One dark Sunday in the most dismal phase of winter, I was staring idly at the menu that was always tacked up in the back hall of Park House. Next to it was the calendar. It had always been there, and I usually just scanned it for items of interest to me. That night, however, I was apathetic about everything. Even popovers. Even the Paul Butterfield Blues Band coming the next weekend. But the calendar list, it seemed to be staring at me. Suddenly, instead of weighing its options against my workload and natural proclivities, I decided to go to everything.

Monday night was a lecture in physics. The rest of the week was full of dance recitals, a meeting of the Circolo Italiano, a Red Cross blood drive, a lecture on the medieval woman, something about zero population growth, a noon informational offering at the vocational office, open swimming just before dinner, Vincent Scully lecturing about architecture, and a Kurosawa film screening at Sage Hall.

Getting wet before dinner, especially in a loaner bathing suit, was my idea of hell. I was not political. I’d only taken one science course and no math, but I headed out the first night to the physics lecture. They were asking questions I’d never even contemplated. From there I was off and running. I was indiscriminate. If I could get there, I would go to everything.

My binge lasted only a week, but I’ve never forgotten the character of the different venues and the people, all so focused on a subject that fascinated them. With time, I dove into my own major and became one of those people, fabulously in love with my own explorations, in love with studio art and the freedom Smith allowed for my own pursuits.