"I'll see you in the fall" -- in its entirety

Original work by Nicola Holmes, copyright 2002 (completion date), (2018) first publication.

I’ll See You In the Fall

By the time I arrived at UC Davis, I’d been a student again for about three years.  Returning to college at the age of 28 held both perqs and drawbacks.  At Davis, I worried about being viewed as ‘old’–I was 31 when I started my first full-time quarter there–and I wondered if I could keep up with the competitive population of each of my classes.

I loved the feel of the campus, and this bolstered my resolution to keep fighting.  The UC Davis campus felt like an old friend to me.  I’d attended summer classes there during my Junior College years, hoping to get ahead on my coursework, and to prepare myself for the pace of university classes.  Summer was hot and quiet at UCD, but the Fall–the Fall season at UCD was amazing.  While the many trees were busy turning their cloaks to gold and red, the bustling pace of student life belied the onset of winter.  Instead, the colors and coolness which chased the last days of summer into the horizon seemed to herald promise of work, enrichment, rewarded effort, and success.

Most of the students were in dorms or shared houses where they interacted with each other.  I was self-supporting.  Though I was out on my own, at least I did not depend upon my parents for cash to live.  Thus, I was able to choose where I lived, ate, and played.  It felt like a hindrance at first, but later I was able to see the advantage of this.

Other things, too, affected my view of college life.  I’d spent a decade of “twenties” driving tow-trucks and–briefly–big rigs; installing burglar alarms; trying to be as tough as ‘the guys;’ riding broncs, skiing ‘balls to the wall,’ and downhill mountain biking in the same fashion on the same slopes in the summer.  I wondered if I could possibly convince my fellow students that I belonged in college.

Just as I entered my first semester of college, I met the man I’d marry.  Initially, the relationship helped buoy my outlook at school.  He was a Navy Seal, and an EOD tech, and his ‘go get’em’ hoo-yah attitude evidenced his support of my endeavors.

We married just before the beginning of my fourth semester at school.  As the date approached, I remember my father phoning me to ask me if I really believed in what I was about to do.  As it turned out, he’s never let me forget that phone call.

Ultimately, we divorced.  It was the morning of a hot summer day when I last saw him, and his disappearance from my life was sudden; less expected than perhaps it should have been.  In the eighteen months between our wedding and the day we separated for good, I spent a lot of energy trying to make order out of my confusing life with him.  I’d had so many opportunities to marry before I chose him.  Why had this not worked?  What had I not seen?

The first winter of our marriage, I attended an intensive self-awareness-type workshop, hoping to figure out what I couldn’t see about myself.  The most common comment in feedback was ‘not trustworthy’ or ‘closed’ or ‘can’t tell’...can’t tell?  What does that mean?  More than once, somebody actually gave me that comment in feedback.  They stood in front of me and stared into my eyes, and said, “Can’t tell.”  If it had happened once, I’d probably have ignored it.  But, it happened a couple of times, and I thought, ‘am I shutting the world out?’  Walking from the meeting hall the last night of the workshop, I hugged my coat close to my body.  Looking up at the leafless limbs of the trees, I considered this.  I did not want to live in a cold, lonely wintertime of a life.  I wanted the gentle breeze of companionship and love, the rich tapestry which is woven by close friendships.

I weighed the likelihood that those people–not myself–were having a hard time either accessing their feelings, or perhaps sharing those feelings.  Of course, being who I am, I still couldn’t stop thinking of the comments–the body of them–as a whole.  Certainly I’d never been accused of having a hard time being in touch with my feelings.  Nope, that had never been an issue.  Of the revelations which came to me in this time of introspection, none answered my questions about my marriage and the course it seemed to be taking, but they helped me with my own mind.

During the rest of my few semesters remaining for me at junior college, I made myself get around to doing things I’d fantasized about but put off: taking an acting class, getting back into dance–I took two years of jazz dance then--and I went back to skiing, which I’d put down after meeting my husband.  I hoped that my persona, the “me” that people met, was changing and becoming more approachable.  I wanted to be perceived as trustworthy and open, and I definitely wanted people to be able to “tell” what they thought about me.

The acting class was the most useful to me as an introspective tool.  I found my weaknesses.  I learned what lines I resisted crossing, and then I made myself cross them.  These were not spectacular accomplishments.  The things I did were not for others, they were for myself. 

Doing such things gave me some personal power I’d relinquished.  I re-learned that I knew what was in other people’s hearts if I studied the people, and that I also knew their fears as well as if they were my own.  In fact, I knew their fears because they were often my own.  But, knowing the fears I owned gave me the ability to control them.

It was at this stage that I arrived at UC Davis, and the knowledge I came armed with was mostly knowledge acquired by living and healing rather than by studying at my junior college.  My concerns of being viewed as a square peg were perhaps unfounded, as I felt primarily ignored by much of the student population.  Soon, I realized that I was not feeling much different than the rest of the newcomers.  

By February of my first year, I’d settled in, but had not met many people yet, as I was not a Davis local, but was instead a commuter.  Davis–the school and the town--is not a hospitable place to those who choose not to immerse themselves in the entire academic and local lifestyle, and thus I was not a part of much.

I was also struggling painfully through my classes.  In the beginning of the Winter quarter, my home caught fire, affecting me more deeply due to the fact that I was in the throws of divorce, and the loss of keepsakes and memorabilia felt like one more injury tossed upon a year of loss.

Though I was finding it difficult to complete my coursework, I fought onward.  One class in particular was daunting.  It was my Thermodynamics class.  The class was so full of students that if one wanted a decent seat, one had to arrive 20 minutes early.  I always needed to be close to the front, or I couldn’t get adequate notes, so I was usually there early.  There were even some students who would sit on the floor up front of the middle aisle because the seats were all taken.  Of those, the usual suspects were mostly late-comers to the class meetings.

There was one student, however, who always was there, on the floor up front, legs crossed over each other in a yoga-style posture.  She was only just a note in my field of attention when she first began the class with us in January, but as the weeks wore on, I paid more and more attention to her.  She always had the answers that the teacher sought, and more than that, she asked questions on topics I hadn’t even read yet.  She irritated me.  And, to add insult to injury, she was arriving in class later and later, but she always had her homework done.  By contrast, I was regularly four or five assignments behind.

About the time I began to notice her, I also noticed that much of that early morning class walked straight from Thermodynamics to Dynamics each morning, and I began to try to find small clusters of students who I knew were walking to my next class, so that I could walk with them, and get to know them.

One day, I walked along with a young woman dressed in tight, short, shorts and matching crop top and shoes.  I found that she was a former aerobics instructor, and, despite being only 20, she too, was going through a divorce.  Not that I wanted to focus on that, but it gave us some common things to relate to each other by.  The conversation finally came around to the little hippy girl who always sat on the floor of the classroom in Thermo.  My new acquaintance, Phyllis, was also rubbed a bit the wrong way by her.

Later, by myself, I thought about the feelings Phyllis and I had talked about.  I asked myself why we should be irritated by the girl.  I understood.  It was because we felt a bit threatened.  As that awareness dawned upon me, I resolved not to let such petty concerns cloud my perception of a person.  There would always be somebody who could do anything better than I.  Besides, I really liked the way she showed up in class looking as though she’d just rolled out of bed.  I was sure that she had just rolled out of bed.  The class was at 7 am.  Her hair was never brushed; it was always unkempt.  Hers was a noteworthy act of subtle dissent in a class run by a wet-behind-the-ears Ivy League assistant professor determined to make a name for himself by failing half the class.

The next time I saw her was several weeks later.  She’d been absent.  She came hobbling in on crutches, sporting a hefty leg cast.  I sat in the front row, at one of two tables which each were populated by three or four of us.  There was an extra chair at our table, and I was ready to clear it off for her if she made her way to the front, but she simply sat in a chair against the back wall, and hoisted her pack to the floor.

The teacher was in the process of calling roll.  He arrived at her name, and they proceeded through the same ritual that they always did when she was there early enough to hear roll called.  He internally corrected for the ‘last name, first name’ format of the roll sheet and called, “Martha Bailey?”

To which she answered in a confident, sweet-but-no-nonsense tone of voice, “BAI-ley.”  He stopped, and looked at her as though they’d never done this before, and she replied for clarification, “It’s Bailey.  Just Bailey.”  And the prof proceeded, absently acknowledging her by noting that she was present, then calling the next student.

Though I’d heard this ritual every day that she’d been in class, I’d never considered it before.  He was pushing back.  I was sure it was her non-chalant way of showing up late, but still knowing enough to teach the class–almost-- and her unwillingness to make a neat appearance to his class.  He wanted his star pupil to meet his standards–all of them.  I liked her.

 After this exchange, I thought about the weeks she’d been absent, and remembered that the days her name had been called with no response, I’d looked around and seen in the faces of my fellow students a strange, cold, and common look which, if translated, might have read, ‘fine by me...it’ll help the curve.’

I hoped my own countenance had not looked the same, but doubted it had, as these last weeks I’d been looking forward to seeing Bailey.  After class, I found myself in a jam at the door, directly behind the cause–Bailey was trying to get her pack on, but was having a problem balancing on the crutches as she tried to lean over for her pack.

I grabbed the pack off the floor and hoisted it–it had to weigh fifty pounds; even more than my own–and turned it around so that the shoulder straps were facing her.  “Here,” I said, “try this.”  She smiled and slipped her arms and shoulders into the pack and started out the door.  She thanked me over her shoulder because she couldn’t turn in the tightly packed doorway.

Next class, I noticed that she had made her way to the front again by being one of the first students into the classroom.  I was also one of the first, as usual, since I was trying to keep claim on my seat at one of the front tables.  I figured she’d have to wait for everybody to exit the classroom before she could leave.

At the end of class, I watched as Bailey made her way to the podium to speak with the teacher.  It almost seemed that she was intentionally delaying her departure–perhaps until the way was clear for her?  I approached her and the prof as they chatted, and when she looked ready to leave, I said, “I’ll carry that back pack for you.”  She looked at me blankly.  “Here.  Give me your pack,” I said as I reached for it where it sat on the table next to the podium.  Still she didn’t answer.

I hoisted the massive pack onto my left shoulder, switching mine to my right to counter-balance the load.  The weight of the packs felt mostly even.  “Where’s your next class?” I asked Bailey.

“Wellman,” she answered, and I realized I’d committed myself to a long walk most of the way across campus, and in the opposite direction of my own class. 

“Let’s go,” I answered, unwilling to show anything but determination.  As we walked from the building, I felt the first puff of warm air I’d felt since the previous Fall, and was pleased to think that Spring was near.  I found the silence between us disconcerting.  I had to break the ice.  “How did you do that,” I asked.

“Skiing,” she answered.  “I was on the first trip of the year with the ski club, and I just hit a bump wrong.”  I mused about that revelation.  I’d considered joining the ski and snowboard club, but had never gotten myself over to any of the meetings.

“Are you in that club?  I keep meaning to go to the meetings.  Skiing is my favorite winter entertainment.  How do ya like the club?” I responded.

“Actually, I’m the treasurer,” Bailey replied.  “It’s a blast.  We have, like, two hundred members or something unreal like that.  You know Thor?  He’s the president.”  Thor was another ‘brainiac’ who was in my Thermo and my Dynamics classes.  He was completely nice and cute and friendly, and frustratingly, he got all A’s.  Well, at least it was nice to know there were some engineering students in the club.  I had assumed that it would be populated primarily with shredders from the liberal arts college.  Once again, I had jumped to an incorrect conclusion.

We were approaching Wellman.  “I can take my pack from here,” Bailey said. 

“I really don’t mind going on in with it, if you’d like,” I answered.  But, Bailey was reaching for the pack, and had it, so I said my goodbyes and headed back for the chem building where I was now ten minutes late for my Dynamics class.  When I arrived, I saw an empty desk next to Phyllis, and I quietly sat down, noting a strange look on her face as I did.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“I carried Bailey’s pack to her class for her,” I answered.  She looked at me strangely again.

“You carried her pack?”

“Mmmm Hmmm,” I answered, and left it at that.

The next time we had class, I waited for Bailey, and it was apparent that she knew I would.  She said, “I asked my friend Liz to meet us at the corner of the quad so she can take the pack from there.  We have that class together.”

“Cool,” I answered.  As we walked and talked, I heard about her life before Davis.  She was not a Freshman, but was actually a sophomore who’d come to Davis directly from high school; no stops at junior college in between.  So, I figured her age at about 19 or 20, and in my head, I dreaded the day that she might ask me my age.  I assumed that would be where the acquaintanceship would end.  I was 32 at the time. 

I met Bailey’s friend Liz, who was also an engineering major, and noted that she had a suspicious look on her face as we were introduced.  What was so odd about all of this that both her friend, and my new friend both looked suspiciously at me?  ‘Well, whatever,” was the only thought I could muster.

As the quarter waned past us, I got to know a bit more about Bailey on our between-class hikes across campus.  We watched as each day the trees pushed the buds of leaves out for their Spring canopy, and we talked.  Mostly, we just talked about easy stuff.  I found out she had a boyfriend at Chico and that she often took the train to see him as she didn’t have a car.  Otherwise, he seemed to be at her place in Davis often, and he also arrived by train.  She was always tired and late to class because she’d usually just gotten off the train.

She told me that she was the youngest of a number of kids, the next oldest being almost old enough to have been her parent.  I inferred that she was so intellectual as a result of having grown up as the only child in a house full of adults.  She liked purple; purple everything.  That became more evident as I got to know her.  Much of her wardrobe was purple.

I never told her that quarter about my secret–that I was a student going through a divorce.  It seemed almost too grown-up, or too mundane to share.  And, I didn’t want to view myself that way, either, so it was just something I left out.  I did get the details when she and her Chico boyfriend were breaking up.  Not that she was the sort to deride a person she’d cared for–or anybody for that matter–but she did tell me when she saw it coming to an end.  Just as a matter of course she told me, as she might also have told me that she’d finally acquired a car.

Over this time, I discovered I had become known as Bailey’s friend.  I couldn’t tell how this had happened.  But people would ask me about her, as though I should know the answers to her life.  It was rather funny, and it brought people to me in a way I’d never have expected.  It was as though they used me as their microscope to view an interesting bug.  I was their conduit to Bailey, though they mostly seemed to want to stay a distance from her.

I actually became rather frustrated and tired of this after a number of weeks.  Primarily, I was angry that people weren’t just getting to know her as I had.  I’d realized that she intimidated us all, and I’d overridden the knee-jerk response to dislike and judge her.  What I’d discovered in doing this was a genuine, loving, funny, kind, and very young woman.  She projected maturity, but I’d discovered she was still just a young person who was trying to live up to her ideals.

Liz, Bailey’s friend, hadn’t warmed up to me much, and that was disconcerting.  It was mostly disconcerting because I had finally managed to become somebody everybody knew, and was making friends left and right.  I suppose I understood that her feelings must have been similar to those we’d all felt about Bailey in the Thermo class.  She felt uneasy by my presence, and possibly threatened.  I couldn’t understand those feelings though, as I rationalized that here I was, about 12 years older than Bailey, not really hanging out with her, just helping her carry a difficult load–literally.

Besides, standing the three of us side by side, any average person would pick me out as the one who didn’t match.  The two of them were sisters, no doubt.  They both wore mismatched clothes that appeared that they’d been purchased at the local Goodwill, which I’d have bet they were.  Ancient and broken down Birkenstocks were their footwear of choice.  They each had macrame friendship bracelets or chokers with peace signs on them.

I, on the other hand, had the shredder-engineer-jock-nerd look going.  I know the look, but you might have had to be a student at Davis to know it.  Black Jansport backpack with a travel coffee mug lashed by a mug leash to the pack, Teva sandals with socks optional, Gramicci shorts, long hair down to my waist in tight curls, and either a “Rocknasium” or a “Rok Shox” shirt, and Oakley MicroBlade sunglasses on another leash.  Neither Bailey nor Liz ever wore sunglasses that I could discern.

By finals week, Bailey and I had exchanged phone numbers in the event that one of us might need to phone the other regarding a homework problem.  This had been the solution after Bailey had discovered that I left campus to go to work after about 11 am every day.  Not only did I work, but I worked in Sacramento, and then went home to Roseville.  All of those details added up to one truth: I could not study with my schoolmates.  They studied in the evenings.  Not wanting the offer of joining a study group to pass me by completely, I had suggested that we exchange numbers.  She agreed.

I called her once that quarter, just before our final, when I was having a problem with a particularly nasty differential equation.  We realized that trying to do such math over the phone was a challenge even for relatively articulate people.  She gave her best effort, and suggested that I call her back if it still didn’t work.  It didn’t, but I hated to sound desperate, so I didn’t call again.

Spring quarter began, and Bailey and I had no classes together.  We bumped into each other in the union often, and always said ‘hi.’  Liz was always with her, and, I noted, always in a hurry.  I didn’t care; I had no agenda.  I knew I counted Bailey as a friend, and she me.  That was fine.  Halfway through the quarter, I got a phone call from Bailey, asking me if I wanted to meet her and several of her friends down at The Graduate the following evening.  I stalled.  Why was I reluctant to go?  Had I forgotten my desire to be liked and trusted?  I thanked her and told her that I’d see what I was doing.

The next day I saw her at school, and she came up to me and took my hand, and asked me again to join them.  Telling her no–which is what I did–made me feel sad and small.  Here was the essence of Bailey.  Her unselfconscious gesture of taking my hand in hers to ask me–to let me know she truly meant it when she said she’d like it if I came along that night–that was what I’d found in Bailey.  She was the embodiment of trust and openness.

The reason I said no, I reflected later, was the strong vibe I got from Liz.  Had I been thinking differently, perhaps I might have taken it upon myself to make the same effort with Liz that I made with Bailey to break that wall down.  But, it just seemed too impenetrable, and I didn’t try.

Fortunately, I had the chance to spend time with Bailey at the beginning of the summer.  She was on her way somewhere–Tahoe perhaps–and was passing through Roseville.  She’d called me the day before to ask if I’d be home so she could stop by.  I told her I’d make a point of being home, and that I’d love to have her over.

When Bailey showed up, I invited her in.  I was immediately reminded of the vast chasm of difference in our life experiences.  My home in Roseville was the one that I’d lived in for nearly four years which included all but the first semester of my total school time, as well as the entire time I’d been married.  The house didn’t by any means look as it had during my short marriage, but at the same time, it looked lived in by somebody who bought furniture new, rather than at the thrift shop.  I’m certain it wasn’t a difference that was lost on Bailey.

She asked me to show her around my house, and I did.  I was proud to do so as it was a great house.  It was built in the ‘30s and was a “Jack and Jill” bungalow with an amazing floor plan.  I’d really just moved back into it after the fire damage had all been restored or upgraded, so it was looking great.

We got to the second bedroom, and she took a peek in the closet, noting that it was identical to the first–an unusually shaped walk-in.  In it, she spied my wedding dress, which was tucked away in an oversized bag made for that purpose.  She asked me about it.  Her open, non-judgmental expression was the same that I’d come to know.  It was just a question she was asking, there was no more to it than that.

And so I answered her, and the answers and questions unfolded into each other until she knew the story–at least the parts that I could make sense of.  And even better, I knew as we talked, eventually sitting, then lying on our backs on the floor of that room, that she understood that I couldn’t make sense of all of it, and that was just how it was.

For a year, I’d avoided speaking of my story; my life of the past few years.  I didn’t want to be anybody except Nikki, just the engineering student that my newest friends had in one of their classes, or met at the pub on Fridays, or Rollerbladed with on Sunday afternoons.  Bailey–the person I’d come to think of as the very coolest person I knew at Davis–now knew, and it didn’t make any difference.  There was no clap of lightning as my secret leaked out to only the second person on campus I’d told.  I felt both relieved and a bit silly.

Before we rose to get drinks, Bailey began to tell me a private story about her life.  I’m not sure where it began, and I’m not sure how it came up.  One thing I do know, she wasn’t simply trading.  She wasn’t giving me some gossip from her life just to show she could share too.  No, this was a very private and touching detail.

I think we were talking about boyfriends and becoming intimate with them.  Yes, I’m fairly certain that’s how we were lead to her story.  She said, “I have a hard time letting people see me naked for the first time because I have this really horrible scar.”

Propping myself up so I could look see her face, I asked, “A scar?  What from?”

Gesturing, she said, “I have a scar that runs from here to here,” she pointed to the point where her clavicle bones would meet and then ran a line straight down to the bottom of her solar plexus.  “I had open heart surgery when I was 7, and so I have this huge scar.”

My mind raced to try to picture this person–my friend Bailey–in the hospital at such a young age, facing such serious surgery.  Even now, Bailey was such a tender soul.  I couldn’t quite picture her there, in a big hospital bed, surrounded by her grown-up family.  Although, at the same time, I completely understood how loved Bailey must have been with all those grown brothers and sisters and her mother and father all there.  I felt suddenly sad, though Bailey sat before me now, seeming as healthy as a horse.

“What was wrong, Bailey?” I asked.

“I have this heart condition,” she answered matter-of-factly.  “They put a new valve in my heart, but the technology wasn’t so advanced then, so they told me that I’d need to get a new one, like, maybe when I’m about twenty-five or thirty.”

“Wow.  Oh my gosh Bailey, that’s scary.”  I was having a hard time being unemotional about her revelation.  I knew she felt strong and resolved about her reality, and I didn’t want to be ‘reactionary’, but I cared, and I worried.

We lay back on the carpet, and enjoyed the afternoon breeze wafting through the open window and skylight in the room.  Neither of us said anything.  She stayed another half hour or so.  As she was leaving, she mentioned her upcoming trip to the East Coast to stay on a lake in Maine.  I think she must have been caught off guard by my reaction, because I got very excited and she most likely expected me to ask her about her trip, but instead, I asked, “Oh, would you send me a post card?  Please?  I know it’s probably a pain, but I have this great collection...”

And I did.  I hadn’t consciously been collecting post cards until the past year, but the previous summer, as I sifted through what my ex-husband had left for me, I realized that I had been born into a family that was blessed by both the urge to travel, and the urge to write.  As I sorted, I found that I had (most likely) every postcard my father and mother ever sent me, not to mention pretty much every one they ever sent my sister, and every one my grandparents ever sent any of us.  As one set of grand parents were European, the post cards were from all over the world.

I explained all this to Bailey--in the short version–and again asked if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could she please send a postcard.  I promised to bestow upon it a place of honor in my collection.  I also added that my collection already included friends’ cards from just this past year, and that I was looking for an album to put them in.

She agreed, and though I suspect there might have been some reluctance–she wasn’t a big ‘commitment’ person, I inferred–she took my mailing address down and put it into her address book on the spot.  I gave her a hug, and told her I’d see her in the Fall, if not before.

In the second week of August, a postcard arrived with a scene from Lake Kesar, Maine.  The picture was the lake, and around it’s entire circumference were spreading trees in their most colorful season–Fall.  They were true to the East Coast reputation for incredible colors of orange, yellow, red, gold, and every other hue in those color families.  A true tapestry of nature.  On the back, in fat purple pen, was a short note from Bailey.  After a rather lengthy stint on my refrigerator door, it took its place of honor in my collection, where it remains even now.

I moved to Davis that Fall, into a place with two friends from my junior college.  Classes continued to demand ever more of my energies.  Life improved now that I was a Davis local.  My circle of friends expanded, and, in an interesting twist, I found myself emerging as a leader among them–in classes,  in social settings, and in academic organizations. 

I felt honored and happy that my friends sought me out as their confidant; their spokesperson; and often as their ‘prime mover.’  I’d been a leader many times in my life, but this was the most significant-feeling of any in my life as it felt more hard-won, and more freely bestowed upon me.

Bailey and I saw little of each other, but when we did, we were always happy to do so.  It was never a long visit; just short moments of catching each other as we crossed the quad or stood in line at the union.  But, Bailey, too, had found her stride with our classmates.  She, too, was a leader, perhaps even more so than I.  That was no surprise to me, considering what a free-thinker she was.  I learned she’d been invited to join Tau Beta Pi, the engineering honor society.  Thor was also there, and they were leading the group together. 

They made a great team, though I had to laugh at the incredibly distinct difference between the two of them.  He was as straight-laced and conservative as they come.  Thor would have been completely at home in an Ivy league setting as terse and conservative as Harvard, or accepted on sight for a job at IBM.  He was as ‘right’ as Bailey was ‘left.’  Nonetheless, they were also kindred spirits inasmuch as they both were completely open and guileless, with no hint of private agendas, nor of prejudice.

When we–my classmates and I--gathered these days, the gatherings grew ever larger, as we connected and networked, shared ideas and got to know one another.  It was an exciting thing to be a part of.  The Davis College of Engineering was not a small college–possibly as many as 1,800 to 2,000 students, I might recall. 

Friday nights at The Pub, on campus, was one of the best nights of the week.  If you arrived there early enough, you could get a spot on the terrace, and enjoy the crisp Fall evenings, and watch the inevitable Friday night band tune up as the stars came out in the sky.  Often, Bailey and Liz were there, though they weren’t yet 21.  I tried to take some of those opportunities to have a seat with them, and to catch up with Bailey, and get to know Liz a bit better.  She and I never managed to become friends, really, but we did get to a level of understanding, finally.

As Winter break and the holidays approached, there were fewer gatherings at The Pub.  The cold and frost chased the patrons inside, allowing fewer people there comfortably.  There was a last big ‘hurrah’ there before we all left campus for the break, but Winter quarter found the pub empty most evenings.  I did get a brief visit with Bailey that night, to wish her happy holidays, and we sat packed into a booth with some other friends, and toasted for no particular reason.

“It’s freakin’ cold tonight,” somebody said, in less than eloquent fashion, and we all agreed.  I noticed that Bailey had gotten served a beer with a nearly all purple coaster, and she pronounced it, ‘cool.’

“To Purple,” she said, and I thought she had a slight buzz, because I didn’t think she’d toast a toast–even to purple–if she weren’t.

“To the gentle days of Fall,” I replied in a second toast, and clinked her glass and the glasses of the others, and drank.

In late March, I began thinking what all smart students who want to move to a new rental home in the Fall began thinking about: finding a Fall rental.  I was not entirely happy with my roommates, though I loved them; they were my friends.  Nonetheless, I thought maybe it was time to live by myself, so I began looking for a small 1 bedroom house in downtown.  I hoped to find one for no more than $600 per month, and hopefully, one right next to the campus.

What I found was a huge, old, one-(tiny)-bedroom victorian on Second Street, not even fifty yards from campus.  It was perfect, except for the $700 per month price tag.  I jumped on it, though I couldn’t figure out how I’d pay the rent.  My current share was about $375 per month.  The rental agency was so impressed with my resume and my professionalism (that was the edge my age gave me) they decided to rent the place to me. 

As I went to pay the deposit, I got cold feet.  I stood outside the rental agency in a March deluge, letting my back and feet become soaked, and considered.  I knew I could renew the lease at the current place.  Mary, one of my roomies, was graduating, and Julie was apparently thinking about moving back to Sacramento and doing the commute.  She was already working for the State in downtown Sac.  I decided to stay put, and to find new roommates.  However, not wanting to let such a great opportunity go completely unused, and also wanting to redeem myself with the rental agency, I phoned Bailey and asked her if she was thinking of moving in the Fall.  She was, and I thought that this place suited her perfectly.

I connected her and the agency, and after she and Liz looked at it, they decided they could make it work as a shared place, and they signed a lease.  Bailey appreciated it.  I visited her once after they got moved in, and it seemed quite comfortable.

It seemed that Bailey began being seen around campus with a particular boy in late spring.  I finally met him.  His name was Matt, and I could see Bailey was very happy with him, and he with her.  When I finally got to ask her about him, I found out that he was a liberal studies major, which was not a surprise.  I couldn’t picture her with any of our classmates.  I was happy to see a blossoming romance for Bailey, and it seemed a solid one, too.

Summer flew by.  I was elected President of a large engineering student organization in June, just before the end of school.  The first order of business was to attend the National convention in Pittsburgh, along with three of my officers, to represent our chapter.  Upon my return, I found I had several phone calls from engineering firms responding to my resumes and wanting to offer me a job.  I accepted the one with the Federal Government.  It would require me to work during the school year, too, but it was worth the extra time demands it would place upon me.

Bailey was back in Maine during the last part of the summer–I knew this because I often bumped into her at the video store or the grocery store, or at the Farmer’s Market.  She never forgot to tell me how much she liked the house (which they’d been able to move into early as it had been vacant).   She promised to find me when she was back, in the Fall.

Phyllis and I were inseparable.  She and I spent almost every weekend at Northstar Ski Resort on our mountain bikes.  We were downhill junkies.  I think we liked the escape from the Davis heat almost as much as the actual mountain biking.  It gave us an excuse to have a beer and enjoy the cool sierra evenings; evenings which reminded me of those temperate evenings at The Pub.

At the beginning of Fall quarter, it seemed we all felt robust and ready to tackle our senior year and all that it held.  Goli and Elizabeth, two of my friends who’d been President and Vice-President of the organization the year before I’d become an officer, had gone on to become the Presidents of the Aeronautics Engineering Club and the American Society of Mechanical Engineering student chapter on the campus.  I proposed to them that this year, as my organization was preparing it’s annual ski trip, we ought to join efforts and invite any member of the four primary engineering clubs as long as they were current members.

They loved the idea, and pitched it to their organizations before I could get a weigh-in from my twenty officers.  I had committed us.  Thus it became my job to find a large vacation rental in Tahoe.  Initially, I figured to try for a place that could accommodate twenty-five, and thought maybe we could push it to thirty.  In my heart, I knew that we’d be able to sell over a hundred spots, if only we had a place that size.

My efforts were rewarded.  In Sunset Magazine–a brainstorm of an idea after a lot of other searching–was a listing for a place on South Shore that had one main house that slept 75 people, and had an additional bunkhouse for 12, plus a second home which accommodated another 12.  I booked the place immediately.  We were up to 99 spots.

Throughout late November and early December, our three clubs manned a table on weekday mornings in the lobby of Bainer Hall, which was the primary engineering classroom building.  We sold slots for the ski trip and enrolled new members in our respective organizations.  It was a captive audience, and we had no trouble filling all the slots by the end of the quarter.

I kept seeing Bailey pass through the lobby, and she stopped to chat a few times.  I knew she skied.  If she hadn’t, we may never have gotten to know each other.  But, when I asked, I think she said she was hoping to have a quiet Christmas with her family.  And, I thought perhaps Matt wasn’t a skier.  She mentioned they were living together in the house she also still shared with Liz.  I’d miss seeing her on our trip.  Somebody else told me she and Matt were talking about marriage.

The trip was scheduled for the first weekend in January.  That was the beginning of the Winter quarter.  It seemed that, for the first time in several years, winter would herald only good times with good friends.  I’d opted to take the winter quarter off so I could work 40 hours a week at my job.  In this arrangement, I would only be on campus for the weekly meetings of my organization.

The trip was a great success.  We had perhaps a total of 110 people, and we stayed two nights and three days.  When it was all over with, we got every penny of our deposit back.  All $1,000 of it.  I became friends with many people who were merely acquaintances to me before the trip.  But I wished Bailey had been there, too.  It would have been the first time I’d spent some real time with her.

Winter quarter waxed on, and I missed out on much of the news and goings on at school.  I did get the news that Bailey had had open heart surgery just after Christmas, and was late returning to school.  I was sad not to have known, but the news of her recovery buffered my sorrow and a pang of guilt that stabbed through me on hearing the information.  I also realized that if she’d meant me to know, I would have.  I still hadn’t seen Bailey by the end of January, but was happy to hear from Phyllis that she was back at school.

The phone call in early March, telling me that Bailey had died of a stroke, was one I’ve not been able to fully remember until now, as I write.  Of all the people I knew on campus, nobody had remembered to tell me.  I was hearing this news days late, and the call was from an advisor who knew that Bailey and I had been close.  Now, I remember thanking her, and hanging up.  I remember hearing the memory of Bailey’s story about the scar, and I remember the fearful feeling I’d felt for her that day in my spare bedroom.  I was standing in my kitchen, looking out the window at a downpour, and at the barren trees of our neighborhood.  It seemed this day had tailored itself to the news I’d just received.

The memorial for Bailey began with a procession that started at the house she’d occupied with Liz and Matt.  It ended at the Arboretum, and it was there that I joined the group.  It was such a cold day that everybody present was in heavy coats.  As I entered the hall there, the rain was still pouring down.  It had not let up since before I’d first been told of Bailey’s passing. 

I couldn’t speak, and I could see that of all of us who were there, even those who were ordinarily eloquent were lost.  Mostly, the hundred or so in attendance listened quietly as her family spoke, and gathered details to fill in the final picture of the young woman we’d known.  I met some of her family, and learned, finally, how she came to be such an amazing soul.  Liz was there, of course, next to Matt, and I went to her and gave her a hug, though we didn’t speak to each other.  There seemed little we could say.

I thought of the ways that Bailey and I had wound through each others’ lives.  I remembered the feelings I’d harbored in my heart before I knew her, and I understood then, as clearly as any time, that she’d been on my horizon at precisely the right time, in the right season.  We had revolved around each other’s lives as the seasons revolve in all our lives. 

I did not credit her for fixing what wasn’t quite working in me–she wouldn’t have wanted that credit; it was false.  I had done that myself.  But Bailey was herself with me, and met I had her when I needed that most.  She was honest with me, and she reminded me that I could be that way too.  For me, that was Bailey’s legacy.

My advisor, the one who made the call to me that day, asked me to write something about Bailey for the newsletter.  I was again touched by the reality that few had known such a sweet soul.  I did my best, though neither did I know as much as I now wished I had about my friend Bailey.  Mostly, I tried not to write false information, or make assumptions, because that would have bothered Bailey, I knew.  I tried to describe the richness with which Bailey seemed have lived her life.  And, I tried to expose the tenderness which had been my experience of Bailey.

I wrote of the richness of the seasons, and how each is distinct.  I remembered the Fall, and how every Fall at Davis had been poignant, and more so once I’d come to know Bailey.  Always, thoughts of Fall bring images of the turning of the leaves, and how the last days of the leaves are also the most beautiful.  We hadn’t known that Bailey’s last days were to be her last, yet they were as beautiful as any I’d known, and she’d helped make that so.