The tale of how I stopped switching majors

"You know, the smallest thing can change a life. In the blink of an eye, something happens by chance — and when you least expect it … into a future you never imagined."

- Nicholas Sparks

In college I switched majors umpteen times. Mostly on a whim. Many of my friends somehow knew their destiny from the get-go: business, law, advertising, journalism, dentistry ... .

I didn't. I was well-intentioned but in the way some flaky first-years and sophomores are (hence the term of Greek origin: sophos (wise), and mōros (foolish, dull, i.e. moron).

I tried animal husbandry, right after I'd decorated State Fair horse stalls and pig pens with crepe paper and bunting; political science, because our professor inserted Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and Woody Guthrie lyrics into her lectures; psychology, because I'd trained Stanley, my Psych 103 lab rat, to deposit marbles in a tin can.

This went on for nearly two years. To Dad, I was frittering away my future and the "outrageous" $150 per quarter tuition. My excitement about operant conditioning (I think it was) and my and Stanley's successful feat was the last straw. Dad had had it and suggested that "maybe college isn't the right place for you right now."

That's when I proclaimed my intention to "go premed."

Of course, I wasn't making sense. I'd barely passed 10th-grade biology. Both us of neglected to consider that.

About the same time, I'd landed an on-campus job with the University of Minnesota vending services. Before sunrise I'd load a van with candy, chips, soft drinks, pastries, plastic-wrapped white bread sandwiches and cigarettes. I'd drive around campus all day and restock vending machines.

You couldn't beat the perks: driving the van to my classes, parking it in convenient "official vehicle only" spots; supplying grateful housemates with "leftovers"; and my favorite, offering pretty classmates door-to-door service to their next classes.

One morning at the beginning of winter term, a girl (Jodi) waited while I restocked pastries at Wilson Library. I gifted her a cherry Danish and offered her a ride to her class.

On the drive across the Washington Avenue bridge to the East Bank, we small-talked:

"I've got Chaucer now."

"Come again?"

"
Chaucer. You know. The poet."

I pretended to know all about Chaucer. I remember vividly how bogus it sounded, especially when I casually mentioned that Chaucer was "far-out."

"But I'm premed," I added.

That's when I enrolled in Chaucer.

To pass the class you had to memorize and recite, to Professor Kendahl's satisfaction, the first 34 lines of "The Canterbury Tales" in its original Middle English.

You know, it begins this way:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

Of which vertú engendred is the flour

It seemed impossible. But Jodi was smart and she helped me. After acing her recitation, she briefed me: "Kendahl seats you in his armchair. If he offers you water, take it. When he says, 'Begin,' speak up. When you're done, he'll tell you your grade. Don't argue. And heads up. Hardly anyone gets an A."

My appointment to recite was on a snowy, late Friday afternoon.

"Water?" (Thank you.)

"Begin."

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote …

I stumbled from beginning to end."

"You can do better," said the professor. "Try again."

"Whan that Aprille …"

"Better. C-minus."

Then he chanted, "And smale foweles maken melodye" several times, waving his pipe like a conductor's baton and encouraging me to join in. I did. It was a charming, kooky, hypnotic moment — and best of all, unexpected.

So was his goodbye. Despite my clumsy, monotonic C-minus, Professor Kendahl shook my hand.

He shook my hand.

By then, Northrop Mall was winter-quiet and beautiful. Lamps lit the walkways like night lights.

" … In the blink of an eye and when you least expect it into a future you never imagined… ."

"English?" said Dad with a flummoxed expression. "For crying out loud, son. Where will that get you?"

"I'll be a teacher."

It worked out pretty well.