I was fortunate during my sophomore year in college to share a room in Willamette‘s off-campus apartments. I was even more fortunate that my roommate had managed to nab a corner flat on the top story.

Ken was only nominally my roommate. He actually lived on the third floor with his girlfriend, Caroline, in a small studio barely big enough for a single person. They packed the room with Ken’s synthesizer, Caroline’s clothes, and their shared books, furniture, and food. They lived cozy lives.

Ken stayed in our apartment only if he and Caroline had been fighting, and usually then for only half the night. (As you can imagine, I found this arrangement terribly convenient.)

During the spring semester, Ken “moved out”; that is to say he still lived with Caroline, but he gave the university some bogus address. I found a new roommate, Bill, and had to become accustomed to actually sharing living space again.

Bill and I both preferred morning classes. I know a lot of kids who, during their first year of college, schedule all their classes for the afternoon. I did that during the first semester of my freshman year, but found this was a Bad Idea. For me. I fell asleep in afternoon classes. The professor would be droning away about behavioral psychology or gender roles in society or the Baghavad-Gita while I waged a private little war with my leaden eyelids. Not fun. And not conducive to learning.

So I took morning classes. Ever after it was my goal to be done with classes by lunch. (Except I allowed myself one night class per term. I liked night classes.) Bill had a similar schedule.

We both liked to rise early, but we had different approaches to waking.

If Bill woke first, he’d play a tape of mellow music. (This was mere months before the dawn of the CD era; I owned four CDs but had nothing to play them with.) George Winston’s December was a favorite, or Cat Stevens, or James Taylor. He’d brew some tea or coffee, and when I wandered to the kitchen I’d find him sipping his drink, eating a fresh scone, reading Michel Foucalt, piano music tinkling softly in the background.

His whole approach to mornings was anathema to me.

If I woke first, I’d put in a tape of 80s dance music: Alphaville or Duran Duran or Depeche Mode. I’d crank the volume as much as I dared. When Bill made his way to the kitchen, he’d find me chugging a glass of orange juice, eating a couple of slices of bacon while reading a Stephen King novel. “Can we turn the music down?” he’d ask.

Our philosophies on evenings were just as different.

Bill managed The Bistro, the campus café. His idea of a great evening included boisterous conversation with friends, a bustle of activity, and lots of upbeat music. It was in the evening that he broke out REM, The Communards, and U2.

I wanted my evenings soft and restful. I wanted lullabies and classical music, a good book, and maybe a warm bath. I wanted to prepare for sleep.

I have many fond memories of Bill. I remember our early-term trip to Heliotrope, the local health food store. We stocked up on natural and organic food, most of which was never eaten (the stuff slowly turned foul in our cupboards). I remember the day he fixed curried chicken: he spent the entire day boiling and seasoning the meat, preparing a feast for friends. “What’s curry?” I asked him. “You’ll see,” he said. In the evening, I tried curry for the first time; it remains one of my favorite flavors. I remember the day he told me a deep, deep secret. This must have been difficult for him, and I’m afraid I was a bit too flip. (I already suspected the nature of the secret.)

Bill was a good guy, a deep thinker, an excellent human being. After college, he pursued a graduate degree in philosophy. We exchanged e-mail once, about ten years ago, at which time I mentioned that Kris and I felt morally obligated to have children (a story for another day). He responded that this kind of thinking was akin to Naziism. I’m sad that was our last communication.

I like Bill, and I wonder what’s become of him.

Kris and I joined the Gingerich family for an extended weekend vacation, visiting Jenn’s parents in Yakima.

Yakima bills itself as “The Palm Springs of Washington”. I’m not sure that’s apt — how often does Palm Springs get snow? Yakima is located in central Washington, and is surrounded by low mountains; its climate is ideal for growing fruit. Apple orchards and pear orchards and cherry orchards abound. There’s even a small wine industry.

The last time we visited Yakima with the Gingeriches was three years ago in April. It was a shorter visit, and there was no snow on the ground. This time we stayed for three-and-a-half days, and there was plenty of snow.

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On Saturday, I joined the women for a quick trip to Value Village. I picked up three t-shirts (including a real prize: an orange t-shirt with the puzzling slogan: “I agree with Tyler and Pete”) and, at the prompting of Kris and Jenn, two sweaters.

Jeremy wanted to go wine-tasting in the afternoon. I was reluctant at first, but had a lot more fun than I’d expected. We only visited three vineyards, but the wine was good, and, because of my reduced calorie intake, it didn’t take much tasting for me to get a little tipsy. I bought several bottles, including two of a black Muscat from Hyatt Vineyards. It’s a pleasant strawberry-tinted summer dessert wine — not too sweet. (I also picked up some cheese-stuffed kalamata olives soaked in garlic!) At Bonair Winery, the owners’ son waited upon us. He poured wine and chatted until we found ourselves late for our dinner reservations. Jeremy bought a case of wine from him, and I bought a couple of bottles of mead, a drink made from honey instead of grapes. “The beverage of Chaucer and Beowulf” — it’s great stuff!. We tried a fantastic chili mead ‐ mead with a single chili pepper soaking in the bottle — but Bonair had none to sell us. Jeremy and I hope to send Jenn’s parents up for a case of the stuff when it’s bottled again next summer.

(Also: Bonair Winery featured a display of small, over-priced quilts. Some of them were quite beautiful, it’s true, but the prices seemed outlandish (several hundred dollars each). My favorite part of the display were the signs next to the quilts: “Please do not touch art”. HA! “Please do not touch art” sounds like an admonition you’d give a child: “Art is to be viewed, not touched.”)

We eventually made it to dinner at Birchfield Manor only a few minutes late. We had a fine meal and pleasant conversation before retiring to the house for cigars and a dip in the hot tub.

On Sunday we drove north to see the elk-feeding. We were more excited by the birds. There were several eagles soaring around a nearby hill, and one which seemed to be feeding on a dead elk. Jenn’s parents are avid birders (they just returned from a birding trip in the Caribbean), and had brought their birding binoculars with them. After we watched the elk (and the eagles), we stopped at another location to look at big-horned sheep. There, we also saw several deer and some larger elk.

There was a bit of snowfall Sunday morning, but we woke to several inches on Monday. After the kids finished watching The Pink Panther (which they love), we spent some time sledding down the backyard slope. Because of my knee, I was reluctant to join, but once I did, I had a blast.

Other highlights from the weekend include: crab and roast for dinner, playing UNO with the kids, ripping CDs from Bruce and Janet’s collection, watching the second and third chapters of Undersea Kingdom with Hank, helping Bruce learn to edit home movies on his computer, making monochromatic photographs, and driving back over a snowy pass last night.

It was a relaxing weekend for everyone I think, even Jeremy (though his idea of relaxation involves things like clearing all the snow from the driveway). Kris and I are thankful to Jeremy and Jennifer for inviting us to join them, and to Bruce and Janet for their wonderful hospitality.

Kris’ Aunt Jenefer and Uncle Bob are in town for the weekend, spending time in beautiful metropolitan Canby. We’ve eaten a lot, and shared a lot of family history. Tomorrow we’ll drive up to the Columbia Gorge to visit Bob’s mother.

Today we spent the afternoon in Aurora, shopping for antiques. In the large store, our favorite, there was a white baby grand piano for sale for $2500. At one point, a young woman (in a pink knit cap) sat at the piano and rolled off five minutes of beautiful classical music. The sound was rich and warm, and it moved me. I sat on a bench and watched the snow fall outside (our third snowfall of the season!), listening to the piano.

Kris walked to where I was sitting. “Do you like this music?” she asked, and I nodded. “I’d like it if you learned to play the piano,” she said. “Then I could sing while you played.”

I’ve always wanted to play the piano. I’ve admired my friends — Kristin, Kim, etc.) — that know how. During my freshman year of college, I took piano lessons for a semester. They went well, but I had trouble because just before the semester started, I broke the ring finger on my right hand while playing touch football at Kim’s house.

(I didn’t know the finger was broken for several days. I was making boxes, and it hurt to flip the sheets of corrugated while we slotted the boxes, so I went to the doctor. I had a fracture. It’s the only broken bone I’ve ever had.)

Despite my broken finger, I persevered and finished the class, but I never took further lessons. I regret that. I love music, but I cannot sing, so I ought to play an instrument.

Maybe someday I’ll take lessons again. I wonder how well adults learn to play. I wonder where I’d find someone to teach me…

In one of the antique shops, I idly picked up a photograph of a dour looking couple. I flipped it over and saw that the photograph was of Sam and Hannah Nofziger. I furrowed my brow and frowned, then put the photo back. Sam and Hannah Kauffman. Why were those names familiar?

When we got home from shopping, I checked my genealogical program; sure enough: Hannah Roth was my grandfather’s aunt (my great-great aunt?). I rushed back to the antique store and bought the photograph.

This couple is actually key to our family history, especially to my brother Jeff’s family history. Hannah, as I mentioned, was our great-great aunt. Jeff is married to Stephanie Nofziger. The Samuel Nofziger in this photo was the brother of Stephanie’s great grandfather. In other words, he bears the same relationship to Stephanie as Hannah does to Jeff. This couple tied the two families together; three generations later, Jeff and Steph tied it together again. Fun stuff!

Jeff recently brought me this photograph, given to him by a woman at church:

This photo shows four young Mennonite boys in front of an unidentified house. From left-to-right, the boys are Daris Eash (spelling?), Ben Kauffman, and the twins Joel Roth and Noah Roth. Noah Roth was our grandfather, the nephew of Hannah in the previous photo.

Here’s a detail of the above photo:

My grandfather, on the right, looks very much like my father did, and like I did when I was younger (and skinnier). It’s uncanny.

Jenefer has given Kris a pedigree chart showing family history on the Gates side back to the 1600s. I’ll have to get that data entered into my program. I think it’s fun that once again, as the winter sets in, I’m getting interested in family history. This is the third consecutive year I’ve had the bug to dig into my family roots.