PATHS CROSS

If they didn't we'd never have met. And by the way (some say by the by and I never understood that), what's wrong with fighting windmills? I mean, who gets hurt?

Did I tell you I once met a girl from Plainfield, IL named Amber Waive? As in of grain.

Another who aced a 300 level Poetry class was named Jo Roetzell from Rochelle. She made an A because of her name. My arch German prof loved to roll her name off his tongue while he winced when he said mine. I'm sure he smiled when he recorded my C.

When we shared our final grades, she had a look that combined the wince and the smile. By our Senior year, she had become...well, nevermind; I don't want to be libelous.

Another Roschell, also an English major, had the last name of Bewick. I always thought Jackie a better name. As in the broomstick. Ok, so it was a stretch. I was a older teen who loved words.

Rod Richrequez, tell me that name was never screwed up, was an English major who gave me a disgusted wince look when as grad students I told him I was a commuter and wouldn't be around to hear a guest lecturer in Davis Auditorium one night.

I wonder what happened to all those former students and co-eds and the gal who borrowed my Wallace Stevens book chock full of notes. She told me she would return it on her way back to Chicago. She didn't.

Sometimes paths don't cross again.