The date is an educated guess of when I met Helen Marcotte (she wasn’t “officially” married to Paul Silder for another seven years) for the first time in COPA 001. COPA? COmmunications and Performing Arts. I know, rather redundant since Performing Arts, a more elaborate name for Theater (aka waiting on tables), is a form of communication. It was just English 001 anyway.
Helen sat in the back row while I was in the middle for this small class with only 12 (or was it 16?) people and the instructor. I didn’t really notice her on the first day. My first strong memory of Helen being a classmate was when she read her description assignment aloud. Something about the color of a sports car (Porsche) matching fingernail polish. Sounds shallow on paper, it wasn’t, I felt it was rather effective since fingernails have a glossiness which a waxed car has. It was still better than my wise-acre attempt of a made-up dictionary entry on the definition of “younger sibling” on the description assignment.
From the estimated date on, I have been friends with Helen for 20 years. Our relationship has had several rough patches with verbal sparring, including some periods of us not speaking to each other. Real mature, I know. I assume the bulk, if not all, of the blame, especially for the North Carolina era. On the upside, I am a major instigator to why she is married to Paul Silder. Thanks to us being in the same class, I wasn’t a complete stranger to her when I set her up with Paul on his floor’s Screw Your Roommate (a massive blind-date outing). They’re still happily married after 12 years so I am responsible for one positive thing in her life. I don’t know if that compensates for our overnight adventure at O’Hare Airport in 1988 though.
Hard to believe it all began with a simple, entry-level writing course at Marquette University 20 years ago.
Just one small correction–we have been married 13 years not 12.
And I had forgotten all about the O’Hare airport debacle, except now that I think about it I do remember that you abandoned me with the dregs of society to run off and play a video game. Some really scarry (sic) guy with about three teeth kept trying to hit on me–I distinctly remember wanting to KILL you! Otherwise a very fun evening–and to think I passed up my one chance to be a real life groupie!