Encouragement

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Buried among other various debris, I mean collectibles, in my wallet are two credit card sized replicas of two college degrees. Together, they represent at least 6 years of my life. The first thing I notice about them is that they are, well, worthless. No one, and I mean no one, has ever asked to see a credit card sized duplicate of my degree. Although I've imagined an interviewer asking for them: "Well, Mr. Swann, it says here that you've a degree. I'd love to offer you a six figure salary, but we have a policy of actually seeing your credit card size copy of your diploma."

This has never happened to me.

The first card represents my bachelor's degree. At the bottom four signatures appear: two are of individuals who are dead, one is the new president of the university, and one has left the state to parts unknown. The first signature, that of our previous president, left the year after I graduated and has not been seen in public since. There was some unsavory talk about his ability to actually run a college and apparently he lived up to his reputation. The second signature is that of the registrar, who because of the president's departure, managed to slide into his position. The third is that of the chairman of the board. He was a very rich man for whom the university was later named. The fourth, the most pleasant of the bunch, died of breast cancer during my senior year. She was around forty, had never married, and was perhaps the most pleasant and kindest college professor I've met. A large painting adorns a small building on campus that bears her name.

I do not know the people whose signatures are represented on the second diploma card. Perhaps it was because I commuted to that university once a week and never made any real connections. The one pleasure about that commute was getting to ride from Chattanooga to Nashville once a week with three other preachers. The ride was, at times, a lesson in slapstick comedy and at other times it carried a more serious tone. It was, however, most therapeutic - being able to discuss problems with each other. There were times, and my wife can not understand this, when four men could ride together for over a hundred miles and not say a word to each other - and not be mad at each other.

These cards, such as they are, remain a small window to my past. They elicit memories that perhaps are indicative of a 41-year-old (not only can men drive together in silence we can also reveal our age) who sometimes reminiscences about his college friends. The people that they bring to mind are all distant now, removed by states and, at times, centuries.

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