on what I just said."
Praise God that I've taken notes, and I've been typing since third Grade! I quickly examine the machine in front of me see it's close enough to the typewriters I used in high school to answer. I roll in the sheet of paper from a stack being passed around and write.
(Matthew, Mark, Luke and John covered the same story, said BJ Johnston, instructor, in news writing 320 class on June 18, 1974 "but each told his story differently."
Professor Johnston said that after working 23 years at the Seattle times he had chosen to leave active reporting and instruct student writers in order to help them become the best writers they can be. Johnston stressed excellence in writing and informed students that though they might not always appreciate him, he will be constantly available to help everyone get the most possible from this class.)
I was feeling rather smug because quite a few typewriters were still clacking as I sat, my hands folded on my desk, my article squared with the left front desk corner. Finally Johnston said "Pass papers forward and to the right please." A pile materialized on my desk. Johnston grabbed the stack, riffling through it.
"The name is Johnston," he said, "Not Johnson. As reporters you need to learn to listen." A few moments later "Because someone teaches a course at an university," he said "doesn't mean he has a doctorate. I may be Professor Johnston but I'm also Mr. not Doctor Johnston."
Some more time went by. "You may have been taught in high school journalism class Junior year," he said "to use all five of the Ws and the Have in your story lead. (Certainly I had!) In professional news writing three of the Ws and H are sufficient!" (I began to feel a little less smug.)
More lecturing followed after which, "Please pair up with your nearest neighbor and between now and next class session you will each interview the other and each present an article in final draft form written from your interview."
"Hi?" said a voice at my left elbow. "My name's Irene Richmond?"
"Dave Price," I reached an hand across. "Nice meeting you."
"I think we've met before," Irene said. "But for the life of me I can't place where at the moment?"
"Do you have time to co-interview now?" Irene asked. "Would you like to go to the library or...?"
"My room's across the street," I told her. Neither of us thinking I believe that anyone would take any issue with this suggestion.
We crossed the street and rode the elevator up to the 3rd floor.
"Would you like to go first?" Irene asked. So I spoke of my high school experiences and my science and technology studies here at the university. I mentioned wanting to raise a family, perhaps have a farm to live on some day; while working as a consulting engineer, from home if possible.
Interjecting, Irene said "I wonder sometimes what's going to happen to me. I'm very unlikely to get married. I have very bad acne and I doubt anyone would choose to be with me."
"You probably just need to find the right person" I said, knowing my response was cliched as I uttered it.
Irene responded with "People are very judgemental about things like this." Sadness radiated off her yet there was acceptance in her voice.
It would seem trite to suggest that a blind husband might be what she needed. That sounded like a putdown but I suspected she might well benefit from the notion.
I'd said about what I needed to about my background and felt Irene could get a balanced story now. As we were about to switch to her story, or perhaps, continue with it, Duncan came in.
"Hi," he said and to Irene "I'm Duncan."
"Irene," said Irene. They exchanged nice-to-meet-yous.
"I'm going over to the bookstore in a little while Dave," Duncan told me. "Do you need to come?"
I acknowledged that I did. I'd learned by now that it's not a good idea to buy your books before the first day of classes because at least one prof is sure to add something, delete a book, or go some entirely different direction with course material.
"Dun-can is a nice person," Irene said when the door had closed behind him going off again on some other errand.
"Yeah," I said, "he is."
"He's taking you to the bookstore later?" she asked as if the point might be in doubt.
I admitted this was also true.
"Have you known Dun-can (she said it like Dun can) before this quarter?"
"No," I said. "Just met last night."
"But he's your roommate?"
"Yes."
"Hmm?" Irene said. "That's interesting."
I confess at the time I didn't know what was so interesting but perhaps Irene was a person who was easily fascinated. We went on to discuss Irene's earlier college work, her time in public schools, her decision to return to college and hopefully be a magazine editor someday.
"Now I recall where I met you." Irene said. Worth McClure Junior High, room 214, 1968 I believe?"
"Oh yes!" I said, recalling in a flash the large experimental social studies classroom, capacity about 120 students. Irene had been one of the teaching assistants. Then she was a grown-up, a faculty member. Today even at her rather elevated age of 27, she was, well--a fellow student.
"Do you go out on dates?" Irene asked with another sudden twist of topic.
"Yeah, I do."
A hesitation, "With girls you meet here at college?"
There may have been the merest stress on the word girls. "Mostly," I told her. Actually I couldn't recall dating anyone not from this campus except Zoe who'd been in my high school before going to North Seattle community college.
"Well, you and Dun-can will be going to the bookstore pretty soon?" She rose. "I'd better get home myself. I've got a lot of studying to do and this is just the first day."
"I know what you mean," I agreed. "Thanks for the interview."
"And you." I got up, opened my room door for Irene, preceding ber to the cluster door, holding that for her. "Gee," Irene said, "I'm amazed at how you find your way? How long did you say you'd been blind?"
"Since I was five," I told her.
"I'm impressed."
***
The University bookstore was jammed, being only the first day of the summer term and our various study areas were widely separated. Duncan was generous in helping me find the texts needed for my three classes and having nothing more important to do I accompanied him on searches for his various language books.
"Oh," he said, pique evident in his voice. "This book is forty dollars! I was told I could get a used one cheaper but they're all gone!"
"Have you run out of money?" I asked as some response seemed in order.
"Oh, yes!" he replied. "My
