This past week was the first week of the last class that I will ever teach at Colorado College. On Monday, I cried twice -- once in class and once later in the day. I will admit that I am an easy crier, but it usually takes more than handing out a syllabus to turn on the sprinklers.

On Tuesday, I wrote on the white board with what I thought was a white board marker.

On Wednesday, it actually snowed underneath the covid-induced tent where class is held. Flakes blew in sideways while I was dividing the class into discussion groups for Veblen's Theory of the Leisure Class. All of the groups decided to go elsewhere to discuss. Shockingly.

On Thursday, nothing much happened. We had class prophylactically on Zoom, but the sun unexpectedly appeared, the temperature climbed, and -- against all weather predictions to the contrary -- it was the warmest day of the week. I finally abandoned all hope of ever being prepared for upcoming weather and decided to just utterly surrender myself to the caprices of the weather gods and the certainties of wool socks.

On Friday, I discovered that the thing I wrote on the white board on Tuesday is now permanently inscribed. Oops. I do wish that it had at least been something profound, but it was, alas, not.