Semester's end

I wander around to departmental offices and snack on pizzelles and potica. In a previous job, I was told that no wedding in Pueblo, Florence, or Cañon City was valid if pizzelles were not served at the reception. (This rule does not apply in Penrose, Colo., where the bride and groom exchange horses, motorcycles, or broken-down school buses.)

Seeing pizzelles, you know it's a holiday. As for potica, a little goes a long way, as with most of that solid bojohn cuisine.

Writing students drift in and drop off their portfolios. During the one full-blown 2.5-hour final exam that I must give, I look out the west window over the lawn. On the slope in front of the bandstand, a man in a parka walks back and forth, sweeping the grass with his metal detector. I wish I could go out there and see how he is doing with his treasure hunt.