The Best Field Trip Ever

I got word last weekend that one of my graduate school professors died shortly after Thanksgiving.  I remember him fondly (though realistically) for his absent-mindedness, his long digressions, and his books.

But the story I tell most often of him is of The Best Field Trip Ever.

It was ten years ago now, in early November 2002, and I was working as his research assistant (and doing a terrible job, by the way; I was the worst research assistant ever, and I'm not sure anyone other than him knew it.  He was a gracious man).  I was also planning a wedding. 

Dr. B. had strong opinions about many things, and, as I learned that fall, one of his favored concerns was wedding cake and the quality--or lack thereof--at most weddings.   He told in rapturous recollection of his own wedding cake.  Other than his wife, it seemed to be the only thing he recalled from the event.

So knowing I was planning a wedding for the following spring, Dr. B. asked what thought and research I had given to the cake.  I admitted that it hadn't been high on my priority list and that we had simply figured on "something."  This was not good enough, and Dr. B. announced that he knew just the place.  It was a little French bakery, oddly plunked down in a gritty suburb of western Pennsylvania. 

A week or so later, he asked if I had followed up on it.  I hadn't.  (I was slightly better at wedding planning than research assisting, but not much.)

Another week or two?  I still hadn't made a visit to the French bakery.

By early November, Dr. B. decided to take matters into his own hands.  He would take me to the bakery himself.

We scheduled a trip for a gloomy Thursday morning, leaving campus at about 9:30.  I wondered if this would count toward the research assisting hours I was not completing.

We drove the fifteen or twenty minutes from campus and exited off the highway into an alcove town.  As we passed through the business area, Dr. B. also waved at a candy store off to the right.  "They make the best homemade vanilla ice cream," as we drove on another block and a half to the bakery.

Inside the tiny shop, I turned toward a photo album on a stand that held pictures of elaborate tiered cakes.  I glanced at some price information discreetly and noted $4.25 a slice as the estimate.  Um.  It would probably be good, but it was well beyond our budget.

Dr. B. looked over my shoulder at the pictures, but he also attended to the bakery case, buying something to send to his daughter out of town.  He asked which pastry I would choose, and we went out each with a treat in our hands and he with a box under his arm.  It was lovely.

We climbed back in the car and turned the corner back toward the highway.  He surprised me, though, "Do you like vanilla ice cream?"  It was about 10:30 in the morning.

We pulled around the block again and parked in front of the candy store with red awnings.  We headed toward the back--an old-fashioned soda counter with red stools to match the awnings out front.  He ordered us each a small dish of ice cream (having just finished the pastries, mind you), and we sat at the counter and chatted about the weather. 

I commented that the gloomy grey of November days always reminded me of Truman Capote's "A Christmas Memory"--a story I had read in high school that stuck with me even though I didn't realize it at the time.  I told him I think of days like that one as "fruitcake weather," though I've never made a fruitcake in my life.

He mused that his wife made fruitcake every year--in fact, she had recently started on this year's batch.  He wondered if she needed more bourbon.

We finished our ice cream, pushed the dishes back, and headed back to the car once more. 

Just before the exit to the highway, right on the edge of the tiny business district, was a state liquor store.  Dr. B. pulled in the parking lot without comment, and as he turned off the car, he announced that he thought he should pick up some more bourbon for his wife's fruitcakes.  So, I followed him in and down the aisles, while he picked up a modest bottle.

He paid for his purchase, and we climbed back in the car.

As we drove back to campus, I pondered the morning's trip, realizing its strangeness and its beauty.  We got back to campus about 11:15.

I have a number of other recollections of Dr. B., but this is my favorite.  One that I shared with no fellow students, and one that solidifies my understanding of who he was.  Whether he was talking about poems, book collecting, paper-making, liturgical pratice, or food, he most of all had a warmth and passion to share with others whatever joy he found in the world.

And while I am a very different teacher than he was, I hope that, someday, some students will be able to ponder some strange trek that shows them something more about how they see the world. 

Thank you, Dr. B.

Rest eternal grant to him, O Lord, and may light perpetual shine upon him.