the Doors. . . .

It unfolded so gradually that he didn't consciously realize it was happening. Like his own aging, it had proceeded as a continuous, yet gradual process. But he had paid no attention, had not realized it was going on.

Looking back now, he realized that recently there had been a series of quiet denials, none of which by itself had caught his attention. A door closed here, a hurried palm out wave of dismissal there: no time to dawdle and share today. Busy day.

Well: working people are busy. Nothing personal intended. Another time perhaps.

But another time never came. And by the time he recognized the pattern, he became more puzzled than troubled. These people had been his friends. . .hadn't they? Maybe he had only thought they'd been his friends. Maybe they'd simply been his colleagues: associates based upon common training and profession -- working in a common place.

Of course there had been smallish political disagreements. And their academic emphases varied, and the values those variations defined. Still, despite these small differences they had common pursuits, shared interests and struggles, shared hopes for the growth and productivity of the school. They even shared the students.

And, like all university professors, their schedules were scattered -- and had to be. Some met morning and afternoon undergraduate courses. Some met evening graduate courses. Some met classes Monday-Wednesday, some Tuesday-Thursday. On the other hand, there were constant cross-curricular committee meetings whenever an hour or two could be found when all colleagues were available. Department meetings were often early Friday mornings, when all were available, if mostly disinterested in the agenda. So, once in awhile, they all assembled in the same room.

He was different, though. The college was his second home. He loved the setting, liked working in the library, the computer center, and his office. He enjoyed mixing with administrative and other support personnel. And when his wife retired from the public schools, she was hired immediately as Director of Student Teaching Placement. She worked downstairs in the same building. That meant he could drop in on her whenever he wished, enjoy brief conversations, take her to lunch.

So, unlike most of his colleagues, who were present only for office hours and teaching assignments, he was always around. Not so, his colleagues.

University professors are an independent breed. Department and committee agendas fall mostly out of the realm of their major interests. They attend the work because they know it must be done.

It was the work that loosely tied them together. Two kinds of work: the committee and department hack-work -- which forced them to meet. The really important, independent work took place within their individual academic areas: the constant study and update of knowledge, the creation of learning activities related to preparation of classes, the creative work related to publication and presentations -- this was the work that mattered. And it was all largely independent work.

Furthermore, this major work was the sort that separated colleagues, rather than drew them together. Much of it was accomplished behind closed office doors. Much of it was done at home. Some of it took place out among teachers in the public schools. Again, as I said, the important work scatters professors rather than draws them together.

Given that fact, it wasn't as if he ever belonged to a tight-knit organization anyway.

And so, though he wasn't immediately aware of it, the moment he retired, he lost his place and status. He was no longer a comrade. His usefulness as a functional member evaporated. While this fact surprised him, it really shouldn't have. Never mind there had always been a marked atmosphere of busy amicability in the College of Education. Never mind they had often shared the same coffee in the same lounge. Never mind their quick, hit-and-bounce, hale-fellow-well-met greetings. Perhaps it had always been true that though they made the necessary effort, their differences truly mattered more than had their shared department work.

They were not a closely-knit, interdependent team. They were not a learning community. They were, instead, a disparate collection of independent and talented individuals, each bent to his own most-valued tasks. They were largely self-sufficient in all ways.

On some level he was always aware of this fact. Nevertheless, he had always been an incurable Romantic. For him, their quick smiling warmth and easy social exchanges passed for (what?!) at least a degree of friendship. He thought of them as bright and insightful, well worth the time he spent with them. He liked and admired them all. Still, he was very comfortable with the loosely-knit organization of the college. He liked the freedom it afforded.

Two events finally stirred him awake to his changed predicament.

About three years after his wife died, he approached a woman with whom he had often worked closely in relation to his graduate students. Like many middle-management personnel in lower administration, she had enrolled in three of his leadership graduate courses, and had proven bright and perceptive -- a really outstanding student. A delightful person, too. She was an older student, but extremely attractive, younger than he, but well within his age range. He imagined he knew her well, had always liked her. Based upon their nearly 20 years of warm association and shared work with students, he had long thought of her as a friend.

WRONG! It was lunchtime. When he approached her and quietly asked if she would (as he lightly put it) "Grab a quick sandwich with him. . ." a look of absolute perturbation crossed her face, she began to stammer and back away. She became so uncomfortable, in fact, that he felt like a complete nitwit. He smiled, touched her upraised hand gently, and backed away: "Oh! I see you're busy today. Another time, perhaps. . . ." But he knew there wouldn't be another time.

Soon after that happening, the new department chairperson asked him if he felt ready to teach one of his favorite courses as an elective. He quickly assented. But the enrollment process in the graduate school had always been strange. For two initial days, all graduate courses are offered. Then, for three or four weeks, enrollment is denied while undergraduates are enrolled. Finally, enrollment is again permitted by graduate students. This is a long-standing process, well understood by graduate students. A graduate course costs nearly a thousand dollars. Like all intelligent people, graduate students wait for the second enrollment period, using their available money for more immediate purposes.

What happened in this instance was that before the second enrollment period, the administration summarily canceled his course, saying it had insufficient enrollment. Of course it did. It was an elective course on several programs. The early enrollment that had developed during the initial period resulted -- as always -- from the rush to assure places in required courses. That was a pattern well understood from past practice. Still more disappointing was that several students had called him, welcomed him back, promised to enroll in the course.

Those two happenings focused his thinking. He finally became aware that there was no going home to the College of Education. Notwithstanding it had never been quite a home, he finally understood he couldn't go home again. The wife he worshiped was gone. The work he loved was no longer available to him. His youth had vanished.

All roads back were closed to him. The old doors were tightly closed.

But he decided that was a good thing:

The road ahead was wide open!
And other doors were surely open.