there alone, smoking.
I asked why.
âWell, I sit here another hour to give my husband his space. School comes first, after the kids. Itâs his future.â His, not ours, a curious word choice.
I invited myself to smoke with her after work one night. A few days later we repeated the episode. By then I knew her pretty well. Her father owned a paint store in Eufaula and was a part-time Baptist minister. She had enjoyed high school, had been a cheerleader, two years varsity, âbefore I got knocked up.â I sensed unspoken regrets.
She lived in married-student housing in a section reserved for Bootstrap families. The government paid their rent, which helped the students immensely. Of military life Spruce said, âIt has its points. I canât complain.â They had lived in Spain and Panama and in Texas just before her husband got his Bootstrap assignment.
Several times she came to work with puffy, red eyes and was less talkative than usual.
Nash, meanwhile, had stopped lecturing me. Instead he gave me books and handed over his dog-eared fishing log, in which he had recorded every detail of his outings, including sky conditions, wind direction (and sometimes velocity), air temperature, hourly water-temperature readings, estimates of water level, flow (in feet per second), and clarity, for which he had his own descriptions. He did not reveal where he caught fish. All streams and rivers were coded and the key wasnât in the log, which I observed with interest. Nash meticulously used a stomach pump to check the feeding habits of his take and gave the usual details about length and girth. He did not specify which artificial flies he used; rather, he recorded which species were actually hatching and when and on what kind of water. It was a journal devoid of color and touched by paranoia. Passionate trout fishermen, I was learning, did not willingly give up their secrets.
I continued my efforts to return order to the cluttered Collection Room in the Natural Sciences Building. I tried to convince myself that I was driven by simple curiosity, but the truth was that I hoped that somewhere in that chaos lay a specimen called a snowfly and, if it was there, I was convinced I would find it. I wanted to ask Nash about the snowfly, but couldnât bring myself to do it. He was a gentle, scholarly entomologist who liked to cogitate before he talked. It was as if words were too expensive to spend thoughtlessly. He seemed feeble and cautious and I had a hard time picturing him in a trout stream, much less feeling in his gut what gripped me when I was thigh-deep in fast, clear, cold water.
The collection of specimens was immense, but I was patient and methodical, starting just inside the door and working my way along the east wall. I pulled out every case, opened it, cleaned it, and made a list, numbering each box and specifying its contents. Some were already labeled; I used Nashâs texts and reference books to verify these as accurate and several times found mistakes and reported these to him, which seemed to please him. âBecoming a real bug man,â he told me. I also used the references for unlabeled specimens but many times I had to take these to Nash. He wouldnât tell me what they were; rather, he would take me through an entomological checklist so that I could get the family and then he would leave it to me to go from there. It was slow going and it consumed me.
I was barely into the mess when I hit several boxes of arachnids, mostly tarantulas collected in Central America. In another case I found a family of mice that scampered for cover, but eventually came back to see what I was up to. I talked to them as pets. It occurred to me that I should get somebody in to eliminate them, but they were doing no harm I could discern. Those were the days when the term peaceful coexistence was in vogue, and I simply extended the concept down the evolutionary ladder.
Despite it being my senior year,
I asked why.
âWell, I sit here another hour to give my husband his space. School comes first, after the kids. Itâs his future.â His, not ours, a curious word choice.
I invited myself to smoke with her after work one night. A few days later we repeated the episode. By then I knew her pretty well. Her father owned a paint store in Eufaula and was a part-time Baptist minister. She had enjoyed high school, had been a cheerleader, two years varsity, âbefore I got knocked up.â I sensed unspoken regrets.
She lived in married-student housing in a section reserved for Bootstrap families. The government paid their rent, which helped the students immensely. Of military life Spruce said, âIt has its points. I canât complain.â They had lived in Spain and Panama and in Texas just before her husband got his Bootstrap assignment.
Several times she came to work with puffy, red eyes and was less talkative than usual.
Nash, meanwhile, had stopped lecturing me. Instead he gave me books and handed over his dog-eared fishing log, in which he had recorded every detail of his outings, including sky conditions, wind direction (and sometimes velocity), air temperature, hourly water-temperature readings, estimates of water level, flow (in feet per second), and clarity, for which he had his own descriptions. He did not reveal where he caught fish. All streams and rivers were coded and the key wasnât in the log, which I observed with interest. Nash meticulously used a stomach pump to check the feeding habits of his take and gave the usual details about length and girth. He did not specify which artificial flies he used; rather, he recorded which species were actually hatching and when and on what kind of water. It was a journal devoid of color and touched by paranoia. Passionate trout fishermen, I was learning, did not willingly give up their secrets.
I continued my efforts to return order to the cluttered Collection Room in the Natural Sciences Building. I tried to convince myself that I was driven by simple curiosity, but the truth was that I hoped that somewhere in that chaos lay a specimen called a snowfly and, if it was there, I was convinced I would find it. I wanted to ask Nash about the snowfly, but couldnât bring myself to do it. He was a gentle, scholarly entomologist who liked to cogitate before he talked. It was as if words were too expensive to spend thoughtlessly. He seemed feeble and cautious and I had a hard time picturing him in a trout stream, much less feeling in his gut what gripped me when I was thigh-deep in fast, clear, cold water.
The collection of specimens was immense, but I was patient and methodical, starting just inside the door and working my way along the east wall. I pulled out every case, opened it, cleaned it, and made a list, numbering each box and specifying its contents. Some were already labeled; I used Nashâs texts and reference books to verify these as accurate and several times found mistakes and reported these to him, which seemed to please him. âBecoming a real bug man,â he told me. I also used the references for unlabeled specimens but many times I had to take these to Nash. He wouldnât tell me what they were; rather, he would take me through an entomological checklist so that I could get the family and then he would leave it to me to go from there. It was slow going and it consumed me.
I was barely into the mess when I hit several boxes of arachnids, mostly tarantulas collected in Central America. In another case I found a family of mice that scampered for cover, but eventually came back to see what I was up to. I talked to them as pets. It occurred to me that I should get somebody in to eliminate them, but they were doing no harm I could discern. Those were the days when the term peaceful coexistence was in vogue, and I simply extended the concept down the evolutionary ladder.
Despite it being my senior year,
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