Last night, one of my aunts quoted that line from the prayerbook I'd sent to her for Christmas. It's echoing in my head today as I skim the Winter 2011 issue of EKU Magazine -- especially the obituaries section. My grade school classmates and I have reached the age where our parents and teachers are populating that column more often, and even though I wasn't a particularly social or socially aware child (put mildly), I recognized most of the names in the "former faculty and staff" section.

I'm reminded of my friend Richard's comment (made during a memorial service reception maybe seven years ago), about how many of the people around us have extraordinary chapters in their lives that don't show up in everyday conversation, such that we find out about those things only in tributes and eulogies. (Dammit.) I've only now learned that a classmate's father used to play for the Knicks, and that the dean of education became an Episcopal priest after he retired from academia. (Also, the dean passed away over two years ago. And also -- I kind of suspected it already, but it kind of aches to have it confirmed -- the music librarian who put up with me so many afternoons and let me shadow her on career day, she died some time ago, too.)

On a happier note, though, I glimpsed my wonderful fourth-grade teacher's name on one of the donor pages; it's nice to see the university improving its music and science facilities; and, it doesn't take much to get me thinking about the awesomeness of the people still around. (Including the gal who recently posted a paean to her own covey of awesome.) A couple of weeks ago, I was a co-host of Room in the Inn with an eighty-something woman who had just returned from traveling across China with another senior member of my church. She was a professional violinist with the Nashville Symphony -- it was delightful to hear her chat with one of the guests about their careers -- and later a science teacher at one of Nashville's prep schools. Another eighty-something I know is a spry, enthusiastic student of Iyengar yoga; her husband is a WWII veteran, but he would rather talk to me about the time he tried to build a tennis court in his mother's yard (finally giving up when tulips popped up on the baseline). The woman who is one of the church's most accomplished bakers served as a combat nurse in Vietnam. I sing next to people who have appeared on New York stages and as soloists in cathedrals; I get hugs during coffee hour from a man who served on Metro Council decades ago, and hugs during happy hour from the local restaurant owner who used to be a Navy SEAL. I just received a Dorothy Parker t-shirt from a friend I first met at Governor's Scholars twenty-five years ago (EEK); he's now one of Kentucky's top forensics coaches, but I tend to think of him more when I hear songs from Hair or South Pacific or (like yesterday) when the supermarket plays "I Would Die 4 U" on its sound system.

And thinking about these people, in turn, reminds me of the pleasure of spending time with people who are damn good at what they do. I enjoy meeting up with Joanne for coffee or yogurt not only to talk literary shop, but because she's fierce about her day job in a way I totally relate to. I like listening to another friend analyze the learning curve he's traveling on as a trader. I've watched M. bloom as an educator, and it's a treat to hear her talk theory and practice. L. has a young dog she's training with a kind but firm hand; I benefited from D.'s experience as an ER chief during a crisis earlier this year; and hearing my sweetie hold forth on his projects (or, for that matter, heaps of metal and rubber we happen to be passing by) is, well, sweet. :-)