Comrades in Grad School

I met Don on the first day of graduate school, on the steps of the Clements Library, at a reception for new graduate students.  I knew from the list the department sent out that "Donald LaCoss" was the only other person listed as studying modern French history in our cohort.  So I met Don, and he was not who I imagined this "Donald LaCoss" would be, but then who could ever imagine someone like Don?  We immediately became comrades in grad school, with many of the same classes.  I remember making cookies in the shape of France for our grad seminar snack during the first semester of grad school, with a dot put on the cookie where "Limoges, The Red City" was located.  I had a dream a few months ago of being back in grad school classes with Don, and it was a happy dream.

Don and I became friends, and Don would often tell people the story about meeting on the first day of grad school, but he put a completely twisted, hilarious spin on the story.  In his version, I walked up to him, poked him in the chest with my finger, and said something like, "Hey, Pal, you studying French history?  Well, you better watch out...you're swimming with the sharks now and I'm going to kick your ass."  Something like that, but longer and more elaborate, but it was pretty funny.  

The first summer, Don and I drove back to Connecticut together.  We each lived at our parents' houses and took Reading German at Yale.  Sometimes Don would pick me up at the New Haven train station in that 80s Buick his high school friend discussed.  The car was enormous, and Don was, indeed, still starting it with a spoon each time, which never ceased to amuse me.  

We remained comrades and close friends in the early years of grad school and then were roommates in Paris.  Don very sweetly took the room with a tiny single bed, which sagged hugely in the middle, since I was captivated by the larger room with yellow wallpaper.  His room did have a little balcony that he liked to sit at, and I remember sitting there with him, drinking tea and coffee.  Marveling at, analyzing, and making fun of the French always made for good conversation.  I don't have a great memory so I have trouble remembering specifics.  I seem to remember that although Don was such a brilliant guy, he wasn't that good at math, and always had strange, unusual ways of figuring out dollar/franc currency conversions....

Sometimes, when I do something stupid, I hear Don's voice say a Homer Simpsonesque "D'oh!" in my head.  When I say something fairly obvious and realize it, I hear Don's voice say, "D'ya think?"  I don't know if I'll ever stop hearing that voice saying those things, since I haven't seen Don in about a decade, and I still hear him.  I've missed him in the last decade and always thought I'd get in contact with him and reestablish our friendship at some point, and now I'm heartbroken that I can't.  I'm grateful to be able to read the blog to hear about his time in LaCrosse and as a father and with Susan -- it sounds like a very happy time.  My thoughts are with you, Susan and Benjamin.

Carolyn