Teacher and Student

My husband and I had a great date night on Saturday. It was one of those perfect evenings when you find yourself so engrossed in conversation that you forget those around you. The kind of chemistry you wish you had when you see others having it. We had fantastic conversations about many things: socially responsible investments, eggs, memories, personality characteristics, learning styles. For instance, we discussed the various study techniques we employed while in school. Maybe not the Saturday night romantic dinner conversation for most, but I enjoyed myself immensely - and I think he did, too. Listening to my husband ruminate over his experiences as an educator, I found myself thinking of those from whom I have been fortunate to learn.
My sophomore year at Augustana I changed majors. I found myself floundering in Discrete Mathematics. The thing I enjoyed most about the class was the play on the name "discrete". I never really could tell most people what it was about - the subject being so demure, so vague. I new I couldn't tolerate the coursework required for the major, and I was doubting my desire to teach secondary ed. I truly enjoyed my coursework in Religion, though. I'm not sure what originally drew me to the subject. Perhaps that I have a deep appreciation for the workings of religion / faith in people's lives - and especially those lives that are markedly different from my own. Perhaps the incredible professor that was very other, very mysterious. She explained daoism to the dumb-founded football player in class. He got it - we all got it. So I was changing, learning, reading anything I could get my hands on.
Amidst this developing passion, I took a Intro to American Fiction course to satisfy my liberal arts requirements. It was taught by a fairly young, incredibly intelligent, incredibly sardonic man named Dr. P. He opened my eyes to the wonders of fiction. The phenomenal ability of writers (think Joyce Carol Oates) to comment on our culture, lives, everything - without directly telling us. They would use irony, metaphor, symbolism. I looked forward to every class with anticipation, never failing to read an assignment.
It was during this class that I read an essay by Pete McElroy, a photo-copied stack of papers stapled in the corner. It was the story of a newly married couple living in a small town in Michigan. He worked a job as the only journalist in the city. He wrote of their relationship developing, how they came to know each other. The not-so-subtle actions that spoke a thousand words. Slamming kitchen cabinets, vacuuming at 11pm. All the while he watched Johnny Carson, not bothering to extend that olive branch. Instead, leaving her be, knowing that in the morning he would awake holding her hand. While en route to a fatal crash site, he sees her car amongst the wreckage. And he reflects on what he would have done differently.
I still have that story. I reread it occasionally. Almost eight years ago, my sister-in-law died from a stroke. My brother would occasionally express his thoughts on her passing, of him being left behind. This story was refreshed in my mind and has stayed for the years since that time.
Four years ago I had the pleasure of talking with Dr. P. I brought up the story he had us read years previous - of the profound effect it had on me as I considered my brother losing his wife, my own deepening relationship with my boyfriend - taking that chance to love someone entirely and possibly losing it all. I mentioned that I had looked up Pete McElroy and had been unable to find any other pieces by him. I noted that he smiled and nodded his head. He asked if I would like to try a special ipa he had stashed in the garage. I eagerly followed. As he poured me a beer from the keg, he told me "There is no Pete McElroy" and smiled. As I stared at him, my furrowed brow smoothed as my jaw dropped. "You're Pete McElroy?" "Guilty".
I was blown away. And I imagine he was too. To have created something that continues to profoundly impact someone. What a pleasure and an honor it must be.