographically closer, Jeromeville Veterans Memorial Hall.  I had been past that building many times in my car and on my bike, but I never knew what was inside.

The Veterans Memorial Hall was on 15th Street, less than a mile from the church.  It was part of a large park that included sports fields, a playground, a public swimming pool, and the place where people gathered every Fourth of July to watch fireworks.  Jeromeville High School was right next to the Veterans Memorial Hall.  I parked in the attached parking lot, between the park and the school, and walked inside.  It appeared that this building was just a community center that the city parks department rented out for events; the “Veterans Memorial” name referred to a series of plaques on the outside wall of the building listing names of Jeromevillians who died in foreign wars.  The main room was full of folding tables and chairs.  The tables were covered with plain white tablecloths and simple centerpieces with flowers.  As I suspected, this was less fancy than the Madisons’ reception, but this did not bother me at all.

I was about to sit at a table close to the long table where it appeared the food would be served until I noticed someone else’s name at the table.  I walked around trying to find my name until I remembered that everyone’s table assignment might be listed somewhere.  I returned to the entrance and found the list of table assignments, then walked to my table, at the complete opposite end of the room from the food table.  I was the first one to sit down at my table, and looking at the other name cards on the table, I deduced that Abby and Josh had arranged the seats intentionally, so that the wedding guests who knew each other would be sitting together as  much as possible.  The other youth group leaders, the same ones I sat with at the ceremony, were all at my table.  Sasha’s name card was at my table, but not directly next to me.  Hopefully I would still get a chance to talk to her

Since neither Sasha nor any of the others at my table had arrived yet, I walked around the room.  The other early arrivals included a few people I knew from church, so I spent a few minutes catching up with them.  I also looked around at the decorations.  On one wall was a bulletin board with the title “JOSHUA & ABIGAIL” spelled out on top, covered with photographs.  Pictures of Josh’s childhood adorned the left side of the bulletin board, pictures of Abby’s childhood on the right, and pictures of the two of them together in the center.  Josh and Abby were an outdoors-loving couple, and many of the pictures of them together depicted them hiking, camping, or snowboarding.  A guestbook was on a table next to the photos; I signed it.

By the time I got back to my table, Noah, Cambria, Erica, and Sasha had arrived.  “Hey,” I said as I returned to the table.

“So when does student teaching start?” Noah asked.  “High schools start earlier than UJ, so do you have to start when the school starts?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “A week from Monday, I have to go to the teacher meetings and some training that comes with the textbook.  Then the first day of school is the 31st.”

“And do your classes back at Jeromeville start then too?”

“Only the weekly seminar where the math students teachers meet and discuss things specific to math.  The other classes I have to take follow the university schedule.”

“I see.  Are you excited?”

“Excited.  And nervous.  I don’t really know what to expect.  But this is what I’m doing with my life now, so that part of it is exciting,” I explained.

Taylor and Martin had arrived while I was talking to Noah.  “What school are you at?” Martin asked.

“Nueces High,” I answered.  “Same school where Josh will be working.”

“Josh?” Sasha asked.  “This Josh?  He’s working at Nueces High?”

“Yes.  Josh finished his student teaching last year, and he got hired at Nueces High, to teach science.  So I’m going to know someone else on the faculty.”

“That’ll be fun for you two!”

“I know,” I said.  I tried to think of something else to say; I wanted to continue talking to Sasha.  She wore a black dress, slightly more formal than what I was used to her wearing, but otherwise she looked the same as she always did, with long, straight, brown hair and glasses over somewhat flattened facial features.  Sasha was not drop-dead gorgeous in the usual sense, but there was something charming and cute about her when combined with her enthusiastic yet slightly sassy personality.  “So how’s your summer going, Sasha?” I asked.  “How do you like being done with high school?”

“It’s nice,” Sasha replied.  “I’m mostly looking forward to moving out in a couple weeks!  And I won’t have to live in a dorm with other freshmen.”

“That’ll be nice, although my dorm experience wasn’t all that bad.  That’s where I met Taylor, remember.”  I gestured collectively toward Sasha, Erica, and Cambria, and said, “You three will be living together?  And Courtney and another girl I don’t know?  Is that right?”

“Yes!  It’s gonna be so much fun?”

“What?” Cambria asked.  “Did someone say my name?”

“I was just talking with Sasha about your apartment next year,” I explained.

“I’m excited!  You’re gonna be in the same house next year, but with different roommates, right?  Obviously Josh won’t be there, since he’s married now.”

“Yeah.  Sean and I are still there, and Brody and Jed Wallace are moving in.  And Josh and Abby got an apartment in south Jeromeville, on Cornell Boulevard.  This is the first year since I started at UJ that I won’t be moving.”

“That’ll be nice.”


The master of ceremonies introduced Josh and Abby some time later.  Josh led the wedding guests in a prayer for the meal, and the guests were dismissed one table at a time to get food.  Each table had already been served bread and butter for an appetizer, and I had long since devoured more than my share of my table’s bread.  I was ready to eat, but it appeared that my table would not be dismissed for a while.

The meal was chicken, salad, and some kind of pasta.  It was not bad, but not really my usual kind of meal.  “When I get married, I’m going to have my wedding catered by In-N-Out Burger,” I commented.

“I don’t think your future wife would want that,” Taylor said.

“Well, then,” I explained, “if she doesn’t, then she isn’t the one for me.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“Why not?  If I’m going to marry someone, we need to have things in common.”

“Yeah, but your love of In-N-Out Burger isn’t really one of those essential things.  Especially when you’re planning a wedding.  You have to compromise on some things,” Taylor explained.

“Greg does have a point, though” Brody countered.  “It’s important to have things in common.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling humorously vindicated.

As the guests ate, Josh and Abby wandered among the tables, talking to their friends and family.  When it was my turn, Abby greeted me with an enthusiastic “Greg!” and Josh shook my hand, saying, “Hey, buddy.”

“Congratulations,” I said.  Then, turning to Abby, I added, “And happy birthday.”

“Thank you!” she replied.  “Didn’t you just have a birthday too?”

“It was yesterday.”

“Happy birthday!  Are we the same age?  Twenty-two?”

“Yes.  I’m one day older than you.  And now Josh will never forget your birthday, because it’s his anniversary too.”

“I know!  We need to get around to the other tables, but we’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yes.”  Turning to Josh, I added, “And Josh, I’ll see you at work a week from Monday.”

“Yeah!” Josh replied.  “For sure!  Are you ready for student teaching?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”


After dinner, the master of ceremonies invited members of the wedding party to toast the new couple.  Although I knew a lot of people at this wedding, most of the wedding party was made up of people whom Abby and Josh had grown up with.  The only person in the wedding party whom I knew was Sam Hoffman, Josh’s friend who had also lived at our house last year.  Sam and Josh were both physics majors, so most of Sam’s toast consisted of stories about late nights studying and working in the lab together.

Next, it was time to cut the cake.  The guests stood and gathered around the table with the cake.  Sasha got up a few seconds before I did, so I followed her and stood next to her.  She turned around when she heard me approach.  “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I replied.

“I was going to tell you earlier.  I really like your tie.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling and blushing a little.  I was wearing the only tie I had; it was red, with dark blue diagonal stripes outlined in white.  When I graduated in June, I did not have a tie to wear with the shirt I wore under my graduation gown.  I had the clip-on bow tie that came with my tuxedo that I got for chorus performances, but Mom said that was too formal for graduation, so she brought one of Grandpa’s ties.  “It belonged to my grandfather,” I explained.

“Well, I’m sure he would have thought you were handsome.”

After Sasha said that, I realized that I had worded my statement awkwardly.  “He’s still alive,” I said.

“Oh!” Sasha replied.  “Then I’m sure he would find you handsome if he were here today.”

“Thank you.” I smiled as Josh and Abby took their pieces of cake and carefully moved their hands up to feed each other.  Abby smashed her cake in Josh’s face, and Josh did the same a split second later.  The guests cheered.  I did not.  “I don’t like this tradition of smashing the cake in each other’s face,” I said.

“But it’s fun!” Sasha replied.

“It’s your wedding!  It’s a serious event, and a solemn covenant before God.  And you’re supposed to trust your spouse, not mess up each other’s faces on your big day.”

“It’s not that big a deal!  Weddings can be fun!”

“I guess,” I said.

Josh and Abby wiped down their cake-stained faces as the master of ceremonies announced that it was time for the first dance.  It was a slow song which I had never heard before, but the voice and musical style were sufficiently familiar for me to guess that it was a song by Toad the Wet Sprocket.  Josh was a huge fan of that band and played their music in the living room sometimes when we lived together last year.  Before I met Josh, I already knew a few of their songs from hearing them on the radio.

A little later, the master of ceremonies announced that the dance floor was open to guests.  I had no interest in dancing to the clichéd pop songs typical of wedding receptions, but after a few of those songs, the disc jockey started playing swing music.  Swing dancing had become a huge nationwide fad over the last year, and while it took me a while to get on board, I had enjoyed learning swing dancing over the last couple months.  I turned to Sasha and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“I would!” she replied.  I led her to the dance floor arm in arm and began dancing with her, enjoying the music and enjoying her smile.  At one point in the song, I turned her in a slightly different way than usual.  Matthew, who taught the swing dancing lesson at the University Bar & Grill, had taught this move last week, and I practiced it with everyone I danced with that night.  This was the first time I had done this move with Sasha.

“That’s a new one!” Sasha exclaimed, smiling.  “I like that!”

“Thank you,” I replied.  I did the same move two more times with Sasha later in that song, and I dipped her low into my arms on the final beat.

“You’re getting a lot better!” she said as we walked off the dance floor.

“Thank you!  Will you be at the U-Bar tonight after the wedding?”

“I will!  Will you?”

“Yes.  I’ll probably miss the lesson, but I was going to head over there as soon as this is over.  Save me another dance there?”

“Of course!”


Sasha did save me a dance at the U-Bar that night.  Two, in fact.  I kept doing that turn that she complimented until I realized that I probably should not keep repeating the same move over and over again.  I had a sense that nothing would ever happen between Sasha and me.  I was not popular with girls, and she was only eighteen, probably too young for me.  But I hoped I was wrong about that.

Grandpa never asked for his tie back, and I still have it today.  Once I started buying my own ties, I stopped wearing Grandpa’s as often.  As far as I can remember, no one else ever complimented me on that specific tie that way.

As I lay in bed that night waiting to drift off to sleep, I thought back on all that had happened today.  This was a milestone of sorts in my life, the first time I had been to a wedding of someone who was younger than me.  Josh was twenty-five, though, so it was not true that both people getting married were younger.  That milestone would not come for another two and a half years, at Liz Wlliams and Ramon Quintero’s wedding.  Liz and Ramon were barely younger than me, though; all of us were born in the same year, but I was a couple months older than either of them.  Liz and Ramon also went to J-Cov, but they were not at Abby and Josh’s wedding today; neither of them was in Jeromeville this summer.

Sasha enjoyed seeing the couple smash cake in each other’s faces at weddings.  If things did work out between Sasha and me, she would probably want to smash cake in my face at our wedding.  I most definitely did not want this.  But at this point, I felt willing to compromise on this one little moment of one day if it meant getting to be with Sasha for the rest of my life.  I might even be persuaded to find a real caterer instead of In-N-Out Burger.  As I fell asleep that night, I kept thinking about Sasha’s cute smile and giggle as she smashed a piece of wedding cake in my face.


Readers: What are your thoughts about smashing the cake in each other’s faces at a wedding? Or any other wedding traditions? Let me know in the comments!

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(February 2024. Year 4 recap.)

If this is your first time here on Don’t Let The Days Go By, welcome. DLTDGB is a continuing story set in 1998 (currently), about a university student making his way in life. I am currently on hiatus from writing; the story will continue eventually at some unspecified time. This break is taking a lot longer than I expected; real life in 2024 is kind of overwhelming right now.  Today’s post is a recap of the highlights of year 4.

(Also, in case you need it, click here for the recaps of year 1, year 2, and year 3.)

If you are new to DLTDGB and want the complete story, start by clicking here for Episode 1, and then click Next at the end of each episode.


I was not in Jeromeville or at my parents’ house for most of the summer of 1997.  I was hundreds of miles away, doing a math research internship in Oregon.  I applied to this program on the suggestion of Dr. Thomas, one of my favorite professors.

June 22, 1997. My arrival in Oregon. (#135)

I met the other students in the program, found a church, and borrowed a bicycle so I could get around.  I did not have a lot in common with the other students in the program, other than mathematics itself, but I did my share of social activities with them.

June 28 – July 4, 1997. Outings with my new classmates. (#137)

I got to see my great-aunt and uncle a few times that summer; they lived not too far from me in Oregon.  My parents came to see me and other Oregon relatives one weekend.  I missed home terribly, but I made the most of my time in Oregon.  The most life-changing thing that happened during that summer was the realization that I did not want to do mathematics research as a career.

August 12-15, 1997. My final week in Oregon. (#142)

After a couple weeks at my parents’ house, I returned to Jeromeville and moved into a house with Josh McGraw, Sean Richards, and Sam Hoffman.  Josh had been my roommate the previous year as well.  I went to two retreats back-to-back just before school started, one for Jeromeville Christian Fellowship and one for the youth leaders at Jeromeville Covenant Church.

September 15-19, 1997. Seeing my friends again at Outreach Camp. (#145)

Late September, 1997. The retreat with the youth group leaders and a step outside my comfort zone. (#146)

I did chorus again that fall, and we performed at a ceremony for the renaming of a building on campus.  My future plans also solidified at the start of that school year.  With math research off the table, I put all my efforts into becoming a teacher, and I figured out that I would be able to graduate on time in June.  I made a silly movie, based on my Dog Crap & Vince stories, with the kids from the youth group at church.

Late October-early November, 1997. I made a movie. (#150)

I did a lot of things with the youth group at J-Cov that year.  Some of the leaders pulled a memorable prank on the kids, toilet-papering seventeen kids’ houses on the same night.  We also took a nine-hour road trip to San Diego for the National Youth Workers’ Convention.  I saw a lot of Christian bands play there.  Although most of my experiences at J-Cov over the years were positive, I saw a darker side when someone I knew there began harassing and almost stalking me.  He eventually had his church membership revoked; I was not the only one whom he had done this to.

November 30 – December 8, 1997. But he won’t admit he has a problem. (#155)

I had my eye on a few girls that year.  Carrie Valentine was two years behind me; I knew her from JCF.  She was nice, and she was easy to talk to.  I finally got brave and spoke up, and things did not turn out as I had hoped.

December 9-12, 1997.  Not everything follows consistent rules the way math does. (#156)

Over winter break, I made another movie with my brother and his friends, and I took a trip to my old roommate Brian Burr’s New Year party, where I got to see some of our older friends who had graduated.  When I returned to school for the new quarter, I interned in a high school classroom, to get more experience to prepare for my future career as a teacher.  I had recently discovered how much I loved In-N-Out Burger, and a location opened in Jeromeville that quarter.  I was there on the day it opened.

January 16, 1998.  A fresh cheeseburger, and a fresh take on relationships. (#160)

That winter, I went to Winter Camp with the youth group kids.  I started spending my Sunday nights at the De Anza house, where the guys hosted weekly watch parties for The X-Files.  That was already one of my favorite shows, and now I got to enjoy it with a large group of friends.

February 8, 1998. A new weekly tradition. (#162)

Sadie Rowland was another girl I was interested in at the time.  She was, like Carrie, two years younger than me, and she went to JCF.  She was the kind of girl whom I could sit there and talk to for hours, and it would feel like no time had passed at all.  She was preparing to leave the area for six months to do an internship, and we made plans to see a certain movie that was popular at the time.  The plans fell through, I never saw the movie, and Sadie for the most part disappeared out of my life.

March 5, 1998. My heart will not go on. (#165)

The University of Jeromeville men’s basketball team won the national championship for their level, one of the greatest accomplishments in Jeromeville Colts history.  Spring quarter started with an unexpected surprise: Carrie Valentine was in two of my classes, despite being in a major very different from mine.  I was able to let go of any lingering awkwardness, and we got to be friends again.  Besides, a new girl had caught my eye: Sasha Travis from church, even though she was only seventeen.

Early April, 1998. Trash. (#168)

With Josh and Sam planning to move out over the summer, I managed to find two new roommates to move in with Sean and me for the following year: Brody, another youth leader from church, and Jed, a freshman from JCF who would be moving out of the dorm at the end of the year.  JCF had a spring retreat that year.  Taylor, Pete, and Noah, who had been more involved with church than JCF the last few years, all went on the retreat, knowing it would be their last JCF retreat.

April 24-26, 1998. My lasting friendships had been captured in that group photo. (#171)

I did a lot of creative writing that year, and I took a Fiction Writing class that quarter.  We had a project to write a story and share a copy with everyone in the class.  I wrote a story about an awkward guy and a girl he liked, inspired by Sasha.  It was the first time I had ever shared my writing with an audience of people who did not know me well, and the experience was humbling.

May 6, 1998. “August Fog”: a short story to share with the class. (#173)

May 12, 1998. What I learned the most from sharing my story was not about writing. (#174)

A lot of other things happened that year.  My parents came to the Spring Picnic, and I decided that I enjoyed it better without them.  Noah and Taylor taught me to play Catan.  I was inducted as a member of Phi Beta Kappa.  I shared my testimony at JCF’s senior night, wearing a shirt with Brent Wang’s face on it.  I came in second at the Man of Steel competition, my best finish ever.  And I made a board game based on Dog Crap and Vince.  But the most important thing that happened was graduation.  I was finished with my Bachelor of Science degree, and ready to start the teacher training program next year.

June 20, 1998. Life was beginning to take shape. (#180)

Here is the complete year 4 playlist:

Let me know how you’ve been the last few months!

May 12, 1998. What I learned the most from sharing my story was not about writing. (#174)

I sat in Fiction Writing class, both nervous and excited.  Each of us in the class had written a story and given a copy to each other student, and we were taking turns getting our stories critiqued.  My story, “August Fog,” would be the third one reviewed today, and as the discussion for the second story wrapped up, I kept anticipating in my mind what people would say about it.

Our stories could be about pretty much anything, and the stories my classmates wrote pretty much were about everything.  A guy named Gary wrote about a guy who broke into someone’s dorm room and got caught.  He said that he got the idea for the story while thinking about a time his dorm room was actually broken into, and picturing in his mind what kind of loser would do that, so he made the thief in his story a complete pathetic loser toward whom the reader would have no sympathy.  A girl named Ariana wrote a tear-jerker about a girl whose boyfriend died in a tragic accident.  I sincerely hoped that her story was not inspired by anything that happened to her in real life.  A guy named Mike wrote an unusual story where the character just goes about his life, but the point of view occasionally switched to that of various inanimate objects that the character interacts with.  I was still trying to wrap my head around that one.

After reading all of these over the last couple weeks, I thought that “August Fog” was pretty good.  No typographical or grammatical errors that I could find, and it did not have perspective shifts like Mike’s story that made it difficult to follow.  The setting and premise were fairly straightforward; a guy tries to work out his feelings for a girl, and he decides in the end that he is not ready for a relationship.  While I was a little nervous to share my work with the class, I anticipated someone saying that I had so perfectly captured the tension of being someone my age with conflicted feelings toward a romantic interest.

“All right,” Serena Chang, the instructor, announced as we wrapped up the discussion of the story before mine.  “Next up is ‘August Fog,’ by Greg.  What did you all think?”  The other students in the class shuffled the papers on their desks to their copies of “August Fog.”  Some turned the pages, looking for notes they had written on the stories themselves.  I felt a little like I was being put on the spot, but none of this was unexpected, since I had seen twelve other students have their stories critiqued over the last few class meetings.

“I’m a little confused,” said Ariana.  Uh-oh.  This was not a good sign, if that was the first thing someone said.  Ariana continued, “We get all this character development for Dan, he’s kind of awkward and confused, but none of that really explains why he decides not to go out with Allison.”

What?  I thought, how is this not obvious?  Dan realized that he was not ready for a girlfriend, just like he said.  And people who rush into relationships are stupid, so it was obvious that he would not want to be like that.

“I agree,” added another girl, Jenn.  “I like Dan.  He seems like the kind of character you’re rooting for.  He’s awkward, yes, but he’s lovably awkward.  The ending just seemed like a letdown to me.  I was really hoping he would get his happy ending.”

No, I thought, silently protesting in my mind.  The ending was perfect.  The right thing is not to rush into a relationship when you still have so many unanswered questions, like Dan does, and he avoids temptation and does the right thing.  Where was the letdown in that?  Why did Jenn not see this ending as happy?

“I don’t see Dan’s awkwardness as lovable at all,” said Gary, the guy who wrote the story about his room getting broken into.  I only knew Gary from this class, but I had gotten the impression all quarter that I did not particularly care for this guy.  He wore a sweatshirt with the letters of his fraternity on it, and he always showed up to class looking like he had just rolled out of bed two minutes before.  The thief character in Gary’s story, whom he called a pathetic loser in his response to everyone’s critiques, reminded me too much of myself, especially the part in the beginning of that story when the thief was talking to girls in chat rooms and getting rejected by them.

“Why didn’t you think Dan was lovable?” Jenn asked.

“He’s pathetic.  He can’t talk to girls.  And he’s weak.  He knows Allison likes him, and he still won’t ask her out!”

I looked down toward the floor.  I did not feel like having all of these eyes judging me so harshly.  Of course, Dan was just a fictional character to the others in the class, but with the inspiration for my story so personal, their constructive criticism still felt like personal attacks.

“I do think that Dan is portrayed accurately and consistently,” Tim Walton said.  Tim was my friend, I knew him from church and from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, and I very much appreciated that he seemed to be turning the discussion in a more positive direction.  “Even if Dan’s motivation for his decision at the end isn’t completely clear, the reader definitely knows who Dan is by the end of the story.”

“I agree,” Jenn replied.

“But I think we need to see the same for Allison,” Tim continued.  “We get a little bit of her personality.  Friendly and quirky.  But there’s so much more we could see with Allison.  She’s a really fun character to read, and if we saw more of her, especially more direct interaction with Dan, we might be able to understand the ending more.”  Finally, someone was saying something directly helpful.  I nodded.

“Yes,” a girl named Christie said.  “I agree. But I don’t quite get the title.  The whole thing with the fog seemed kind of forced.  I can tell why it’s there: the fog is supposed to be a symbol of Dan’s unclear mind, and then it goes away.  But there’s no fog in August.  So maybe the story needs to be set during a different time of year.”

Since my story was about Dan being home from school on break, I set the story in the summer, when school breaks happen, and in Santa Lucia County, where my own home was.  If Christie has never seen fog in August, she obviously has not spent very much time in Santa Lucia County.

A few others continued to weigh in on Allison’s missing character development.  I wrote down in my notebook that I would have to add more scenes with Dan and Allison together when I revised the story.  I was feeling a little better about the kind of constructive criticism I was getting when Gary, the frat boy, opened his mouth again.

“I did have one part of the story I loved,” he said.  “When he gets to Denny’s, and he says a prayer before he eats.  That was hilarious!  I laughed my ass off!”  I looked at him, feeling a little confused, not understanding the point he was making.  Gary continued, “But I kind of feel like that kind of joke doesn’t belong in a serious story.  Maybe the story needs more humor, so the tone is more consistent.”

I puzzled over Gary’s comments as others added their thoughts.  The part that Gary laughed so hard at was not a joke and not intended to be funny.  What was he talking about?  It took me a few minutes to make sense of Gary’s remarks: he thought that, when I mentioned Dan praying before his meal, I was trying to make a joke about the quality of the food at Denny’s.  Gary thought that Dan was praying that he would not get sick from eating at Denny’s.  Since the beginning of sophomore year, when I started going to JCF and my social circle shifted so that I was spending most of my time around Christians, I noticed that most of my friends prayed before eating a meal, and I had done so as well pretty much every day of my life for the last two or three years.  But the concept of praying before a meal was apparently completely foreign to someone like Gary.

Mike, who wrote the story with the unusual shifts in perspective, said, “When I read this story, I got the sense that the reason Dan decided not to go out with Allison was because he doesn’t want to be tied down.  He isn’t ready for a girlfriend because he wants to date around, he wants to party and be young and live his life, and he isn’t ready to give that up yet.  I mean, he was on a date with another girl when he found out Allison liked him.  Dan probably likes that other girl too.”

Totally wrong, I thought.  Dan and Lisa are obviously just friends; that was not a date.  And the whole purpose of dating was to find someone to marry.  Do other people really not understand that?

“So we need to see Dan’s actions more clearly showing that he doesn’t want to be tied down,” Mike continued.

“I agree,” Gary said.  “This guy is an immature weirdo, and the reader needs to see him being immature and weird.”

You will not see that, because that is not who Dan is, I thought.

“But I like Dan,” Jenn said, repeating her thought from earlier.  “I don’t think he’s a weirdo!  But if that’s the case, we need to see more of Dan and Allison interacting.  Because I still don’t understand why he decided not to ask her out.”

“Definitely,” Tim agreed.  “And we need more of Allison.  Her character development is off to a great start, she’s an interesting character, but I feel like I need to know more about her.”

After a few more comments, Serena closed the discussion, as she had for all of the previous discussions.  “Greg, do you have any response to any of these thoughts?” she asked.

I froze for a few seconds, not sure what to say.  Eventually I said, “That was humbling.”  A soft chuckle arose from some of the other students, and I continued, “This was the first time I’ve ever really shared a story with a large number of people who don’t really know me.  I have a lot to think about.”  I did not say anything else out loud.

Two more students had their stories critiqued after mine that day.  When class was dismissed, Tim and I walked out of the room at the same time.  “That was interesting,” I said to Tim, dejectedly.  “I feel misunderstood.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Tim said.  “You basically wrote a Christian story for a secular audience.”

“Yeah.  I guess I did.”


After class, I walked out to the bench in the Arboretum that I thought of as my Bible Bench.  During winter break of junior year, I went to the Urbana conference in Illinois with thousands of other Christian young adults, and all of the attendees had been given a plan to read through the Bible in a year by reading a few chapters every day.  I had followed that plan, but usually only four or five times a week, so that I was now in my seventeenth month of reading the Bible in what should have been a year.  But I was finally nearing the end.

After I did today’s readings, which were supposed to be for December 19, I looked out at the tall trees surrounding me, thinking about what had happened today.  I really did see the world very differently from my peers, at least those outside of church and Jeromeville Christian Fellowship.  This was not necessarily a bad thing; I knew that the Kingdom of God would win in the end.  But having spent most of my socializing time the last few years around Christians, and without ever having had much of a secular social life before that, I was not often confronted with this difference in worldview as directly as I was today when people misunderstood my story.  The Bible was full of messages about how God’s people were set apart from the rest of the world.  But it was important for me to have experiences like this.  If my mission as a Christian was to spread the message of Jesus to the rest of the world, I needed to understand how the rest of the world worked.  I prayed about this, asking God to use this experience to teach me something about others, and about where I belonged in the world.  If Gary was so flummoxed by the concept of someone giving thanks to God before a meal, I wondered what he would think about me praying now between classes.

A little bit later, I sat in the Memorial Union reading the comments that others had written about “August Fog.”  Each student had a copy of my story.  They wrote comments on the story as they read it, along with a sentence or two summarizing their thoughts about the story.  After we discussed “August Fog” in class today, everyone gave me back their copies of the story, so that I could read their thoughts.  Most of the comments paralleled what they said in class.

At the end of Tim’s copy of my story, he wrote, “The reader needs more character development with Allison, because she has a lot of depth from what I see so far.  I like this character; she seems like someone I would want to meet and be friends with.”  Allison’s personality was modeled after Sasha Travis, whom I knew from church. Tim went to that church too, but I did not think that Tim knew Sasha.  Tim’s involvement at church seemed mostly confined to the college group, and Sasha was currently a senior in high school.  But Sasha was staying in Jeromeville next year, so she would be part of the college group soon.  I wondered if Tim would recognize that Allison was based on Sasha next year, when Tim and Sasha would both be in the college group.  But I never said anything, because I did not want to reveal that Allison was based on Sasha, or that I liked Sasha.

We had a second story due in three weeks.  We would be doing all the critiquing in one class period, in small groups, so I only needed to bring four copies of that one.  I wrote another story about awkward social interaction; I called it “Try Too Hard,” because the character was trying too hard, and failing, to fit in with the cool group of friends.  I had much lower expectations for people’s reactions to that story, since “August Fog” was so heavily criticized and misunderstood, and the others who read my story had the kind of reaction I expected.  The character in the story dreads seeing his friend because of something terrible that happened at a party the night before.  The others who read the story told me that I did a great job of building suspense, keeping the reader wondering what was so awful about the night before, but when I finally told about the actual awkward interaction at the party, it did not justify the huge buildup or the character’s intense frustration.

What I learned the most from sharing my story was not about writing.  It was more about seeing firsthand how my perspective on many things was quite different from that of others.  I had spent the last three years hearing messages for Christian students encouraging us to be intentional with dating and relationships, not to rush into things too fast, and to keep the end goal of marriage in mind.  Most university students did not approach dating this way, so the message of “August Fog” was lost on them.  And awkward moments, such as those in “Try Too Hard,” were devastatingly embarrassing to me, given my past, but no big deal to many others.

The final exam for the Fiction Writing class, due a week after “Try Too Hard” was due, was to revise the first story we had written.  I took everyone’s suggestions for “August Fog” and expanded the flashback scenes to show more interaction between Dan and Allison.  I wrote more humorous things for Allison to say, to establish that part of her personality more clearly.  And I removed the line about Dan praying before his meal; the audience of this story did not necessarily consist of people who actually do such things, and that quote that Gary had so grossly misunderstood did not add much to the story.

For the final exam, there would be no sharing with peers; I just turned in one copy to Serena.  She said that we could get our stories back, with her thoughts and our final grades, by stopping by her office during finals week.  Serena said that in my revised version of “August Fog,” the characters were much more well defined.  Dan was still the awkward young man confused by love, but the reader had much more of a sense of Allison’s character, which was missing from the first draft.

Serena’s suggestion for further revision, if I chose to continue developing this story, was to make more tension with Allison, and make the interactions between Dan and Allison more awkward.  According to Serena, the information in the story still did not justify Dan’s decision not to pursue a relationship with Allison.  The interactions between them seemed perfectly normal for this stage of friendship, so Serena suggested I needed to show exactly what made Dan so hesitant to dive into the relationship.  She suggested, for example, making Allison a bit more overbearing, making her loquaciousness contrast more with Dan’s introversion.  That makes sense, but that was not the reason I had in mind why Dan decided not to pursue the relationship.

At the end of Serena’s response to my revision, she wrote, “Your writing and your sense of fiction have improved a great deal over the last few months.  I hope you continue writing.  Good work!”  My final grade for the class was an A-minus.  I considered this a major victory, considering that Serena had made it clear on the first day of class that this was not going to be an easy class.  She said that she had only given one A the last time she taught this class.  Also, I had a mental block against English classes that went back to a teacher in high school whose teaching style clashed with my learning and writing styles.  Since then, any time I did better than a B in an English class was cause for major celebration, so to me, an A-minus was a success.

I did continue writing, as Serena hoped.  Over the course of the twenty-five years since I took that class, writing as a hobby has come and gone from my life, but it never went away completely.  I have forgotten much of what I learned in that class, though.  My major problem with “August Fog” and “Try Too Hard” was that I did not know enough about social interactions and relationships in the real world to write convincing fictional interactions and relationships.  I do not know that I ever consciously improved this aspect of my writing.  As I got older, though, I have learned more about others’ perspectives on socializing and dating, which I think automatically helped my writing.

I never did share “August Fog” with Sasha or any of her close friends.  Tim said that he would want to meet someone like Allison.  To this day, I do not know if Tim ever realized that Allison was based on Sasha, or if he even remembered my story by the time he met Sasha.  But they did meet eventually; Sasha ended up married to one of Tim’s best friends, and Tim was a groomsman in their wedding.  But that is a story for another time.


Readers: What is something you feel others often do not understand about the way you see the world? Tell me about it in the comments.

Update: click here to go behind the scenes.

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May 6, 1998. “August Fog”: a short story to share with the class. (#173)

I clicked Print and watched as the pages began sliding out of my inkjet printer.


Gregory J. Dennison
English 5-04 Chang
6 May 1998

August Fog

Dan sat by the telephone thinking of Allison.  He wondered if she was home tonight, or if instead his message would sit forever unanswered on her machine.  Allison was not always easy to reach, although she and Dan had had some interesting conversations in the past.  The last time Dan wrote to her, he said he would call the next time he visited the area.  And Dan was a man of his word.

He picked up the phone and hung up again before dialing.  He thought about what he wanted to say to Allison and how to do so without looking foolish.  He picked up the telephone again, took a deep breath, and dialed Allison’s number.  His heart began to beat faster as the phone rang.  After five rings a machine picked up.  “Hi!  You’ve reached Allison,” the recorded voice on the other end said.  “I’m not around right now, but leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

Dan took another breath as the machine beeped.  “Hi, Allison, this is Dan.  I’m home now, and I’ll probably be around a couple weeks.  I just wanted to say hi and see if you wanted to hang out sometime.  I hope things are going well.  Talk to you later.”  He hung up, thinking about how he sounded like a fool.  He hoped that the recorded greeting was telling the truth, that she really would get back to him.  He wondered where she was.  The fall term had not started yet, so she would not be in class.  She was probably working.  Dan had nothing to do for the next two hours; his parents had not returned from work yet and his two brothers were both at basketball camp.  He decided to take a short walk.

Dan felt a cool wind blowing as he walked under the overcast sky.  It was a mild day in the Gabilan Valley, and the pleasant afternoon sun had given way to a cool fog blowing in from the coast.  He would be leaving the area and returning to school in two weeks where, he hoped, the weather would be warmer.


Dan knew Allison from high school, but she was younger, a freshman when Dan was a senior.  Dan and Allison had mutual friends, but they had never really talked until the year after graduation.  Dan came home from college for Homecoming weekend in the fall of his second year away, and he went to the football game at his old high school, sitting by himself.

Two girls sat down next to him a few minutes later.  One of them, the one directly adjacent to Dan, smiled at him, as if to acknowledge that she recognized him yet did not know him well enough to say anything.  Dan gave the same smile back.  The girl stood average height, with straight brown hair and glasses.  He thought he remembered her name, so he decided to take a guess.

“You’re Allison, right?” he said.

“Yeah.  I remember you, you graduated a couple years ago…” Allison thought, trying to remember his name.  “Dan?”

“That’s right,” Dan said.  “You’re a junior this year?”

“Yes.  I can drive now!  I got my license last month.  The day after I got my license, my friend played this trick on me.  She made a big sign that said, ‘Stay off the road!  Allison Thomas has her license!’ and put it right outside my house.”

Dan laughed.  He looked at her and smiled, enjoying her sense of humor so far.  He wanted to talk to her, to get to know her better; he hoped that he was not just setting himself up for rejection.  “So what are you up to this weekend?” he asked.

“Tonight I’m going to hang out at my friend’s house.  It should be fun.  We’ll probably watch some movies.”

“Sounds like fun!” Dan said.  Allison seemed friendly.  Dan and Allison talked about school and life and other things off and on throughout the football game.  As Dan watched the game, he tried to understand the meaning of this encounter and this new friendship.


Besides Allison, Dan had one other high school friend he still talked to, a girl named Lisa.  Dan and Lisa had at least three classes together every year they were in high school. Lisa had called him earlier that week, and they had made plans to have dinner at Denny’s that night.  Dan looked at his watch; he still had plenty of time before then.  He turned the corner and continued walking.

When he got home, he checked the answering machine.  No messages.  Allison still had all night to call back.  Dan paced around the living room, wondering what this all meant, what he meant to Allison, and why she had to be so hard to reach.  He thought about the possibility of spending time with her that week.  He was not sure exactly what he wanted to do with Allison; he would ask her what she wanted to do, if she ever called back.  If they did start seeing each other regularly, they would have to work something out once Dan returned to school, but Dan would worry about that later. She had to call back first.

Dan sat down and watched the five o’clock news on television.  He looked at the telephone next to him, wondering if he should try calling Allison again.  He decided against it; he had left a message already, and that was all he could do for now.  He hoped she would call back before he left to meet Lisa; that would get one thing off his chest.  He left after the news to go meet up with Lisa at Denny’s.

Dan drove south under a graying sky.  He had a choice of two routes to get to Denny’s.  He chose the one that took him past Allison’s house.  When he got to her street, he looked down the street to see if she was home.  He did not see her car parked on the street.  He looked ahead to see if Allison’s car was approaching, then he looked behind.  He was remembering a time, during spring break a little over a year ago, when he had been walking in front of Allison’s house just as she drove up.


Unlike this evening, that day had been bright and sunny, and Dan had been on foot.  Dan squinted to make sure that it was in fact Allison who had been behind the wheel of the car turning into the Thomases’ driveway.  She was, but she had not seen him at first.  Dan overcame the sense of nervousness and anxiety that was washing over him and waved to her.  “Allison!” he called out.

Allison turned around.  “Dan!” she said.  “Hi!  How are you?”

“Doing well.  I’m home for spring break.”

“Your break is earlier than ours.”

“I know.  It usually is.  How’s school going?”

“Great!  I got straight As last quarter.”

“Congratulations!”

Dan and Allison continued talking for over half an hour, so long that Dan lost track of time.  They covered a wide range of subjects, such as Allison’s pet frog, her plans to attend Creekside Community College in the fall, and the many uses of Spam.

Eventually Mrs. Thomas came outside looking for her daughter, and Dan took this to mean that it was time to go home.  He said hello to Mrs. Thomas and left.  He wished that he and Allison could continue talking.  He wanted to sit down with Allison and talk about life, but frogs and Spam had just seemed more interesting at the time.  Maybe next time they could talk about something else.


“Hey, Dan!” Lisa said as she walked into the waiting area at Denny’s.  Dan stood up, and Lisa hugged him.  “How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good,” Dan said.  “Just hanging out with family while I’m home.  How are you?”

“Same.  Studying for the MCAT and getting ready to send applications.”

The server noticed Lisa’s arrival and led Dan and Lisa to their table.  Another server came to take their orders, and they continued making small talk while waiting for the food to arrive.

“One of my roommates last year was applying to medical school,” Dan said.  “It seems like an intense process.  Good luck.”

“It is intense.  And I’m going to have to send a lot of applications.”

“Yeah.”

“So you still have one more quarter?”

“Yeah.  I need three more classes.”

“Are you going to stay there or move back home after you’re done?”

“Probably stay there.”

Dan and Lisa continued talking for a while.  After the food arrived, Dan said a prayer and began eating.

“I wanted to tell you,” Lisa said.  “My sister told me something the other day that you might like to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Allison Thomas likes you.  She said she would go out with you.”

Dan dropped his fork.  The sudden noise startled the elderly couple dining at the adjacent booth.  “Allison likes me?  Really?”

“Yeah.  She thinks you’re a really great guy.”

“I tried calling her this afternoon.  She didn’t call back yet.”

“Well, she’s a busy girl.  But if she likes you, I’m sure she’ll call you back.”

“Yeah.  It’s exciting to know she likes me,” Dan said.  His face, however, expressed something less than excitement.  Dan looked down at his food, not sure quite what to say or think.  He started thinking again about a possible relationship with Allison.

After about thirty seconds, Lisa broke the silence.  “What’s wrong?” Lisa asked.

“It’s just that this happened so suddenly.  A lot of things to think about.”

“Yeah.  I know.  But I think you should go for it.  Allison’s cool.”

“I really like hanging out with her.  She’s funny.  I like her sense of humor.  The distance thing might be a problem though.”

“You’re only a few hours away.  You can work it out.  I’ve known long-distance couples that stay together a long time.”

“I guess.”

“It’s ultimately your decision, Dan, but I always thought you and Allison could make a good couple.”

“Really?” Dan asked.  “How come?”

“Whenever I see you with Allison, you’re always smiling and laughing.”

“I guess you’re right.  She is pretty funny.”

“See?  You and Allison will be great together.  Go for it!”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.  Just ask her out.”

“Hmm,” Dan said, staring out the window at the overcast sky.


Dan got into his car and started it.  He left the Denny’s parking lot a few minutes after Lisa did.  He was developing a plan in his mind.  He would call Allison and ask if she wanted to do something that weekend.  He was not sure what they would do.  He did not quite know what Allison did and did not like to do, so he would leave it open to her.  After that they would go out for ice cream or coffee or something, somewhere where they could have a serious, meaningful conversation.  For once, Dan thought.  He would mention the possibility of them being more than friends, without letting on that he knew anything.  It would not be that hard to say because he knew how she felt about him.  Yet something still seemed wrong.

He thought about what he wanted their relationship to be like.  They would spend a lot of time together before he had to leave for school.  After that, he would call Allison as often as he could; maybe if they were dating, she would be around to pick up the phone more often.  He planned to visit home a lot next year too.  They would have long, deep, serious conversations with each other at least once a week, hopefully more.  He would be there to console her in hard times, and she would be there for him.  He tried to imagine quality time with Allison.  In his vision, he sat on a couch in his apartment at school, alone, as if he were waiting for a telephone call.  He tried again, but now the only picture that came to his mind was a frog jumping over a can of Spam.

Dan suddenly realized what was wrong.  It felt as if he had been hit over the head with a two-by-four.  He pulled into an empty parking lot to sit and think for a few minutes.  He felt like screaming, or perhaps crying; he did not know which.  He looked up at the sky.  It remained foggy, but the fog was thinning in some places.  The moon shone through in one place, lighting the clouds around it with a beautiful silvery glow.

Dan got home and walked slowly up to the door.  He opened the door to see his brothers eating dinner in front of ESPN SportsCenter.  He continued into the dining room without saying anything to them, going to his parents at the dinner table.  “Hi, Daniel,” his mother said.  “Allison Thomas called for you about fifteen minutes ago.  She said to call back.”

“Okay,” Dan said.  He took a deep breath.  He walked slowly up the stairs and prepared to do what he felt he needed to do.  When he got to his room, he started to dial Allison’s number, but felt a sudden urge to pause and think, to wonder if he had made the right decision.  But he knew he had.  He dialed, and Allison answered on the third ring.

“Hello?” Allison said.

“Hi, Allison?  It’s Dan.”

“Hey.  How are you?” she asked.  Dan and Allison talked for a few minutes.  Dan talked about his time at Denny’s with Lisa, and Allison talked about an annoying co-worker.  Eventually Allison mentioned one of her ex-boyfriends, and Dan saw an opportunity.

“Are you seeing anyone now?” he asked.

“No, I’m not.”  Dan thought he detected a change in Allison’s voice as she continued.  “No one special in my life at the moment.  And what about you?”

“No,” Dan said.  He followed with a deep breath and continued.  “I don’t know if I’m ready for a girlfriend right now.  I need to build stronger friendships first and really get to know people.  It’s so important to be friends before you can know if a person is right for you.”

“Yeah.  I understand.”  After an awkward five-second pause, Allison said, “So what else have you been up to?”

“Not much,” Dan replied.  “Are you busy this weekend?”

“I have to work tomorrow morning.  It really stinks.  Some guy can’t come in tomorrow, so I have to cover his shift and open the store at 8 a.m.  But other than that, I don’t know.  Did you want to hang out?”

“Sure.  Is there anything you want to do?”

“Hmm,” Allison said.  “Why don’t I call you tomorrow and let you know what my schedule will be like?”

“Okay.”

“Sounds good.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

“Okay.  Bye,” Dan said.  He hung up the telephone and looked out the window.  The fog had continued to relent, and he could see the moon clearly now.


This week and next week, in my Fiction Writing class, we were critiquing each other’s stories.  Each of us had to write a story and share it with everyone else.  The twenty of us in that class were randomly assigned one of four days to have our stories critiqued, and I was going on the third day, next Tuesday.  All week, I had been reading other students’ stories, preparing to critique them.  We discussed the first group of stories yesterday, and we would discuss the second group tomorrow.  I needed to bring enough copies of “August Fog” tomorrow for every student and the instructor to read before next Tuesday’s class.

Back in those days, the major chain store of copy and print shops in the western United States was Kinko’s.  The local politicians here in Jeromeville always made a big deal of supporting local small businesses over the corporate chains, which they portrayed as evil and greedy.  I did not vote for any of those aging hippie politicians, I did not share many of their views, and most of the owners of the local businesses did share their views.  So, although I knew of one locally owned print shop, I chose Kinko’s out of spite.  Ironically, Kinko’s was founded in the 1970s as a local business in a countercultural college town before it grew into the corporate chain that it was by now.  Several years after the night I went to Kinko’s to make twenty copies of “August Fog,” Kinko’s would be bought by an even larger corporation, eventually changing its name to FedEx Office to reflect the new ownership.

Making twenty copies of a five-page story was not exactly cheap, but all of us had been warned on the first day of class that we would have to do that when we got to this project, so I knew this was coming.  As I watched the Kinko’s employee bring me the stack of collated and stapled packets, I felt confident about my story.  Some of my classmates’ stories that I had been reading this week had grammatical errors and awkward formatting, and others were just difficult to follow and understand.  I honestly believed that “August Fog” was superior to those other stories in every way, and that I would breeze through this assignment. I was ready to hear compliments from my classmates on having written the best short story ever, capturing the struggles of searching for love in young adulthood in a clear and beautifully relatable way.

I was very wrong, of course.

(To be continued…)


Readers: Have you ever been excited to share an artistic creation with others, only to find that it was not as well-received as you had hoped it would be? Tell me about it in the comments.

I am working on a behind-the-scenes post about this week’s episode . I will post a link when it’s ready, probably later today or tomorrow.

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.


May 3, 1998.  The strategy that works one time might not work another time. (#172)

I stepped outside the church building and looked around for friends to talk to.  It was 12:15 on a sunny, warm Sunday, and the rest of the day would be relatively free of stress.  The only homework I had to work on was to work on a project that was not due for another week, a project that I was expecting to be more fun than most major assignments.

I looked over and saw Courtney Kohl and Cambria Hawley.  “Hey,” I said.

“Hi, Greg,” Cambria replied.  “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I replied.  “Just going to work on an assignment for English this afternoon.”

“You’re a math major.  I don’t think of you as taking English.  That’s kind of weird.”

“The teacher training program for next year requires a certain number of English units beyond the writing classes that everyone takes.  But it can be any class, and I needed one more.  So I took Fiction Writing, because that one looked like the most fun.”

“That does sound fun!”

“How is that class?” Courtney asked.  “I know someone who took it last year.”

“I like it,” I replied.  “I’ve learned a lot about myself as a writer.”

“That’s good.”

“Guess what?” Cambria said.  “We got an apartment!  And,” looking directly at me, she continued, “I think it’s the same apartment complex where you lived last year.  Sagebrush Apartments, on Maple Drive.”

“Yes, that’s it,” I said.  I was surprised at first that Cambria knew that, but then I remembered that she had been to my apartment once last year, when she interviewed me for an assignment.

“Was yours a three-bedroom or four?” Cambria asked.

“Three,” I said.

“We got a four-bedroom.  There’s five of us, so two of us will be sharing the big bedroom.”

“Who all is living with you?”

“Us two,” Cambria said, gesturing to indicate herself and Courtney.  “EricaSasha.  And my friend Kirsten.  You probably don’t know her.  She was on my floor freshman year.”

“That’s cool,” I said.  “Glad you found something.  I’m sure I’ll see your place at some point next year.”

“Yeah!  Speaking of which, we need to go find Erica and Sasha.  Have you seen them?”

“They were here today, but I don’t know where they went.”

“Oh, okay.  Have a good afternoon!”

I waved at the two girls as they walked away.  A few seconds later, Pete Green and Taylor Santiago walked up to me.  “Hey, Greg,” Taylor said.  “What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?” I said.  “Just X-Files at the De Anza house at 10.”

“I have this new board game that I want to try out,” Pete explained.  “I saw my sister and her husband over spring break, and I learned it from them.  You can play with up to four people, so Taylor and I were trying to get two more.  You interested?”

“What time?”

“I was thinking 7.  At Taylor’s house.”

“How long does the game take?” I asked.  I remembered when Pete, Taylor, and I were freshmen, Pete taught me the board game Risk, and that game took forever.

“Probably about an hour,” Pete answered.

“Sure.  I’m still going to go to X-Files at 10, so that should be time to get a couple games in, right?”

“Yeah.  That works.”

“See you then,” Taylor said.


In the Fiction Writing class, the class often began with a brainstorming exercise.  A couple weeks ago, I had to write, completely unedited, for ten minutes on one of three given prompts.  I chose the prompt “My parents lie.”  I wrote about how my parents say that it is okay with them that I have never had a girlfriend, and that they do not want to interfere with my life.  But they must have been lying about that, because of what happened with Allison.  Mom introduced me to Allison, a teenage girl from a family she knew at church, because Allison was having trouble in her math class and I might be able to help.  From the way Mom was acting, the likely explanation was that Mom was trying to set me up with Allison.

I wrote a total of three pages by hand about the Allison situation.  Of course, there was no requirement in these brainstorming exercises that I be truthful, and Allison was a fictional character.  There was some truth to what I wrote, though.  During winter break sophomore year, my mother introduced me to Monica Sorrento, who, like Allison, was a high school student from a family at my church back home.  But, in the writing exercise, when I went on to describe Allison’s appearance, I did not describe Monica Sorrento.  Instead, I described Sasha Travis, a girl from my current church in Jeromeville, one of Courtney and Cambria’s future roommates.  “I don’t know what it is that so fascinates me about Allison,” I wrote.  “She isn’t bad looking by any means, but I barely know her.  We live in different worlds; she is a 17-year-old high school student, and I am a college student getting ready to graduate.”  All of that was currently true about Sasha.  I even wrote a poem about her recently.

Serena Chang, the instructor for the writing class, had responded to my assignment, “This brainstorming seems to have taken off for you.  It might be worth it to explore this voice and this Allison character more.”  I did explore Allison more, in another writing assignment where we had to focus on describing a setting, and showing other things through the description.  I described Allison’s bedroom in great detail, being as specific as I could.  Serena pointed out that details like which CD was in her stereo were extraneous, although I thought it said something about her taste in music, which may be important to her character.

Serena did approve of some of the other details.  She liked the contrast when I described the two posters in her room, one a print of Monet’s Woman with a Parasol and the other a picture of a can of Spam.  In real life, I had once overheard Sasha say that she loved that painting, and I could also imagine her having something silly in her room like a poster of Spam.  Serena also noted two details I wrote that created tension that could be explored further: an unreturned message on Allison’s answering machine from a male friend who was away at school but in town for a few days, and an unfinished letter on her desk to a child in Mexico whom she met on a church trip there.

When I started thinking of ideas for the first full story I would have to write for this class, I kept coming back to Allison.  I already had two pre-writing assignments about her, and the real Sasha already occupied many of my thoughts those days, so it made sense to transfer some of those existing thoughts to the story I was creating.  In most of the fiction writing I did, the main character was like myself, and I was not sure if I could write a convincing story with Allison as the main character.  So I decided to tell a story from the perspective of the guy who left the message on Allison’s answering machine.  That detail from the pre-writing assignment came not from Sasha, but from Allison’s original connection to Monica back home, and my attempts to stay in touch with Monica for a while.  Regardless, it seemed like something I could connect to a male main character based on myself.  I typed a brief outline of this new story, then began writing until it was time to go learn Pete’s new game.


Taylor lived on the corner of Andrews Road and West 15th Street, just six minutes from my house walking, but I drove since I would be leaving straight from there to the weekly X-Files watch party that some other friends hosted.  Taylor’s house and my house were both halves of duplexes attached to the next door neighbor on one wall, with essentially the same floor plan, but reversed left to right.  Adam White, the youth pastor from church, lived here too, along with two other guys from church.

I knocked on the door, and Taylor answered.  “Hey, man,” he said.  “Come on in.  Pete’s setting up the game on the dining room table.”

“You said you can play it with four people?  Do we have a fourth?”

“Noah is on his way.  He was hanging out with the Hunters this afternoon.”

Lucky, I thought.  The Hunter family lived in an old nineteenth-century farmhouse about three miles outside of the Jeromeville city limits.  I knew some of their children from being a youth group volunteer; they were fun to hang out with.

“Hey,” Pete said when he saw me.  I looked at the open red box that Pete’s new board game came in.  The game was called The Settlers of Catan, an unwieldy but intriguing name for a game.  Pete had arranged thirty-seven hexagonal tiles in a roughly round pattern.  The tiles were illustrated differently, representing different kinds of geography and terrain.  Tiles which looked like forests, mountains, and fields were surrounded by a ring of water tiles, apparently representing an island.  Four piles of game pieces, made from wood and painted in four different colors, were piled on the table around the terrain tiles, with stacks of cards next to the tiles.  This game looked like no other game I had played before, and I was curious how this worked.

The three of us made small talk for a while until Noah arrived.  He walked in unannounced without knocking.  “Hey, guys,” Noah said.  “Sorry I’m late.  I hope you didn’t start without me.”

“We waited,” Taylor said.  “You ready?”

“Yeah.  So how do you play this?”

“The object is to be the first to get to ten points,” Pete explained.  “You build settlements and cities, connected to each other with roads, and those give you points.  These cards here are resources.  Wood, brick, wheat, sheep, and stone.  You use those to build things.”  Pete gave each of us a reference card that explained which resources are needed to buy different things.  The resources worked a bit like money, I thought to myself.  You spend a wood and a brick to build a road.  Makes sense.

“So how do you get resources?” I asked.

“Each tile is going to have one of these number tiles on it,” Pete said, gesturing toward a stack of small tiles the size of coins.  “Let me show you an example.”  Pete placed a settlement at the intersection of a forest, mountain, and field tile.  He placed a number 3 tile on the forest, an 8 on the mountain, and a 10 on the field.  “Settlements go on the corners, like this.  At the start of every turn, the player will roll the dice.  Whatever number gets rolled, anyone with a settlement touching that number takes that resource.  So, for example, any time an 8 gets rolled, I would get stone.”  Pete pointed to the mountain with the 8 tile; it was the same color as the stone cards.  Then he pointed to the 3 on the forest, and said, “Any time a 3 gets rolled, I would get wood.  And,” Pete continued, pointing to the field, “when a 10 gets rolled, I would get wheat.”

“I see,” Taylor said.”

“So when you start the game, it’s important to pay attention to what numbers you start on.  Because, with two dice, some numbers get rolled more often than others.  Numbers near the middle are more common, and the extremely low and high numbers, like 2 and 12, are the least common.”

“Yes!” I exclaimed.  “That’s math!  It’s a simple probability exercise.”

“Right,” Pete said.

“So will Greg be at an advantage because he’s a math major?” Noah asked.  I rolled my eyes.

“Not if you understand what I just explained about some numbers being more likely,” Pete replied.  “That’s the most advanced math that happens in this game.  And these dots on the number tile tell you how likely each number is to get rolled.”

“That makes sense!” I exclaimed.  “There are two dots below the 3, because there are two ways to roll a 3, and five dots below the 8, because there are five ways to roll an 8.”

“Ways to roll?” Noah asked.

“Yeah.  Two ways to roll a 3.  Roll 2 and 1, or 1 and 2.  Five ways to roll 8.  6 and 2, 5 and 3, 4 and 4, 3 and 5, 2 and 6,” I explained, counting on my fingers the ways to roll 8.

“Oh, okay.”

Pete went on to explain several other important parts of the game.  How to grow settlements into cities, by spending additional resources.  Playing the robber whenever 7 is rolled, and the risk of getting robbed for players who hoard too many resource cards.  Development cards, which included soldiers to protect players from the robber.  Trading resources.  Bonus points for the longest road and the largest army of soldiers.  I understood the resource production that Pete had explained first, but by the end of everything else, my head was spinning.

“Do we want to just start playing, and we’ll figure it out as we go along?” Noah suggested.

“That’s probably the best idea at this point,” Pete answered.

“I’m still a little confused,” I said.

“Just remember this.  Roll the dice, then trade, then build.  Every turn goes in that order.  And you have the reference card to show you how much it costs to build things.”

“Okay,” I said.

Pete placed randomly selected numbers on each tile of the island.  “That’s the great thing about this game,” Pete said.  “By shuffling the tiles, the board is different every time you play, so it’s always a new game.  And the strategy that works one time might not work another time.”

“Yeah,” Noah said.  “I was just thinking that.”

Pete explained how to start the game.  Each player took turns placing a settlement and a road, then the players placed a second settlement and road in reverse turn order.  Reversing the order for the second round kept the game balanced, so that the player who got the last choice for the first settlement, after the best spots had been taken, placed the second settlement first.  I placed my first settlement on a wood tile with number 6, a brick with number 4, and a sheep with number 10.  I figured that starting with wood and brick would be important, so that I could build roads and expand the part of the island I was settling.  Wood and brick were also required to build settlements, which would produce new resources.  And my wood tile was a number 6, so it was likely to get rolled often.

My strategy paid off at first.  I quickly built more roads and another settlement.  Then Noah rolled 7, which moves the robber instead of producing resources.  Noah placed the robber on my wood tile.  “Sorry, Greg,” he said as he stole a card from me.  “But you’re in the lead.  I had to.”  With the robber in my forest, I was no longer getting wood when someone rolled 6 on the dice.  The others quickly caught up to me.

“Thank you!” I said several turns later, when Taylor finally rolled a 7 and moved the robber to Noah’s most productive tile.  I got my source of wood back, but it felt like too little too late.  The others’ had much larger networks of settlements now, and they were buying multiple development cards and upgrading their settlements to cities that produce more resources.  My only wheat producing tile was an 11, which had not been rolled often, and I could not build much without wheat.  Later in the game, I began negotiating with the other players, trading what I had for wheat, but the other players only made trades that gave them something they needed in return, so my trading helped them in the long run.  Pete won when I had only five points.

“Want to play again?” Pete asked.

“Sure!” Taylor replied.  “You guys in?”

I looked at my watch.  “Yeah,” I said.  “The guys at the De Anza house don’t start X-Files until 10.  We have time for another game.”

“Same board, or want me to shuffle this one?” Pete asked.

“Shuffle,” Taylor said.  The rest of us nodded.

Pete shuffled the tiles and the numbers and dealt out a new board.  This time, the spaces for brick were spread out; the three brick spaces had numbers of 2, 3, and 11, all unlikely numbers, so brick would be rare this game.  I began with settlements on two of the brick spaces, but no stone.  I figured I would be able to trade for stone, and I could work toward building a port settlement on the coast, which made trades with the bank less costly.  I planned to negotiate trades more aggressively this time.

My brick numbers rarely got rolled, unsurprisingly.  Pete focused his strategy on development cards, using wheat, sheep, and stone to buy the cards that gave him soldiers to protect himself from the robber and other ways of acquiring resources.  Noah focused his strategy on trading, like me, but he built on the port location that I wanted first, putting me at a disadvantage.  Pete won that game also, but Noah came in a very close second.

“I need to get to X-Files,” I said after the second game.  “But this was interesting.”

“We’ll play again sometime,” Pete said.  “Thanks for coming over.”

“Have a good one, man,” Taylor added, shaking my hand.

“Bye, Greg,” Noah said.  I said goodbye to everyone again and walked out the door.


This week’s episode of The X-Files was a standalone episode not connected to any of the continuing storylines.  There was a huge crowd of around twenty people at the De Anza house, and I had to sit on the floor.  I liked that these X-Files watch parties were becoming more popular; I always had fun there.

After the show, I got in the car and headed home.  Hootie and the Blowfish was playing on the radio.  I felt kind of frustrated at having lost both games of The Settlers of Catan.  I had mixed feelings about the game.  Although I had not done well, it was fun to play.  I liked the idea that the board could be arranged differently every time.  I wanted to play again, and I hoped that I would get better.

Although it would be several weeks until I played The Settlers of Catan again, I did play many times that summer, and over the following years.  I bought my own copy a few months after that night when I learned the game.  New expansion games, incorporating new features into the game, came along in the next few years, and the game, whose title was officially shortened to just Catan in 2015, would grow to become one of my all time favorite board games.

Pete said that, with every Catan game having a different board and different numbers, every game was different to the point that a good strategy in one game may not work in the next.  I did not realize at the time what a profound statement that was about life in general, with implications reaching far beyond Catan or any other game.  Hootie and the Blowfish certainly knew that, for example.  The quartet from South Carolina had the best-selling album in the US in 1995, standing out in the world of grunge rock with a more bluesy Southern sound, but their similar sounding follow-up disappointed fickle music aficionados, and their popularity quickly faded.  They never went away completely, recording three more albums over the next decade and one more in 2019, but their lead singer Darius Rucker enjoyed a major career renaissance in 2008, leaning deeper into these bluesy Southern influences and reinventing himself as a country singer.  Everyone is different, every time period is different, and one strategy for success and prosperity may not work for others in different places and different times.


Readers: What’s your favorite board game, and why? Tell me about it in the comments.

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Early April, 1998. Trash. (#168)

I wore shorts to class on the Thursday of the first week of spring quarter.  I had read in the newspaper this morning about an arriving heat wave, with the warmest days of 1998 so far coming this weekend.  Today was supposed to reach 87 degrees, with temperatures in the 90s possible for the weekend.  In most years, the Fake Spring of early March gives way to cooler temperatures for much of the rest of March and April, but that had not happened this year.  March stayed mostly warm, and April was looking to begin warm as well.

I had two classes on Thursday, Fiction Writing and the discussion section for Christian Theology, with a break for lunch in between.  I arrived on my bike early and sat in the Memorial Union, reading the Daily Colt and studying until it was time to go to class.  I got up and walked south across the Quad.  I saw a girl with straight brown hair and glasses approaching me; I instinctively got ready to wave and say hi, but as she got closer, I realized that this was not Sasha.  Sasha wore those glasses with the lenses that automatically get darker in sunlight, and it was bright enough outside that her glasses would have been dark by now.  This girl’s glasses were not.

I looked around to see if Sasha was anywhere nearby; I did not see her.  That made sense, though.  My schedule had me walking from the Quad to Orton Hall every day this quarter, but it was on Monday and Wednesday when I had seen her walking the other direction, and not on Tuesday.  Sasha was a friend from church.  She was a senior at Jeromeville High School, but in a special program for high-achieving students where she took classes here at the University of Jeromeville while still in high school.  My schedule on Tuesdays and Thusdays was different from my schedule on the other days, and hers probably was too.

Yesterday, when I saw her, she was wearing this black hat that kind of looked like a beret.  I normally did not like that kind of hat, but on her it looked cute.  “Nice hat,” I blurted out as she approached.

“Thanks!” Sasha replied, smiling.  We proceeded to make small talk for several minutes, and I was almost late to class because of that.

Fiction Writing met on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so today was the second day of class.  I had gone into the first day not entirely sure what to expect.  It was a small class, meeting in the smallest-sized classroom.  The instructor was a Ph.D. student in the English department named Serena Chang.  Students working on advanced degrees at the University of Jeromeville often worked part-time as teaching assistants, graders, and laboratory assistants, but some departments actually allowed graduate students to teach lower-level undergraduate classes.  I had not had a class taught by a graduate student since the first two mathematics classes I took freshman year.

Serena said to call her Serena, not Ms. Chang, probably because she was used to teaching freshmen, who in turn were used to calling their teachers Mr. and Ms. in high school.  Serena was short, slim, and of Asian descent.  I was expecting the class not to be too difficult, since it was an introductory class and I was a senior, but Serena seemed to want to set the tone early that this would not be the case.  “Don’t expect this class to be an easy A,” she said.  “I taught this same class last quarter, and I only gave one A in a class of twenty-five.”  I’m in trouble, I thought.  English was not my strong point.

I recognized one familiar face in the class, Tim Walton, a freshman whom I knew from church and Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, with dark curly hair and glasses that reminded me of pictures I had seen of Buddy Holly.  Today, there was an empty seat next to Tim. “May I sit here?” I asked, motioning to the empty seat.

“Hey, Greg,” Tim replied.  “Sure.”

Today’s class was all about setting.  The textbook for the class was an anthology of short stories compiled specifically for use in creative writing classes.  Serena lectured on the importance of setting to a story, then assigned us a story to read from the textbook and a worksheet with writing exercises on establishing setting.  By the time I left class, I was already thinking about my responses to the exercises, what I could write in order to establish a setting for a story.


I said hi to Sasha again on the way to class on Friday, but I did not see her in the usual place on Monday.  Saying hi to Sasha on the way to Dr. Hurt’s Christian Theology class had already felt like part of my routine this quarter, and although it should not have been a big deal, it kept bugging me all day that I had not seen her today.  I hoped that she was all right, and that she was not sick.  I also hoped her schedule had not changed, and that I would be seeing her around campus regularly again.

That night, my roommate Sean was on the couch in the living room watching television, and I was sitting alone in the bedroom that we shared, at the desk under my lofted bed.  I worked on mathematics homework while listening to music, and the computer was on although I was not doing anything with it at the moment.  After finishing a particularly long problem, I stood up to take a study break, stretched, and got an idea.

I knew Sasha’s email address.  I could write to her and just say hi, and say something about not seeing her on campus.  I could try to make it sound humorous that talking to her had become part of my routine.  It would be another several years before I realized that some women would find such an unsolicited email creepy, especially since Sasha had never explicitly given me her email address.  I emailed Internet friends to see how they were doing all the time, and I occasionally did so with real life friends as well, especially if I had seen them recently and remembered something I forgot to say to them.  So I saw no problem with emailing Sasha just to say hi since I did not see her in person today.  And I did not consider it creepy that I knew Sasha’s email address.  I had a contact list of all the youth staff from church, since I was a volunteer with The Edge, the group for junior high school students, and Sasha was on the list as a volunteer with Next Generation, the preteen youth group.  Sasha’s email also appeared in the To: field of group emails that I had received from Erica Foster.

I opened a new email window and began typing.


To: sdtravis@jeromeville.edu
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: hi

Hey!  How are you?  I just wanted to say hi since didn’t see you on the way to class today.  Saying hi to you feels like part of my routine now.  Everything ok?  How was your weekend?  I’ll talk to you soon!

-gjd


I went back and deleted the sentence about part of my routine, since that sounded a little awkward.  I clicked Send.


When I got home from class the following afternoon, I checked my email, and felt the adrenaline rush through my body when I saw that Sasha had written me back.  I had experienced that feeling before when I got a message from someone I was nervous about hearing from.


From: “Sasha Travis” <sdtravis@jeromeville.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Tue, 7 Apr 1998 12:07 -0700
Subject: Re: hi

Hi Greg! Yeah, I was at class yesterday morning, but I didn’t have to hurry back to Jeromeville High because they’re on spring break this week. So after class I went down to the Arboretum to read for a while.  It’s so pretty there!  It’s kind of annoying having two different spring breaks that don’t line up, but at least I don’t have class all day.

Last night was Next Gen.  Do you know Mariah Foreman?  We were playing a game called Human Foosball, where it’s like soccer but everyone is holding hands so you can only move side to side like the people on a foosball table, and Mariah was lined up right in front of the goal, but she tried to kick the ball and ended up tripping on it… I felt so bad for her, but it was hilarious!

How are your classes? I’m going to go run errands with my mom now.  Thanks for writing! I’ll see you soon!

Zee,
Sasha


That made sense about the different spring breaks.  Jeromeville’s spring break falls a certain number of weeks after the start of winter quarter, which always puts it in late March.  Most of the public school districts in this area, however, tie their spring breaks to Easter, typically the week before Easter, even though they cannot legally refer to it as the Easter holiday since Easter is a religious observance.  Easter was this coming Sunday, April 12, so most of the public schools would be off this week.

As I read Sasha’s email, and read it again, and thought about my encounters with Sasha over the last week, I came to a horrifying realization: I liked Sasha.  No.  This could not happen.  Sasha was too young for me, and that just felt wrong.  She was only seventeen years old, and still in high school.  She was born in 1980.  I was born in the ’70s, and that was a whole other decade.  We lived in completely different worlds.  Yet I enjoyed talking to her.  She was funny, and friendly, and the kind of talkative person that I needed to draw my introverted self out of my shell to a reasonable degree.  And I seemed to be seeing more and more of her around these days.

I went back to my math homework, but I kept thinking of Sasha, wanting to write her back and tell her about my day, and wanting to ask her what “zee” meant at the end of her message.  I decided to focus on homework and write her back at the end of the day, just before I went to bed.

I took a nap on the bed after I finished math, with my mind still full of thoughts about Sasha.  Could this work?  Could we be together?  Or did I need to stop thinking about this?  I was about to finish my bachelor’s degree, and she was in high school.  We lived in two different worlds.  I live on Earth, but not in her world.

I repeated that thought to myself, but slightly reworded: I live on Earth, but not within her world.

Iambic pentameter.

I may have been taking Fiction Writing that quarter, but I felt a poem forming in my mind, a poem about Sasha, and so far it was taking the form of a Shakespearean sonnet.  I jumped back down off the bed and grabbed a pen and paper and wrote that line down.  I climbed back up to the lofted bed and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, occasionally rolling over to write more Sasha-related lines of iambic pentameter when they came to mind.

I know I’ve had some crazy thoughts before

Your half-dark glasses and that stupid hat

No, I thought, not stupid hat. I crossed this out and wrote “dumb beret,” but I did not like this either.  It would have looked dumb on anyone else, but it looked cute on her.  “Black beret,” that was better, and emotionally neutral.  Calling her fashion sense dumb would definitely be out of place in this poem.


Later that night, just before I went to bed, I opened Sasha’s email from earlier and clicked Reply:


From: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
To: “Sasha Travis” <sdtravis@jeromeville.edu>
Subject: Re: hi

What exactly does “zee” mean at the end of your message?

That totally makes sense about the two schools having different spring breaks.  I forgot about that.  I might have to deal with that next year when I have student teaching.  The school where I end up will probably have a different break than Jeromeville.  I’m supposed to find out before the end of the year where I’ll be next year.  I’ve heard we usually don’t place student teachers at Jeromeville High, because Jeromeville isn’t representative of what public schools in most of the state are like.  More kids from educated backgrounds in Jeromeville, I would think.

That’s hilarious about Human Foosball… I hope Mariah is ok.  I don’t know her, but she’s Shawna and Cory’s sister, right?  My classes are okay.  This math class isn’t too hard.  Christian Theology is really interesting; a lot of historical stuff that’s deeper than what comes up at church or Bible study.  I really like the Fiction Writing class.  We’re going to have to write two stories later in the quarter and share them with people in the class.  I’m a little nervous about that, but curious to see what kinds of things other people write.

I’m going to bed now… have a great day tomorrow!

-gjd


Sasha explained “zee” the next day in her next email to me.  Apparently, none of the traditional endings to letters like “love” or “sincerely” or “your friend” ever seemed to work for her, so she just made up “Z” to represent the end, because Z was at the end of the alphabet.  But she spelled it “zee” so it looked like an actual work.  I liked that.  Maybe I would start using that.  (I did not, except for in a few other emails to Sasha.)

With my routine for the quarter becoming established, I was now trying to get back into the routine of reading my Bible every day between classes.  I was now in my sixteenth month of a plan I was following to read the Bible in a year, since I was not reading every day, but I was nearing the end: I was just now beginning the readings for December.  I also started praying for wisdom, to know whether being romantically interested in Sasha was a good idea, and if so, what to do about it.  I had heard many talks in those days about letting God guide my love life and not forcing things, so maybe I just needed to leave it in God’s hands and not do anything.

Over the course of the next few days, I carried around the paper with the poem on it, writing words and lines and rhymes as I thought of them.  By the weekend, I had this:

I live on Earth, but not within her world,
Our paths cross now, but may not cross again;
I looked, I spoke, and somehow she was hurled
Into the inmost reaches of my brain.
I know I’ve had some crazy thoughts before,
But certainly it ranks among the worst
To think that she’s the one I’m searching for
Whom, after God, I’ll give my life to first.
I can’t! For I know not what lies behind
Those tinted glasses and that black beret;
So far removed, not yet among my kind,
She’s just an extra in this tragic play.
For God, Who’s kept us far apart, knows best;
I’ll  lift this up to Him, and not Him test.

“Half-dark glasses” became “tinted glasses” at one point in the thought process.  That just flowed better.  I liked the way this poem turned out.  I liked Sasha, but it probably would not work out, since she was only seventeen.  I needed to trust God with my relationship status.

Now the poem needed a title.  I often took the titles of poems from words in the poem itself, usually something in the beginning so that the title would not give away the ending.  I was about to write “Not Within Her World” at the top of the page when suddenly I stopped, remembering something that Sasha had said a few weeks ago after church when I was standing around talking to her and some others.

I had said something about other kids being mean to me in elementary school and calling me every sort of name imaginable, and the others nearby began sharing ways they had been teased in childhood.  “I got called ‘Sasha Trash’ sometimes,” Sasha said.  “It’s so dumb.  These stupid people think they’re being so clever, just because my last name starts with the same letters as ‘trash.’  Like I’ve never heard that before.”

Trash.

The poem would be called Trash.

I wrote the title at the top of the page.  It was cryptic and mysterious on the surface, but that just made it better.  I often put hidden references and messages in poems, and the title of this one would be just another one of these hidden references.  Plus, by titling the poem after something negative associated with Sasha, maybe I would start to form a negative association with Sasha in my mind and talk myself out of this crush, since it  probably would never work.

I put the poem in the folder in my file cabinet where I kept physical copies of my writing.  I was not sure if I would ever share it with anyone.

For as much as I enjoyed talking with Sasha, I knew that I needed to put away all of those thoughts of ever being more than friends with her.  The rational side of my mind was convinced that it would not work, even though the romantic side enjoyed being with her.  I just hoped that these thoughts would go away eventually.  I had no immediate plans to act on these feelings; I would just wait and see what the next few months brought.  Unfortunately, now that I had actually taken the time to write a poem, that forever established that I did have feelings for Sasha.  To that, I now would never be able to say zee.


Readers: Have you ever been interested in someone who just seemed wrong for you on the surface, but you couldn’t get that person out of your head? How’d that work out for you? 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.


March 30, 1998.  My last first day of class as an undergraduate. (#167)

I opened the door of 105 Wellington and sat down.  After four years here at the University of Jeromeville, so much was familiar about everything I was doing this morning.  I rode my bike to campus on the usual route.  Wellington Hall had two floors above ground and a basement, full of nothing but classrooms of all sizes, and I had had many classes in Wellington before.  I was pretty sure I had even had a class in room 105 at some point, although I did not remember for sure which one.  Most of the people taking this class were juniors and seniors majoring in mathematics, with a few computer scientists and engineers in the class too.  I recognized many familiar faces from other math classes.  Jack ChalmersKaty HadleySilas Penfield, whom I also knew from church and Jeromeville Christian Fellowship.  A guy named Alan, who bore a striking resemblance to the actor and comedian Norm MacDonald.

“Greg!” Jack whispered loudly, waving.  He motioned to an empty seat next to him.  I waved and nodded, walking toward the empty seat and waving to Silas on the way.  Katy was not looking at me.

What was unfamiliar was the subject itself.  The class was called Linear Programming, Mathematics 168.  I needed one more upper-division math class to finish my Bachelor of Science degree in mathematics, and the only prerequisites for this one were lower-division calculus and linear algebra, both of which I enjoyed and found relatively easy.  But I knew very little about what linear programming actually meant.  The word “programming” made me think of computers and writing code, but the description in the course catalog did not seem to mention computers.  It said something about solving optimization problems, which I assumed meant determining the best way to do something.

The professor, Dr. Wu, was also unfamiliar to me.  I had not taken a class from him before.  He began the class by giving an example of the kinds of problems we would be studying.  “Suppose you’re planning meals with two different foods,” he said.  “Each serving of food A contains 2 grams of fat, 1 gram of carbohydrates, and 5 grams of protein, and each serving of food B contains 3 grams of fat, 4 grams of carbohydrates, and 4 grams of protein.”  Dr. Wu paused to write these measurements on the board.  “And let’s say you know that the meal has to have at least 15 grams of fat, 20 grams of carbs, and 30 grams of protein.  And you know that each serving of food A costs, say, 35 cents, and each serving of food B costs 50 cents.”  After writing the rest of the problem on the board, he continued, “How many servings of each food should you buy to minimize the cost, but still have the required amount of protein, fat, and carbohydrates?  That is a basic example of a linear programming problem.  We have something we need to maximize or minimize, but it is subject to constraints.”  I nodded, writing an abbreviated version of all of this in my notebook.  Linear programming seemed fairly straightforward as a concept, something I could visualize in the real world and express symbolically using the language of mathematics that I already knew.

The rest of that first day of class was even more straightforward.  Dr. Wu quickly reviewed some key topics of linear algebra that would be important this quarter.  I remembered all of them well, but I still took notes anyway, because of my tendency to be overly cautious when it came to studying.

After that class, I had a two hour gap before my next class.  I walked across the street to the Memorial Union and read today’s Daily Colt, completing the crossword puzzle successfully. I tore out the completed crossword puzzle to hang on my wall at home with all the other crosswords I had completed this year.  With nothing else to do for two hours after finishing the crossword puzzle, I got an early start on math homework, reading the beginning of the book and working on the first homework assignment.  I found the same example about nutrition that the professor used; he took it directly from the textbook.

When it came time for my next class, I walked south across the Quad toward Orton Hall, the other major classroom building here on the older side of campus.  As I headed across the Quad, I saw a slim, bespectacled girl with straight brown hair walking toward me.  I noticed that this girl kind of looked like Sasha Travis from church, which made me realize sadly that I would not get to say hi to her every day this quarter.  Last quarter, I did an internship every morning helping out in a math class at Jeromeville High School, where Sasha was a student, finishing her last year.  I would always see Sasha in the hallway, or at her locker, as I headed to where my bike was parked after my class was done.  Even though Sasha was still in high school, I felt like she and I had gotten to be friends, through those conversations in the hallway, and the fact that she was Erica Foster’s best friend.  Erica, a freshman at UJ, was part of my social circle already, since we were both youth group leaders at church.

As I approached this girl who looked like Sasha, I kept looking at her, realizing more and more that it was not just a resemblance; I was pretty sure this actually was Sasha.  But what was she doing on the UJ campus during the school day?  She smiled at me and waved.  Yes, definitely Sasha.

“Sasha?” I asked.

“Hi, Greg!” Sasha replied.  “How are you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Jeromeville High has a program for high-achieving seniors to take classes at UJ during the day,” Sasha explained.  “I just got out of English 10.”

“That’s cool!” I said.  “I’m pretty good.  Three classes today.  I’m on my way to Christian Theology, with Hurt.”

“I’ve heard such good things about Dr. Hurt!  Erica took one of his classes last quarter.  I didn’t see you this morning.  Are you still TAing with Mr. Gibson?”

“No.  That was just for a quarter.”

“I have to get back to the high school,” Sasha said.  “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.  Have a good one!”  As I continued walking to my class, I felt a little jealous that Sasha grew up in a university town where high-achieving students had opportunities like that.  Taking university classes as a high school senior was even better than taking AP classes for college credit.  Growing up in working-class Plumdale, I was discouraged from taking too many AP classes, and the nearest university was in Mount Lorenzo, forty miles away.

I continued walking toward Orton Hall.  Dr. Hurt’s class was in one of the larger classrooms of Orton Hall, with about sixty seats, and the class was about two-thirds full by the time I got there.  I expected a lot of my friends from church and from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship to be in this class, and while a few of them were, it was not as many as I had expected.  I sat down against the wall, on the opposite side of the room from the outdoors-facing windows, and looked around as Dr. Hurt prepared to begin his lecture.  My eyes moved toward a corner of the room I had not seen as I was walking in, where I saw Carrie Valentine sitting with a notebook on her desk.  She looked up and made eye contact and waved at me.  I did my best to smile, nervously, and waved back.  Dr. Hurt began speaking just at that moment, saving me from having to decide whether or not to go talk to Carrie.

Last year, Carrie was always friendly to me, but things seemed a little tense the last few months ever since she turned me down for a date.  She had said that everything was okay, that I had done nothing wrong, but I was not sure if she really was treating me differently, or if it was mostly in my head and I was avoiding her.  I felt relieved that Dr. Hurt had started class before I could talk to her, which I guess meant that I ultimately did not want to talk to Carrie right now.  I wondered if things would ever feel normal with us.

Dr. Hurt explained an overview of the class.  We would be studying the development of Christian theology from the period of the early Church through modern times.  Our study would include different schools of thought for subjects in which different branches of Christianity had slightly different beliefs, as well as some rejected schools of thoughts that had been deemed to be heresy over the years.  We would learn about the natures of God, Jesus Christ, and the Trinity; salvation, sin, and grace; and the role of the Church, among other topics.

I was still fairly new to practicing my Christian faith, and while this class did not satisfy any specific requirements other than giving me enough units to be classified as a full-time student, it was definitely something I wanted to learn.  Jeromeville was a secular public university, but our Religious Studies faculty included Dr. Hurt, a renowned New Testament scholar.  It was nice that I could still learn about Christianity in this context, even though secular public education did not include things like prayer and worship time.

When class ended, I looked up; Carrie was talking to someone I did not know, absorbed in conversation.  I got up and left before she saw me, avoiding the question of what to say to her and whether or not things would be awkward.  My next and final class on that Monday was in an hour, back in Wellington, on the other side of the Quad from Orton.  I began walking back toward the Memorial Union looking for a place to sit, but decided to just sit on the grass of the Quad instead.

The Quad was a square lawn about five hundred feet on each side.  The University of Jeromeville was founded in 1905 as an agricultural campus, with crops growing on the area that later became the Quad.  After becoming surrounded by buildings over the first three decades of the campus’ growth, the Quad was converted to a permanent lawn.  It was ringed by tall, mature European cork oaks, with other trees scattered across it at irregular intervals.  To the east were the oldest surviving buildings on campus, Old North and Old South Halls.  The Quad also bordered the Memorial Union building on the north, Wellington Hall and one other building on the west, and the library on the south, with Orton Hall on the southeast corner.

The weather was pleasant, on the warmer side but not uncomfortably hot, mostly sunny with blue skies dotted with a few clouds.  People sat on the Quad, reading, talking, napping, and eating.  I sat cross-legged and took the lunch I had packed out of my backpack, and I ate as I watched people walk past.

About ten minutes before class was scheduled to start, I walked across the street to the west to Wellington Hall, then took the stairs down to the basement.  The class was in room 6, which was a small lecture hall with around a hundred fixed seats, sloping toward the front of the room as in a theater, with an aisle down the middle.  Physical Education 43, Healthful Living, was not a class that would have been on my radar to take.  My lifestyle would not exactly be considered healthful, but the class was required for the teacher training program that I would be in next year.  And it was only two units, meeting for one hour twice a week, so it would not be as much work as most classes.

I sat in a row that was still mostly empty, one seat in from the aisle.  As the room gradually filled over the next few minutes, I looked around to see if anyone I recognized was in the class.  I saw two or three faces that I recognized from various places, but no one I knew in particular.  Then my eyes reached the door in the back of the room.

You have got to be kidding me, I thought.

Carrie Valentine walked through the door.  She saw me and immediately made eye contact, smiling and waving, noticing the empty seat next to me.  I waved back.

“Hey, Greg!” Carrie said, sitting in the seat next to me.  “Looks like we have two classes together!”

“I know,” I replied.  “What did you think of Hurt’s class so far?”

“Looks like it’ll be interesting.  There’s a lot of that kind of stuff I don’t really know.”

“Yeah.  Same.  I grew up Catholic, and going to Jeromeville Covenant now, I’m always interested to know about differences between Catholics and other Christians.”

“How was your spring break?”

“It was good.  I went to see my family for most of it.  We had an 80th birthday party for my grandpa.”

“Oh, how nice!  Are you and your grandpa close?”

“Yeah.  This is Mom’s dad, and they always lived just a mile away growing up, so we saw them all the time.  I got to see some relatives I don’t see often.  Some came all the way from Oregon.  A lot of Grandpa’s friends were there too.  What did you do over break?”

“Really nothing.  Just relaxed at home.  Hung out with my parents and my sister, and saw one of my friends from high school.”

“That’s nice.”

The professor, Dr. Payton, began speaking, introducing herself first, and telling us to make sure that we were all in the right class, PE 43, Healthful Living.  “The class is always around this size every quarter,” Dr. Payton explained, “so I am not going to get to know every one of you personally.  But if you ever see me around campus, feel free to wave at me and just say, ‘Forty-three!’  That way, I will know that you were a student of mine in this class.  I’ve been doing this class for twenty years, and you wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve run into people who recognized me.  I’ve had strangers on airplanes come up to me and say, ‘Forty-three.’  My husband and I went to an opera in Bay City, and one of the ushers at the theater remembered me.  The strangest one of all was when we were on vacation in France, and we toured a historic monastery.  Some actual monks walked past the tour group, and one of the monks leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Quarante-trois.’”  A few in the room chuckled.

As Dr. Payton continued outlining the class, it became apparent that I was not sure what I was expecting from this class, but what she was describing was not exactly it.  I expected somewhat of a rehash of what I had learned in high school health class: nutrition, exercise, hygiene, and of course sexuality.  But in addition to that, this class would cover other topics, including stress management, relationships, and alternative medicine.  “Please be respectful if there is anything you don’t agree with in this class,” Dr. Payton said.  “One year, I was reading the teacher evaluations at the end of the year, and in regards to the homeopathic medicine presentation, someone wrote, ‘I don’t believe in voodoo.’  Homeopathic medicine is not voodoo.  It is a type of medicine with theories and methods practiced by people around the world.”

Since UJ was a secular public university, and I was a Christian, I expected that I would probably have disagreements with some of the material in the chapters on relationships and sexuality.  But Dr. Payton’s request to be respectful certainly seemed reasonable.  And while I generally associated homeopathic medicine with New Age hippie nonsense, I would even approach that with an open mind when we got to that chapter, since I knew little about it.

I stood and stretched when class was over.  “Do you have any more classes today?” Carrie asked me.

“No.  I’m done.  I’m headed home now.”

“Nice!  I have a discussion now on Mondays, but I’m done after this class on Wednesdays.”

“Enjoy your class,” I said.  “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah!  Have a great afternoon!”

I walked back to my bike, unlocked it, and rode north to the end of West Quad Avenue, where I turned left onto a road heading generally northwest.  I passed more classroom and lab buildings, then rode through the North Residential Area to the intersection of Fifth Street and Andrews Road.  I continued north on Andrews Road for almost a mile, then turned left and zigzagged through the neighborhood to my house at 902 Acacia Drive.  The house was quiet; I was the first one home today.  I connected to the dialup Internet and got on Internet Relay Chat.  A nineteen-year-old girl from Texas named Melody, whom I had met in this same chat channel a few days earlier, was on; I messaged with her for about half an hour, telling her all about my day, about my new classes and the uncomfortable situation of having two classes with a girl who said no to going out with me a couple months ago.  Melody told me about a party she and her friends went to over the weekend.  I heard someone else get home and told Melody that I needed to go, but I would email her later.  I did not want to tie up the telephone line during the day with other people in the house. 

I had finished my last first day of class as an undergraduate.  So far, this quarter did not seem too difficult.  I had one more class that did not meet today, Fiction Writing, Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10:30.  That class sounded like fun, and hopefully it would not be too tough, especially since I liked writing fiction to begin with.  This would be a good way to finish off my bachelor’s degree.

About a month later, we reached the lesson in health class about homeopathy, and we had a guest speaker that week.  About five minutes into that lecture, I completely understood why the anonymous former student had called homeopathy voodoo.  Nothing about the presentation made any sense from a scientific perspective.  I questioned why this belonged in a serious class at a prestigious university, but Jeromeville was enough of a hippie town and school that I was not entirely surprised either.

Although none of these classes had assigned seats, it was human nature for most people to sit in or near the same seat each time class met.  Because of this, Carrie and I typically sat on opposite sides of the room in Dr. Hurt’s class, but we almost always sat next to each other in health class.  By the second week of the quarter, I genuinely felt that whatever awkwardness might be lingering between Carrie and me was gone.  We did not talk about my failed attempt to ask her out; I just did my best to put that in the past and move on, and Carrie never did anything to make me feel bad about what happened.  That incident did come up in conversation once, three years later, in a respectful and productive way that gave me a lot of closure regarding why she said no.  That mutual respect is part of the reason why Carrie is the only one of my many unrequited crushes from my Jeromeville years with whom I am on speaking terms today.


Readers: Have you ever had an experience where you were in close proximity to someone with whom you had issues in the past? How did that go? Tell me about it in the comments.

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March 5, 1998.  My heart will not go on. (#165)

Disclaimer: I had this episode planned and partially written before the news broke about the missing tourists trying to explore the wreck of the Titanic. I am not trying to capitalize on a tragedy.


As finals approached for the 1998 winter quarter, Titanic was the biggest movie in the world.  The movie, a fictional love story set against the backdrop of the historical 1912 sinking of the British ship Titanic, had been the highest-grossing film of 1997 despite having been released just two weeks before the end of the year.  It won many major awards, and it was still the number one movie in theaters now, almost three months after its release.  As is often the case with major successful movies like that, the soundtrack spawned a hit pop song, “My Heart Will Go On” by Céline Dion.  Like the movie, the song went on to become one of the most commercially successful songs of all time.

I had never seen the movie.  Nor had I ever heard the song; I did not listen to that crap.

I never thought of myself as much of a moviegoer.  Going to movies was something people did with friends, and I had never had much of a social life until recently.  Something did not feel right about going to a movie by myself, so if I wanted to see a movie, and plans never came up to see it, I just did not watch it.  

However, although love stories were not my preferred movie genre, I was intrigued by Titanic.  I wanted to see it for the special effects; the filmmakers built and sank an actual replica of the Titanic.  That was impressive in its own right.  But I had no plans to do so.

One Thursday, I had a bit of free time on campus, so I walked into the Memorial Union building, looking for a place to sit and do math homework for the next two hours.  I walked through the doors of the east entrance, near the bookstore, and began heading toward the Coffee House at the other end of the building, where I planned to look for a place to sit.  But before I even got to the Coffee House, I found something more interesting to me, something about five foot five with straight brown hair halfway down her back and smiling blue eyes.

Hey, Sadie,” I said, waving.

“Greg!” Sadie replied.  “What’s up?”

“Just looking for a place to sit and hang out until my next class.”

“Me too!  Come on!”  Sadie walked in the same direction I was about to go, and I followed her.  It was a relatively nice Fake Spring day outside, sunny and pleasant, typical of the week or two of nice weather that Jeromeville always got around this time of year before it turned cold and dreary again.  The indoor tables were not excessively crowded, as they would be on a rainy day.  “How about here?” Sadie said, gesturing to a table near the far end of the Coffee House.

“Looks good,” I said.  Sadie sat facing south, toward the window looking out at the Quad, and I sat across from her.  “How are you?”

“I had a midterm this morning.  It was kind of hard.  I don’t think I did very well.”

“What class?”

“History.  I didn’t study as much as I could have.  I’m pretty good at BS’ing essay questions, though, so I might have done okay.”

“Nice,” I replied.  “I’m not good at BS’ing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  Like, if I have a paper to write, I have to start planning it at least a week or two in advance.  I need time to go to the library and do research, and usually half of what I’m looking for is already checked out.  And I need to think things through.”

“Wow.”

“And with essay questions on tests, I have to do a lot of studying in advance, to the point that I’m ready for whatever they might ask.  Believe me, I wish I could BS a paper like you can.”

“You probably have a better GPA than those of us who BS papers, though.”

“That’s true.  And, as a math major, I don’t have to write papers as often.”

“Yeah.  That too.  When do you write papers, anyway?”

“Classes for general ed requirements.  And the English classes that everyone has to take,” I explained, “although I took AP English in high school, so I only had to take Advanced Comp.  And this quarter I have Ed Psych, as a prerequisite for the teaching program next year.”

“Yeah, I guess you would still have to write papers.”

“Next quarter I’m taking Fiction Writing.  For the teaching program, I need to have a certain number of units in English, no matter what subject I’ll be teaching, and I’m one class short.  It can be anything, and Fiction Writing looks like the most fun option.”

“That does sound fun!  Have you written fiction before?”

“I write stories for fun sometimes.”

“That’s really cool!” Sadie exclaimed.

“Would you ever want to read some of my stories?”

“Sure!  I mean, I don’t know how much time I’ll have now with finals coming up, but maybe once that’s out of the way.”

“I’ll send you something sometime after finals, then.”

“Thanks!”

“Anyway, I was saying, Ed Psych is the only final I have to write for this year.  I have two math classes with regular math finals, and no final for my internship at Jeromeville High.”

“How’s that going, by the way?” Sadie asked

“It’s good, but it’s been eye-opening,” I explained.  “When I did this last year, it was with a class of pretty much all college-bound kids.  These kids aren’t all like that.  A lot of them aren’t motivated to work as hard, and they don’t pay attention in class.”

“That makes sense.  But you’ll probably get a lot of that when you’re an actual teacher someday.”

“Yeah.  Speaking of internships, you’re leaving for Washington, D.C., soon, right?”

“Yes!  I leave the week after spring break.  I’m so excited!”

“And what will you be doing exactly?  Something in the House of Representatives, was it?”

“Yeah!  Working for the Congressman who represents our district back home.  My parents have helped out on his campaign before.  He’s great.”

“Good!” I said.  I knew enough about Sadie’s political leanings to know that if she liked this guy, he must be good, and I probably would agree with the way he voted most of the time.

“Mostly just office work,” Sadie explained, “but I’ll get to learn a lot about how the process works.”

“That’s really cool.  I’m excited for you.”

“Thanks!”

“Keep in touch after you leave.”

“Yeah!  I will!”  Sadie replied.

We continued talking as time passed, about everything from classes to future plans to high school friends back home, of which Sadie still had many.  “I don’t hear from any of my high school friends anymore,” I said.  “I guess I wasn’t super close to them to begin with.  I didn’t really do anything with friends until I was a senior, old enough to drive.  Plumdale is spread out, and I lived kind of far from everyone.”

“That makes sense.  I lived near a lot of my friends from high school.  They all went off to school after we graduated, but we still try to get together when we’re home on break.”

“That’s good.  I wish I had that.  I made some new friends senior year too, and then all of a sudden they were gone after we all moved away.”

“That’s too bad, but it happens,” Sadie said.

“One of those new friends I made senior year, I saw her here once, walking across the MU.  It was the weirdest thing.  She was younger, she was still a senior in high school at the time, but her boyfriend and her brother both went to Jeromeville, and Plumdale High had a day off, so she and her friend came up to visit.”

“And you just bumped into each other?  That’s weird.”

“That was the last time I ever heard from her,” I said, nostalgically and wistfully.  I had not thought about Annie Gambrell for a long time, until now.  “But, I don’t know, maybe it’s for the best.”  I lowered my voice, leaned in a little closer to Sadie, and explained, barely above a whisper, “I had a big crush on her, and she had a boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah,” Sadie replied with a slight chuckle.  “That’s rough.”

“Story of my life.”

“Aww.”  Sadie yawned, and continued, “Sorry!  I’m tired.  I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I hate that.”

“My roommate and her boyfriend got home late from the movie theater last night.  They went to see Titanic, because I guess he had never seen it.  And then they came home and woke me up, and they stayed up in the living room talking.”

“That’s annoying,” I said.  “I’ve never seen Titanic either.  I want to.”

“It was so good!  I saw it once when I was home for Christmas.  I want to see it again.”

Every once in a while, an opportunity would drop into my lap perfectly.  And some of those times I would actually get brave and take the opportunity.  “Do you want to see it with me sometime?” I asked.  “Will you have time before you leave for D.C.?”

“Yeah!” Sadie exclaimed.  “I have a lot to do before I leave, and finals are coming up, but I should be able to work something out.  I’ll figure out my schedule and get back to you.”

“Perfect!” I said.

“Oh crap,” Sadie said, looking at her watch.  “I need to get going.  I have class.”

“What time is it?” I wondered aloud, while looking at my watch.  Almost two hours had passed since Sadie and I had sat down in the Memorial Union.  “Wow.  It doesn’t feel like it’s this late.”

“I know!”

“It was really good hanging out,” I said.  “Hope your class goes well.  And keep me posted about the movie.”

“Yeah!  I will!  It was good talking to you.”

“You too!”

As I watched Sadie walk away, I thought about how this was not the first time this had happened to us, getting lost in conversation and losing track of the time.  Sadie was one of those rare people whom I could talk to for hours, all while feeling that no time had passed at all.


By the middle of the following week, I still had not heard back from Sadie about going to see Titanic.  I wrote her an email one night during a study break:


To: srrowland@jeromeville.edu
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: movie

Hey!  How is studying going?  Are you ready for finals?  I think mine will be ok.  Ed Psych is the one I’m most worried about, mostly just because it’s not math, and I’m going to have to write an essay, and you know I don’t BS essays very well. :)

What’s your schedule like?  Are we still going to see Titanic?  How is all of the preparation for your internship going?  Good luck with finals, and I’ll see you soon!

gjd


The next day, I checked my email frequently during study breaks for the whole time I was home.  I got excited when I saw that I had a message from Sadie, but I became considerably less excited as I read the message:


From: “Sadie Rowland” <srrowland@jeromeville.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Wed, 11 Mar 1998 13:46 -0800
Subject: Re: movie

Hi Greg!  Unfortunately, I don’t think I can.  I just have too much to do this week, getting ready for finals and packing for DC.  Sorry!  I hope you have a great finals week!  Good luck!


I wrote back later, just making small talk about life and finals and stuff, and asking Sadie about her upcoming internship back east.  Finals came and went, I went home for spring break without my computer or access to email, and I returned to Jeromeville a few days before classes started.  A couple days into spring quarter, almost three weeks after my last message, Sadie finally wrote back. 


From: “Sadie Rowland” <srrowland@jeromeville.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Tue, 31 Mar 1998 19:34 -0500
Subject: Re: movie

Hey!  Sorry it took me so long to write back!  I’ve had so much going on.  The trip here went well, and I’ve gotten situated here.  Today was my second actual day of work for the internship.  It’s been great so far!  I love it!

I had to pack in a lot during my spring break, trying to get everything ready and seeing all my friends and family here before I left.  It was good, but mostly just hanging out and catching up with people.  The weekend before I left, I went to the beach with a bunch of my friends, and we had a great time.  Oh yeah, this one guy I dated off and on for part of high school, he and I reconnected while we were here, and we got back together! We’re doing long distance now, obviously, but it works out perfectly because he’s busy with school, and he’s going to come stay with me in DC for three weeks in the summer because he’s never seen the East Coast.  And he’s moving to Jeromeville in the fall for grad school, so then we’ll be together!

How was your spring break?  Did you do anything exciting?
-Sadie


Of course it had to end this way.  It always ended like that, I liked someone and she met someone else.  But at least Sadie was still a good friend, and she had access to email in Washington, so we could stay in touch while she was doing her internship with the House of Representatives.

Or so I thought.

I replied to Sadie’s message and told her about my spring break, but Sadie never wrote another email to me that entire spring or summer.  When school started again in the fall, Sadie was no longer going to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, and I never saw her hanging out in the Memorial Union anymore.  I did see her once, in November, while I was walking across campus on the way to class.  She was walking in the opposite direction, with a guy who appeared to be the boyfriend she had told me about in March.  They looked like she had somewhere to be.  I waved, and she said, “Hey,” and kept on walking.

And that was the last time I ever saw her or spoke to her.

I never saw Titanic, with Sadie or with anyone else.  It was for many years the highest-grossing film of all time, yet I have never seen it.  For a while, the thought of seeing Titanic brought back sad memories of not being friends with Sadie anymore.  Then, several months after that happened, I heard my friend Jed Wallace give his opinion about how Titanic was a terrible movie, and everything he said made sense to me.  Jed’s thoughts, combined with stories I heard over the course of that year about creepy old ladies going to see Titanic ten times on the big screen because they thought 23-year-old Leonardo DiCaprio was so hot, turned me against the idea of seeing the movie.  By the end of 1998, never having seen Titanic had become a badge of honor for me.

I also never did get around to sending Sadie any of the stories I had written.  In light of  the emotional shock of being turned down from seeing the movie and learning about Sadie’s new boyfriend, I just never brought that up again.

I have learned over the years that sometimes friends naturally grow apart, and that it does not necessarily represent failure on my part.  But I still find it discouraging.  I remembered what it was like to not have friends, when I was younger, so every friendship felt exceptionally valuable to me.  It especially hurt to grow apart from someone like Sadie, since I always felt like we clicked so well.  Of course, she came back to Jeromeville with a boyfriend, and he may have had a problem with her having a lot of guy friends.  It is natural that Sadie’s friendships with guys would change when a boyfriend came along.  But I still did not like it.  I wanted my close friends to stay close, and while I thought Sadie was a great girl, I had no intention of trying to steal her away from her boyfriend.  I could do nothing about it when people grew apart from me like this, except to do everything in my power to make sure I did not grow apart from the people I cared about when my own circumstances changed.


Readers: Have you ever abruptly lost touch with someone you thought was a close friend? I’m sorry… tell me about it in the comments, if it’s not 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 26, 1998.  Learning things about my roommate and the Apostle Paul’s friends, and a hot redhead. (#164)

I got off the bus in the afternoon on Andrews Road across the street from Jeromeville Covenant Church.  This was the church I attended on Sunday mornings, and I was there Wednesday nights as a volunteer with The Edge, the junior high school youth group, but now, on a Thursday afternoon, I was not headed to church.  I crossed the street and walked past the apartments just north of the church.  At the far end of that apartment complex, I turned, walking across their parking lot.  This apartment complex backed up to another apartment complex on another street, built separately but owned by the same company, with an opening in the fence between the two, three parking places wide.  Metal poles three feet high across this opening prevented cars from passing through, but one could easily walk from one parking lot to the other, as I did now.

This other apartment complex was across the street from my house.  I walked to the street, crossed it, and continued walking to my front door.  My roommate Sean was home; his compact pickup truck was parked in the driveway.  His license plate frame caught my eye: MY OTHER CAR IS A ZAMBONI, it said.  I had seen this on his truck many times, it was not new, and Zamboni machines were just inherently awesome for some reason.  But that day, reading those words brought me to a puzzling realization I had never had before.  I had known Sean for well over two years at this point, and we had both lived in this house for almost six months.  Yet I had never heard him talk about hockey, watch hockey, or perform any activity related to ice hockey in any way.  Why would Sean have a Zamboni license plate frame?  Hockey was not popular in Jeromeville; the nearest professional hockey team played a hundred miles away in San Tomas, whereas basketball, which was played during the same time of year, had a team nearby in Capital City.  Maybe Sean was a hockey fan, but without many hockey fans in Jeromeville, did not talk about it much.  Or maybe someone in Sean’s family liked hockey and put the license plate frame on the truck; I knew nothing about Sean’s family beyond that he had two brothers.

I walked in the house.  Sean was at the dining room table, studying a textbook about birds.  He was majoring in wildlife biology.  “Hey, Greg,” he said.  Pointing to a picture in his book, he continued, “Name that bird.”

I had no idea what kind of bird it was.  “I name it ‘Bob,’” I said.  Sean laughed, then I asked him, “I was just wondering.  What’s the story behind your ‘My Other Car Is A Zamboni’ license plate frame?”

As if it were the most ordinary, mundane fact in the world, Sean explained, “Frank Zamboni was my great-grandfather.  My relatives own the company.”

I stopped what I was doing and stared wide-eyed.  “Wow.  That is the coolest thing ever.”

“I guess,” Sean said.  “What are you up to tonight?”

How did I go all these years not knowing the important fact that my friend was a direct descendant of the inventor of the ice resurfacer?  I suppose that for Sean, though, it was less of a big deal, since he had grown up always knowing this about his family.  “I have Bible study at Joe Fox’s place,” I said, answering his question.

“Is that the group that you were telling me is really big?”

“Yeah.  I think it kind of serves them right for having all these specialized groups for different categories of people, and only one group for people who don’t fit those categories.  It means that JCF will have to acknowledge that there are some issues with how they’re doing small groups.  But Joe and Lydia found a way to make it work, even as big as it is.  I like it.”

“That’s good.”


After talking with Sean, I went to my room to check email and study for a while.  I lost track of time and left for Bible study about ten minutes later than I had wanted to.  I did not have far to go, Joe’s apartment was only about a mile away, but I knew I was getting there later than I wanted to.

I had felt a little frustrated with the way Jeromeville Christian Fellowship did small groups this year.  They always had some groups specifically meeting on campus in freshman dorms; I had no problem with that.  They also had Bible studies specifically for training students for leadership in ministry; these groups were hand-picked by their leaders, and from my perspective on the outside, they formalized and perpetuated cliques within the groups.  Many other students were leading Bible studies for specific purposes: two only for women, but none for men; one for transfer students; and groups for other categories I was not part of.  Joe Fox and Lydia Tyler, both fifth-year students, led the only group without a special focus, and all of the students who did not fit into those cliques or subgroups ended up in this one group.  With over twenty students on an average week, it could hardly be called a small group.

I could tell before I got inside that the living room was full, because I could hear voices from the other side of the front door.  I opened the door without knocking, since I was here every week, and stepped inside.  I waved at everyone who said hi to me, then carefully walked to an open spot on the floor.  With over twenty people attending each week, Joe’s living room got quite crowded, and this week I did not get a spot on the couch or in a chair.  A blond sophomore guy named Colin Bowman sat next to me.  “Hey,” I said.

“What’s up?” Colin asked.

“Not much.  I have a lot of work to catch up on, but I don’t think I’ll get anything more done tonight.  It can wait until the weekend.”

The only other open spot on the floor was all the way on the other side of the room next to Kendra Burns, a junior girl whom I had known for a while.  I would have rather had the other open spot near me, because two minutes after I arrived, an attractive, physically fit girl walked in and sat in the other open spot.  She had dark red hair, and she wore tight jeans and a tight-fitting shirt exposing her midriff.  She started talking to Kendra; apparently they knew each other.  She carried a Bible, and it appeared to be somewhat worn from reading; apparently this other girl was a Christian, not just checking out the group.  She turned her head slightly in my direction, and I looked down so she would not notice I was staring.  That was not exactly appropriate behavior for a Bible study.

Joe got everyone’s attention, and the group got quiet.  “Welcome,” he said.  “Before we start, we have announcements, and we also have a new person.”  Joe looked in the attractive redhead’s direction.

“Hi,” she said.  “I’m Rachael.  Kendra invited me.  We had a class together last quarter.  I used to go to U-Life and First Baptist, but I wanted to try out something new.”

“Welcome, Rachael,” Joe replied.  “Hopefully you enjoy the study.”

Lydia took over speaking next, making announcements about an upcoming spring retreat and a fundraiser for people from JCF who would be on summer mission trips.  Joe got out a guitar, and we sang two worship songs.

“Tonight we’re finally going to finish our study of Romans that we’ve been doing all year,” Joe explained.  “Then we have something else planned for the next two weeks, and when we come back from break, we have another study planned for the spring quarter.  So, tonight we’re reading both chapters 15 and 16.  You’ll do that after you break into your groups.”

Since this Bible study was so big, we had developed a routine of doing announcements and worship together as a large group, then dividing into three smaller groups for the actual Scripture reading and discussion.  If this group had to be so big, this was the best compromise, the best way to deal with it so that everyone got to participate in discussions.  The three groups were not fixed; one of the leaders would split the groups at the spur of the moment depending on where we sat during worship and announcements.  One group usually stayed in the living room, one went in Joe’s room, and one went in Scott’s room.  Scott was never home during our Bible study, because he led a Bible study for freshmen on campus at the same time.

This week, I was assigned to Scott’s room.  I sat on the floor against his bed as the rest of my group walked in: Evan Lundgren, Courtney Kohl, Colin Bowman, Silas Penfield, Anna Lam, and Alyssa Kramer.  Alyssa was Joe’s girlfriend, and she had become a de facto third leader for the group; each week, Lydia took one of the three smaller groups, Joe another, and Alyssa the third.  I was a little disappointed that Rachael and Kendra were not in my group.  Maybe I would get a chance to talk to Rachael afterward.

“So we’re gonna start by reading Romans 15 and 16,” Alyssa announced.  “Just read it to yourselves, and we’ll discuss any impressions you have first before we get to the discussion questions.”  I opened my Bible and began reading, starting in chapter 15.  There was a lot in the chapter, including one verse which had become very familiar to me recently.  Earlier this month, I spent a long weekend at Winter Camp with the kids from church.  The youth pastor always makes a mix tape of Christian music, called the Edge Mix, to give to the kids.  Edge Mix ’98 included audio clips of students from the youth group sharing testimonies, and one girl quoted from Romans 15 in her testimony: “May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you a spirit of unity among yourselves as you follow Christ Jesus, so that with one heart and mouth you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

No one had mentioned why we were doing two chapters tonight.  We always had only read one chapter per week in the past, and some of the longer chapters with more theological depth, like chapter 8, we had further split into two weeks.  We were not pressed for time, since we had two weeks left of the quarter to do something else before starting our study for the spring quarter.  My guess was that chapter 16 was not the kind of Scripture that gets taught or preached about often in terms of being practical for Christians living in 1998, so Joe and Lydia expected us to have little to discuss from chapter 16.  Most of the chapter consisted of the Apostle Paul telling the Romans to greet specific people he knew.

A few months ago, I had attended the National Youth Workers’ Convention, and the free gifts for attendees included something called the Serendipity Student Bible, which included discussion questions specifically for youth groups.  I was using this Bible at the time, and the questions for Romans 16 asked what kinds of things Paul pointed out about the specific people mentioned in the chapter, and what this could mean for us.  I noticed this as I read chapter 16.

When I was about halfway through the chapter, Alyssa interrupted, announcing, “You don’t have to read all the names in 16.”  Apparently I was correct that we were not planning on studying this part of the book.  But, in light of what I had recently read in my youth group study Bible, I felt a need to speak up.

“But,” I said, “by studying who Paul wrote to, and what he said about those people, we can learn a lot about what he valued in people.”

“That’s a really good point,” Alyssa replied.  “So maybe go ahead and read 16.”

After a few more minutes, Alyssa asked if any of us had any insights about anything we read.  “Looking at the people Paul greets in chapter 16,” I said, “there’s a recurring theme of helping each other.  ‘Greet Priscilla and Aquila… they risked their lives for me.’  ‘Greet Mary, who worked very hard for you.’  ‘Tryphena and Tryphosa, those women who worked hard in the Lord.’ ‘Persis, another woman who has worked very hard in the Lord.’  Working hard for the Lord and the Church was obviously important to Paul.”

“Yeah,” Courtney added.  “Especially at that time, early in the Church’s history, facing persecution.”

“Good point,” Alyssa said.  “Anyone else?”

“Some of these people from chapter 16 appear in other parts of the Bible,” Evan said.  “Like Priscilla and Aquila, they were in Acts.  Paul met them on his travels.”

“Gaius,” Silas added.  “Gaius is mentioned somewhere else.”

“What’s this ‘I, Tertius, who wrote down this letter?’  Verse 22?” Anna asked.

“What?” Courtney said.  “Tertius?  But Paul wrote this letter.  That’s weird.”

“Tertius was the scribe,” I explained.  I remembered learning about this in Professor Hurt’s New Testament class last year.  “Paul dictated his letters to someone else who wrote them down.  In some of the other letters, at the end, there will be a verse where it says something like, ‘I, Paul, write this in my own hand,’ because the rest of the letter was written by a scribe.”

“Yes,” Alyssa said.  “That’s what I always learned too.”

“Verse 3,” Evan said.  “‘Greet also the church that meets at their house.’ Priscilla and Aquila’s house.  It’s important to remember that churches met in houses in ancient Rome.  They didn’t have church buildings like we do today.”

“Yeah,” Courtney added.  “And later he says something about Gaius’ hospitality.  Hospitality was a big deal to Paul and the early church.”

We continued discussing Romans for a total of about half an hour.  Many more discussions emerged from analyzing Paul’s greetings in chapter 16, and eventually someone brought up some of the verses in chapter 15, the part we were actually expecting to study before I made my suggestion about chapter 16.  At one point, Courtney said, “I love how we spent most of our time on the verses that you said we could skip.”  Everyone laughed.


After our Bible study, we shared prayer requests as a group, then we returned to the living room.  Lydia’s group was there, in the middle of prayers.  Joe’s group had not come back out to the living room yet.  I quietly sat on the couch, next to where Rachael was sitting on the floor, and waited for them to finish praying, praying with them when I could.  When they finished, they looked up and opened their eyes.

“Welcome back, Alyssa’s group,” Lydia said.

Rachael looked up at me and made eye contact.  “Hi,” I said.  “Rachael, was it?”

“Yeah!” she said, smiling.  “What was your name?”

“Greg.”

“Nice to meet you!”  Rachael shook my hand.

“You said you go to University Life?” I asked.

“Yeah.  I wasn’t really clicking with my small group there, so I decided to come with Kendra to her Bible study instead.”

“That works,” I said.  “I’ve been to U-Life a couple times last year, when I was having some issues with JCF.  I know a few people there.”

“I wasn’t there last year.  I just transferred to Jeromeville this year.  I’m a kinesiology major, and the kinesiology department at my other school made some changes that aren’t really the direction I want to go with my studies.”

“Are things going better for you here?”

“Definitely!”

“Where was your other school?”

“Grandvale State.  In Oregon.”

“Really!” I exclaimed, surprised.  “I was there last summer!

“You were in Grandvale?”

“Yeah, doing the summer research internship with the Grandvale State math department.”

“That’s crazy!  I wonder if we knew any of the same people?  Did you go to a church in Grandvale?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Grandvale Baptist.”

“I went to Valley Community Church.  I don’t know anyone from Grandvale Baptist.  What was it like?”

“I went to the college and career Bible study.  It was okay, but I probably would have taken my time and looked at other churches if I’d been staying in Grandvale for longer.  And I didn’t have a car, so I needed something close by.”

“That makes sense.  But, hey, it was nice meeting you.  I need to get going, I have a midterm tomorrow to study for.”

“Good luck! I’ll see you around!”

“Thanks!”

I stuck around a little longer to make small talk, particularly with people who were not in my discussion group.  Kendra asked me about The Edge and said that she was considering youth ministry.  That would be nice, to have a new leader whom I was already friends with.  I told her that Adam White, the youth pastor at church, would be the best person to contact with questions.

Unfortunately, I never saw Rachael again.  She did not come back to Bible study, and I never saw her on campus.  That seemed to be a recurring theme in my life; I would meet someone that I wanted to get to know better, and I would never see the other person again.

On the way home, the rest of the night, I kept thinking about our extended discussion of Romans 16.  I usually thought of the Apostle Paul as some kind of great Christian leader; after all, he wrote about a third of the New Testament.  But back in his time, before there was a New Testament, he was a guy doing God’s work, and he had friends, brothers and sisters in Christ who were important to him.  Paul’s books in the New Testament were originally written as letters, personal correspondence between him and important people in his life.

I had brothers and sisters in Christ who were important to me too: my Bible study, the rest of my friends from JCF, the other leaders at The Edge, everyone else I knew at church.  Rachael may not have become part of my group of friends, but that was okay.  Wherever life took me in the future, I could always find a community of believers just by looking for a church.

At this point in my life, though, I was hoping that life would not take me very far; I was happy enough as a part of Jeromeville Covenant Church, volunteering as a leader with The Edge, that I was content to stay in Jeromeville for the rest of my life.  There was a time when I never would have expected to feel this way, given the liberal university town politics that dominate Jeromeville, and I knew that life would change once I was no longer a student.  But I was putting down roots in the community, something I never had back home in Plumdale, and Jeromeville was really starting to feel like home.  Of course, life would not turn out the way I had planned, but I had no way of fully understanding all that would happen to me at that time.



Readers: Tell me about someone you met once and never saw again, and why you wished you had met that person again.

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