GOTCHA DAY

I prepare for my short trip with a level of intent that whispers, “It’s now or never.” I spent the morning sitting in my recliner near the window, reading the paper, writing a few lines in my journal, and drinking my Saturday-morning coffee with an eagerness I could no longer keep in check. I grab my checkbook and multiple copies of my dog application. I dig into a box of that "stuff" that many people keep handy in case we need it one day. The box is filled with yesterdays we hope could play some part in our future. I find an old blanket and a used blue leash and collar, all of which I stuff into a worn Play n Stay canvas bag. I had waited long enough—the time to stop looking at websites full of dogs and traveling from shelter to shelter had passed. I pack up the car and head to Little Washington and the adoption event being held at PetSmart.

I love this fluffy bed. My foster parents’ house is pretty nice. I have been enjoying the quiet and low stress. I am not great at understanding human time.

I was in a crate for a long time with other dogs. We were coming from somewhere that wasn’t pleasant. My leg hurts when I get up from sleeping. I also have some bite marks on me that I do not like to think about. The kind man and kind woman take care of me. I have learned to trust them. I like being here. It is quiet and safe. I get to sleep and eat and sleep and eat. I am feeling better. Did I say I feel safe? They are putting a harness on me—time to go for a ride.

On my drive to Little Washington, I keep thinking about all the places I had visited, hoping to find a dog. Nearby shelters. Previous adoption events. I walked away wanting to adopt but left so unsure. I felt a lot of guilt about that.

Loss is difficult. I may not be able to do this again. I want to make sure I am choosing for the right reason, but how will I know?

The Bridge to Home adoption is energetically chaotic. People walk briskly to the back of the store, where all the crates are lined against the back wall. Many of the people are families with children looking at litters of puppies managing to sleep in a giant pen while people “ooo” and “ahhh” around them.

I am here to check out two or three I saw on the agency website, the ones I envisioned becoming part of my story.  They would be good walking buddies. I looked at those with low energy that had grown out of the puppy stage.

It is so loud. People are trying to talk over barking dogs. I push myself against the background. I slowly slide past all of the dogs. I am interested, but I want to go unnoticed for now.

This is so loud.

Why are we here? I recognize the scent of some of the other dogs.

I am in a crate where I feel safe. I would prefer just to sit in my bed in here. Let me chew on my bed. 

A big dog is next to me, and a bigger one is beside her. At least I can catch a whiff of her behind, which remains pointed at me.

The kind man is standing beside me, arms crossed and talking to people. People bend down to look in the crate and say “hi.” Some slip their fingers between the wires.

I just want to sleep. This is really stressful. Could we leave soon?

The man takes me out of the crate so I can walk around with an older man and woman.

My back leg hurts, and I limp. They see it and make a sad face.

They seem afraid to touch me.  I am afraid to let them. This doesn’t feel good. I begin to walk back into the crate.

Enough. Where am I?

I move past most of the dogs, trying not to make eye contact. I see the ones from the online listing. Those will fit me. Those will be the ones who will be good for walks. Not lap dogs by any means. Definitely bigger dogs like Ranger and Charlie-Bear.

I want things as they were. Familiarity is comfort, right?

The foster parents question me. I tell my sad story that I cannot shake or finish. I tell them about my habits. I tell them about my life and home. I give them my application so they can review it in case we find a match.

One foster parent worries the red dog may be too much because she needs constant exercise and even wears out her and her family. Not a bad thing, but I am older. Another dog already has multiple people applying. I can see why. The fosters say they are happy to put my name in the mix, but there are already other people who may be a better fit for the dog.

They are all honest. They want a good home for these dogs that traveled from a high-kill shelter in Kentucky to Washington, PA. I understand. I do. I think I am going home. I have searched for a long time. Maybe this is not going to work.

I look at the last crate, where a small dog, possibly an overgrown chihuahua, is begrudgingly rising to see a visitor. An older couple is bending over to look at him. The dog seems to have a little limp that disappears as he walks back into the crate and climbs into his bed. He just wants to go home. I can relate.

Another person comes and squats down to look inside the crate. Ugh. I am just going to close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

I can hear the new person talking to the kind man who brought me.

The kind man gently pulls me out of the crate and lets me sit beside the new person. He doesn’t reach out to grab at me. He holds his hand out to let me sniff at him.

I smell other dogs, but I like this new person’s scent.

The kind man and the new person talk more. The kind man puts on my harness and leash. The new person stands and takes a few small steps.

I need to stretch this leg. Ever since I hurt myself, it grows stiff when I sleep on it. The new person and I walk down an aisle. I am leading the way. I smell something, somewhere.

Let’s get out of here.

The foster parent tells me about Quinten’s history. He lets me know he injured his leg and that it needs to loosen up for a minute or so before he can walk normally. He tells me he doesn’t know how or where the bite marks were made. He apologizes that he does not know more, but he does say Quinten has a good report from their vet.

Following us both, he lets me walk Quinten around the store. Quinten loves to sniff. He sniffs at all of the pet supplies on the shelves. He wags his tail continuously up and down the aisles. The foster says it is a good thing that Quinten is letting me walk him.

We stop beside a store display, away from all of the chaos. I squat down to see if Quinten and I have a “connection.” He immediately comes over and puts his paws on my leg and climbs on top of me.

I look at the foster parent. “This is a good thing, right?” He nods, smiles, and says that it definitely is.

Quinten sits down and begins to snuggle on my lap. We both just hang out there for a while. Life feels so peaceful at that moment. 

 “Um…I really can't leave without him. Is that going to be a problem?” The foster and I both laugh.

This new man. I like him.

We are walking out of the store. There are so many big cars driving all around us. He leads me carefully down the edge of the parking lot. I don’t want to walk anymore.

I think I will act scared. I stop and refuse to go any farther.

He squats down beside me.  “Quinten?” He looks worried as he stands as more cars drive past us.

Maybe if I shiver.

“Oh, you poor boy.”

He picks me up, tucks my legs into his arms, and holds me snugly against his chest. We begin to walk. I can hear his heartbeat, feel his breathing.

The new man puts me into the bed the kind man gave him. He takes the leash and ties it up somewhere. He sits beside me and opens a little bag.

Treat! I grab it right away.

I want another and look at him. I open my eyes wide to give him my sad look. That always worked on the kind man and the kind woman.

The new man gives me another one, rubs my back, and covers me with a blanket. I am tired. I just want to go to sleep.

He starts the car, smiles at me, rubs my back, and says, “I gotcha.”

I squirm around in the bed to get more comfortable. I stick my nose under the blanket.

“No, I got you.”

Quinten and I want to dedicate this post to those people who work tirelessly in the animal shelters and the rescue organizations to find dogs like Quinten a safe and loving home. Countless dogs await a home in shelters and rescues across the country. Visit one today.

*Thanks to the folks at Play N Stay for the cover picture of Quinten running.

SELF-CHECKOUT

I believed I was becoming accustomed to life in a self-checkout world. I had my go-to stores, the ones where I knew how to access an impersonal cash register with my Rewards Card. Knowing when to grab the handheld scanner and when to pass my box of pasta over the glass scanner allowed me to easily navigate a veritable maze of hoops meant to test whether I was aware of the latest updates.

I am a good customer. I thought I knew my role in this process.

A huge heat wave was rumbling into our part of the country just days before the 4th of July. Wise people cut their grass on Monday and hit the store on Tuesday. Everyone had fair warning that the heat and humidity would make Wednesday through the weekend horrible. 

I took my Aunt Lou to Walmart with me. She was more excited than I expected when I told her we each needed our own cart and that we would meet at the front of the store in an hour. “Oh! A whole hour! That is perfect!” she smiled as she glanced at the time on her watch.

I traveled up and down the aisles with a sense of purpose. As I stuck to my list, I did not succumb to the temptations of impulse buys. I did not need everything in the world; I just wanted the bare necessities. With fewer than twenty minutes remaining, I was wheeling through the produce section on my way to the long rows of checkout registers at the front of the store.

Aunt Lou was already finished and, seeing that I had a fairly full cart, told me to take my time. And here is where the confidence of my role in the self-checkout world changed.

Three choices were in front of me. The first, and the quickest, is the supposedly fewer-than-12-items corral. Here, a wrangler herds customers to smaller, individual troughs where people with varying degrees of self-checkout expertise can scan, bag, and exit at their own rate. But I needed space, so I passed this section.

I moved to the multiple longer aisles with the conveyor belts and larger bagging areas. I do not mind these. I like the privacy and ability to spread my stuff out before scanning. The larger bagging area is a perk I enjoy as well. If I must bag purchases on my own as someone watches me, give me room. Please, just give me room.

Unfortunately, every longer self-checkout aisle was closed. All of them. That just didn’t seem right to me, not right at all. 

In a fit of rebellion, I no longer wanted to participate in the self-checkout dance. I moved down the rows of registers, desperately looking for an open aisle where someone would be to help me. I found one. Just one. Of course, there were three other customers there, each with overflowing carts far more packed than mine. Standing here was not going to work for me either.

I had a choice. Stay and patiently wait my turn while the temperature rose outside or return to the corral. My aunt was waiting, and I wanted to get home to my dog sooner rather than later. Truth be told?  I began to resent the role I had played in this entire pact I was forced into at stores. I am ashamed that I considered just abandoning the cart out of frustration.

As I pushed my cart back towards the corral, I wondered how I became so impatient. When did I start to think waiting in line was such an inconvenience? Why couldn’t I just stand still and do some breathing exercises?

I wound my cart back into the corral like a lost cow, eyes all big as I looked for an open register, finally positioning it against a scanning machine just beside the register. I was careful to provide myself with a standing space that allowed quick access to my purchases relative to the scanner and the bagging area. I was a dejected pro, resigned to doing this the hard way. 

I could no longer see Aunt Lou. Hopefully she did not wander off too far; perhaps she found a bench or chair. I hope she didn’t get ice cream because this was going to take a while. Starting with cold items, I picked up my container of almond milk, passed its barcode over the glass, listened for the beep, and then placed it in the thin gray plastic bag. That’s one. I had a long way to go.

As I continued checking and bagging toothpaste, vitamins, and deodorant together, and began on dry items, I realized the bags would soon overflow in the area next to the scanner and that there would be no room in the cart. I could not put them on the floor, right? Nor could I put them back into the cart yet. 

The self-checkout was all becoming too much. I should have waited in the line at the other end of the store. I cannot believe I thought taking a full cart through the quick checkout was a good idea. I had made a bigger mess of everything than I anticipated.

My entire self-checkout experience had ground to a halt. I began to grow warm with embarrassment. I stood lost between the mountain I had yet to scan and the valley I had already bagged. Somewhere in the not-too-distant past, this would have been easier for me to do. Why am I so stuck?

I felt the eyes of the corral supervisor rise above her handheld device. I told myself she was judging me as I stood there, watching me as if I were a shoplifter. I also feared that a hidden camera somewhere in the scanning area was recording the manic look of my confusion. Were there people behind me who wondered what I was doing?

I was the man in the arena, stumbling and wondering how I could have done this better. The critics stood silently around in my mind, there but not there. Mere minutes seemed to last an eternity.  I wiped the dust, sweat, and blood from my face and told myself that if I were going to do this, I would need to ignore the naysayers in my mind.

I pushed the cart back out of my comfort zone so that I could try this from another angle. I pulled the remaining items from the cart and stacked them carefully on the small area to the right of the scanner. I was content to leave the bigger items in the cart. Soon, filled bags and unpurchased items sat on opposite sides of the scanner. I could do this now.

I used the hand-held scanner on a big oscillating fan box, a watermelon, and my new American flag. I went to the bottom of the cart and read every single can of beans and the jumbo jar of peanut butter I had stacked in a cardboard tray. I was breathing easier, moving more slowly with newfound purpose while putting the numerous full bags on top of these cans in the cart. In no time at all, I had finished, took a huge chunk out of my debit card, and was headed out the front door with my aunt.

“I was beginning to worry about you,” she said. “I kept looking over at you. You seemed to be getting frustrated at the register.”

“I will tell you something, Aunt Lou. You will find out when you get to be my age that all of this technology stuff is getting out of control. Sometimes I don’t even know what I am doing.”

She laughed and said, “Tell me about it.”

PIECES OF A BIGGER PICTURE

I was a little ambivalent about going to see Bruce Springsteen’s Land of Hope and Dreams show in Pittsburgh in mid-March. People on social media criticized Springsteen’s harsh words toward the current administration and its policies. Others were praising him for his inspiration about the country he knows and loves. 

I just did not know what to expect. Unfortunately, I have allowed myself to be inundated with social media posts, news programs, and articles about the state of the country, and, irrespective of my personal opinion, it has all become too much at times. The world has affected my ability to filter out the talking heads, turn the channel, or swipe the page.

So I was apprehensive about going to the show, worried that hearing one of my favorite artists vent about politics might dim any remaining positive outlook more than impersonal commentators on a news channel’s roundtable. I was wrong, though. 

Bruce was angry, yes. He channeled his anger into his music, opening with a blistering take on Edwin Starr’s "War.” Throughout the show, Springsteen would stop to criticize recent events in our country. Many people would say he was harsh and unpatriotic, while others would call him passionate and inspiring. But do you know what? He always leaves me feeling that there is some hope to be found if we just look hard enough.

Right before his song “My City of Ruins,” Bruce ended his speech with this plea:

“Honesty. Honor. Humility. Character. Truth. Compassion. 

Humanity, thoughtfulness, morality, true strength, and decency.

Don't let anybody tell you that these things don't matter anymore because they do. They are at the heart of the kind of men and women we are, the kind of citizens we want to be, and the kind of country we want to leave for our children.”

This was Springsteen’s request. We can be critical; we can disagree. That is our right as Americans. But can we retain hope? Can we latch onto that which epitomizes the traits and characteristics we value? We simply must.

I left the concert feeling better. I was surrounded by people who felt the same, people who stood and applauded the principles of our country that the Boss passionately espoused. Some voices you just listen to and feel better.

Days later, I was still recovering from an early morning return to Wheeling after the concert, and I would have enjoyed sleeping in a little longer. My two government classes had already taken their exams, and I had graded about half of them. An extra hour or two would have done wonders.

This poor student had to miss his last day of classes because of a medical emergency. Shortly before going into surgery on the day of his final exam, he emailed me to let me know he wouldn’t be there. I would have been more worried about surgery, but God has a special place for students who always remember to email teachers if they are going to miss class.

He came the day after his surgery to take the exam. So, despite a nausea patch still stuck behind his ear, he showed more energy than I did at 7:30 am, when he was waiting for me outside my door.

As he dug into his exam, he searched his Citizen’s Chronicle for answers to the questions about rights guaranteed in the Constitution. The Chronicle was a standard composition book wrapped in class stickers, quotations, and a bunch of masking tape. Inside, he found his handwritten notes, drawings, pictures, and the amazing story of Billy Rightway.

At the beginning of the school year, I was comfortably uncomfortable being retired from teaching full-time. Central called to ask if I could teach a couple of government classes this school year. I was hesitant at first. An entire year? Government? Ugh.

Betsy had a bunch of old, slightly used composition books collecting dust in her room, remnants of an APush class years ago. I made my plans, took the composition books, and decided to forgo being overly formal and go with real and gritty, maybe even messy. But the bottom line was to do something meaningful and relevant.

The students filled over 62 pages of the composition book not only with the guiding principles and laws of our country but also with their personal takes on a wide variety of topics. What does it mean to be a good citizen beyond just claiming you are one? Who are the people in your life who have modeled this for you? 

What about the Bill of Rights? Do you know what they guarantee to you? When you look around the country or watch the news, do you witness civil discourse, or do you hear insulting rhetoric? Do you feel as if your voice is heard? From this point on, what type of citizen do you wish to be?

These are just a few questions I could ask myself, ones that I thought would be good to ask my students. We walked a fine line, doing our best to objectively examine issues from multiple viewpoints and to listen as one another shared their thoughts. Then we wrote, we drew, we thought, and then we did it all over again.

That was our journey this year.

The following week, prior to graduation, I enjoyed the students’ commencement presentations. They all had an opportunity to share the reflections they had written in English class. Some offered heartfelt tributes to their parents, grandparents, and siblings, acknowledging the roles those loved ones played in shaping who they are. 

They shared elements of their own stories. One person talked about her friend, who thoughtfully created motivational sticky notes for others in the hope that their days would be good ones. Others spoke of the honor of having played a sport with classmates and referring to teammates and coaches as family.

I listened to students who talked about challenges they have fought to overcome. They bravely spoke of individual medical conditions that made every day a challenge. Many voiced the sadness they felt over losing a family member close to them or the fear they have when someone they love immensely has been fighting a battle with cancer. A quiet student told of growing more confident from time spent on the drama stage, while another retold parts of his incredible journey from war-torn Ukraine to America.

And when they were all done, each student returned to an audience that congratulated them with fist bumps and compassionate hugs, some of which were sprinkled with the tears of humanity. I witnessed a small but compelling picture of what the future can be like with the current generation.

“Don't let anybody tell you that these things don't matter anymore because they do.”

Luiso Photography

SUNSHINE SHUTTLE

The brown paper bag looked amazing. A huge, smiling yellow sun covered nearly the entire top of the brown bag, with the colorful words “you are sun-sational” splashed beneath it. Below that was printed, “Thanks for all that you have done this year!” Tufts of bright lemon paper looked like rays of the sun popping out of the top.

I sipped my chilled glass of ice-cold lemonade, which I had made for myself at the cool lemonade stand across the counter in the lounge, adding some fresh berries and a few drops of blackberry syrup. I was having quite the afternoon.

I retired from full-time teaching three years ago. I never thought I would step back into the classroom again, but teaching only two classes this year is kind of nice. I have plenty of free time to walk the dog more often, play video games for hours on end, and catch up on years of lost sleep.

So when Teacher Appreciation Week rolled around this year, I felt a little guilty about taking part in the celebration. Some days, I am only here for one government class while other teachers are navigating a full load of classes each day. That lemonade sure tasted good, though.

I looked at the bag. The principal stood at the table in the teacher’s lounge talking to me. I know Becky wanted me to open the bag, but I didn’t want to do it in front of her. I was content to sip on the lemonade and imagine what was inside the bag, so I told her I was going to open it at home. 

I lied. Once she left, I peeked inside. Maybe I didn’t want her to see me smile as I pulled out the surprises. 

I quickly unwrapped a Golden Grahams bar and savored tiny bites while checking out my stickers, Play-Doh, and a little rubber duck. But the "pièce de résistance" was something totally unexpected: a personalized laminated round-trip ticket on the Sunshine Shuttle to Dupes Scoops for an ice-cream treat. 

The next day, on an overcast, chilly afternoon, teachers, their eyes worn from the end of the year and their arms crossed, gathered in front of the school after the students had been dismissed.  Survivors of a full day of hyperactive teenagers who would rather be anywhere else began to smile when they saw the Sunshine Shuttle awaiting them.

I masked my own enthusiasm while holding my own golden ticket in front of me like Charlie Bucket. I half expected to see Willie Wonka driving the orange school bus, but Mr. Murphy was the perfect replacement.  Orange, yellow, and white streamers dropping down in front of the bus door invited weary souls to a magical place where today’s pressure was not to be found.

I feel kind of corny writing about all of this. But when I stepped on the Sunshine Shuttle to find it decorated with balloons, small suns, and even more streamers, I felt like a kid again. And let me tell you something, for a pushing 60, underdressed-for-the-weather man in shoes that had lost their arch support, to feel excitement about a trip to Dupes Scoops was something pretty special.

I remember a few specifics from the journey through downtown Wheeling, but for the most part, I just recall the feeling. Many of the teachers jabbered enthusiastically while I kept my arms atop the school bus seat in front of me, silently listening to some happy music playing faintly in the background as I looked out the window.

Throughout life, we often struggle with being “present” in moments. We may not always appreciate the simpler things, see the value in a kind gesture or smile, or acknowledge the road we have taken to arrive where we are. The significance of moments is often found in the time and places we take for granted.

The Sunshine Shuttle arrived quickly, hopefully avoiding the impending rain showers. Teachers are the universally certified guardians of orderly lines. With that in mind, we took our turns slowly disembarking the bus, stepping into the aisle without encroaching on the person’s personal space in front of us, and keeping our hands to ourselves.

Younger educators stood in line with the veterans. Math and science, English and social studies, art and video, staff and admins, all shivered in excitement as they waited their turn at the window. I tried to calculate the number of years of teaching experience gathered there on National Road, but I am a former English teacher who currently teaches a couple of government classes. I can add, but I struggle to keep a tally in my head, primarily because of my remarkable ability to become distracted whenever I am getting ice cream.

My turn came, and I stepped to the window, where I came face-to-face with Dupes himself, Luke Duplaga. Talk about moments. I had Luke in my class nearly a decade ago. Can that even be correct? I tried to do the math standing there, but…well, you know. Ice cream. 

Many teachers lose track of the years; some, like me, have occasionally forgotten names. We don’t forget the time spent together, even if we can’t remember the specific years and faces.  The great gift educators are afforded is the occasional opportunity to witness how a student’s story is progressing, a story far removed from the chapter in which you appeared.

It was good to see Luke. We talked a little, but Dupes still had a bunch of ice cream to hand out, and knowing Luke, I am sure he wanted to get the orders right. So I took my cappuccino crunch waffle cone, said “thank you,” then stepped to the side, the way all good teachers try to model for their students.

The Sunshine-Shuttle headed back to school, escaping the rain at just the right time. So many thoughts and emotions spun around in my head. Looking at everyone on the bus, having one last glance at the decorations and the shiny sun hanging beside me on the seat, I felt good, better than I have felt in a while. 

I was touched by the appreciation the school showed my colleagues and me. Yes, I loved the lemonade stand, the coffee cart, and, of course, the Sunshine Shuttle trip to Dupes Scoops. I will always be grateful for the week we had this year. 

Beyond the treats and gifts, the week gave me another treasure: a sense of gratitude for the career I chose, the never-ending flashbacks to previous classrooms and schools, the experiences of learning and teaching, and, of course, the enduring lifetime connections with students and colleagues.

I had my arms resting contentedly on top of the seat in front of me again on the ride home. I could still taste the cappuccino crunch ice cream at Dupes. “Becky? Can we do this every week?” 

Becky chuckled, “I wish we could.”

Living in the moment, appreciating one another, and being forever grateful. 

GREEN ROOM

The rain bothered me at first, but I found it offered a suitable backdrop for my jaunt back to West Liberty on a chilly day in early March. That day was a late-in-life effort to do some things I have been wanting to do for a long time. 

I had asked Coach Mike if I could watch a Topper basketball practice this season on one of my free days from part-time government classes at Central. He told me I was always welcome, but I seemed to find an excuse not to go. I have been quite adept at making up reasons not to do things my whole life. 

Sure, I went to watch the practice, but don’t tell Coach I had other reasons, more personal ones for my journey up the winding roads WV-88. My trip was more deliberate and contemplative. I have been back in Wheeling for over twelve years now, but I had never really walked across the quad that a younger A.J. walked forty years ago.

I took a hard right up the steep hill near Bonar Hall, where I spent my first year. I passed Krise Hall and neared the turn where I could look down at Beta Hall, half-expecting a cautionary sign reading "Proceed with Caution." Like a haunted house, my senior-year dorm nestled in the afternoon darkness and drizzling rain.

I pushed the wipers a little harder to see the memories of that year. I shook my head at the unfolding stories, chuckled a few times, and then took a picture to show Chaka. I needed to move on for now.

I parked and made my way to the quad. At its center stood the tall flagpole. Gone was the large wooden base where, as a Phi Sig pledge, I had to lean with my knees jutting forward at right angles to “think about it” after a late night of mud-diving or whenever one of my pledge brothers said something stupid. But the flag remained, as were the numerous sidewalks that led students outward to other destinations on campus. 

The Quad at West Liberty University

I took one sidewalk to the bottom floor of the library, where I strolled down the long hallway several times, looking into the empty rooms where I once sat in my English classes. On the main floor of the library, the entryway seemed larger and more spacious. Countless study tables and computers replaced the coziness of the massive bookshelves.

Another sidewalk led to the student union. Where were this burrito place, the corner coffee shop, and the pick and go store when I was a student? Were there still dances on the main floor? Someone removed the pool tables downstairs, and the aroma of stale beer no longer wafted from the little room I remembered as the pub. Nothing appeared to be what it once was to me.

I sat down in one of the many comfy couches that quietly huddled together in a space I recall as electric on a Thursday evening. Students were still on campus, working in class, practicing with their teams, or even working at jobs. Despite the changes and emptiness, the feeling I once had walking through here returned to me. I sat with my memories, wondering if this place remembered me, even a little bit.

I stepped outside, opened my umbrella, and returned to the quad. I stepped onto the longest sidewalk, which ran the length of campus, stopping at Kelly Theater. For the longest time, I have really wanted to visit the theater. I had spent the bulk of my years there acting on stage, taking speech classes, and figuring out just who I was going to be during my college years.

I quietly walked up the steps as if I were visiting the theater for the first time and slowly opened the door. A sense of reverence enveloped me as I stepped into the dark theater. Smaller safety lights illuminated areas around the sloped audience seating. I wanted to walk down the stairs toward the lighted stage, but a self-imposed restraint pinned my feet to the top of the staircase. This spot would be far enough.

Was I the ghost here, unable to touch the memories that flickered around me? The people I saw on the empty stage appeared so alive, but so was I. Bill and I argued as Hildy Johnson and Walter Burns in The Front Page as we did forty years ago. John Reilly winced and repeatedly told me to start again as I struggled with an Irish accent in his Voice for the Stage class. I sang and danced around a huge wooden doghouse with my light blue blanket as Linus in You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

More and more ghosts traveled across the lighted stage as I stood there, enraptured by a life I once lived. The longer I stayed, the more the ghosts peered at me from the corners of their eyes, subtly nudging me to leave and return another time.

The hallway beside Kelly Theater led to other parts of the building: the art gallery, the music department, and a row of lockers leading out the back door. At the end of the lockers, the green room awaited. 

The green room is a place where members of the cast and crew can quietly unwind away from the stage. It was in this room that we could think about the performances we had just delivered and those we had yet to give. It was the crossroads between what was and what could be.

Of course, we were kids then, still learning to lower our voices, particularly during rehearsals or performances. The excitement of life often overwhelmed us. Of course, those were times when my college advisor, Meta Lasch, would descend the metal stairs from her office above the green room to tell us to keep it down or get out. We always stayed.

I looked around the small room, futilely putting together pieces from two different puzzles. As I had hoped all day, I wanted my perception of what stood before me to match my memories of the past, seeking some tangible relic whose significance remained for all but was understood by only a few.

I noticed the couches and the dark walls that were so similar to what I remembered. A locked metal-mesh door cut off the office at the top of the metal stairs nestled against the wall. The door to the theater stood open to the same lighted stage I faced as an audience on the opposite side minutes earlier. I'm not sure I should be here anymore.

“Hi,” I whispered. I did not want to startle the two students who sat on one of the couches. “Do you mind if I come in for a minute?”

They looked at each other. I felt some doubt and uneasiness emanating from them. I remembered that I was a disheveled 60-year-old man with a gray beard, wearing a damp hoodie, who happened to drop by to “come in for a minute.” That could be creepy in our current world.

“I am sorry. I should have knocked or something. I am just looking around. I graduated back in 86 and just wanted to see how much things have changed. I saw something. I ignored the two students and walked across the room. Mounted on the wall were two large wooden fraternity paddles. At the center were the carved Greek letters:  ΑΨΩ. 

“OMG. You kept these? I can’t believe this. Is Alpha Psi Omega still around?”

One of the students embraced the moment with me. “Of course. Were you in Alpha Psi?”

I moved even closer to the large paddles to read the smaller signatures surrounding the large ΑΨΩ. I moved closer to my past as I scanned the paddles for my name. “I know my name is here,” I laughed like a child unwrapping a special present on this birthday.

I found it right above Cheryl Saseen’s signature. Cheryl wrote her name in a black Sharpie that stood out prominently on the paddle. Mine? My name was a slightly muted silver Sharpie. Why did I write with that color Sharpie? I could barely see my name. Still, this was pretty damn cool. 

I turned back to the student, “Would you mind getting a couple of pictures of me with this? No one will believe this is still here.”  I gave her my phone. “Do you know how to take pictures with a phone?”

She laughed. “I think I can figure it out.” I attempted to move as close as possible to the paddle so I could point at my name, but pieces of furniture were pushed closely together along the wall. “You know what?” my photographer asked. “Why don’t you climb on top of the chair so I can take a better shot?”

“Are you sure?” I glanced out the door to make sure no adult came in to catch me stepping on university furniture. I climbed onto the chair, then contorted my aged body into an uncomfortable position to look back at the camera and smile.

Beta Hall 

The English Hallway

The Stage

Forty Years Ago