There is a highlight
reel in my head covering the University of Tennessee days, and
therein lives a little old lady named Evelyn who I saw most every day in three years of Morrill Hall living. I remember Evelyn well—she
was a vision of grandmother at the cafeteria entrance,
ladylike to a T with a white tailored cafeteria jacket over her dress and a soft, unassuming voice. Her hair was a
hybrid of strawberry-gray-white, styled with waves that undoubtedly came from a weekly shampoo and set.
Evelyn was on door duty every weekday, counting all the students
who came into the Morrill Cafeteria.
With a kind greeting, she marked each diner's arrival with a squeeze
of a silver clicker in her hand. No matter what the weather or what
was going on out in the world, Evelyn was a soft-smiling sentinel at the door. Occasionally, I dropped by during slower off-hours and caught a fleeting glimpse of her sitting down,
just before going vertical for the official click.
In my three year tenure, I never
saw Evelyn beyond Morrill's second floor, not on the stairs, not coming through any door. It
was like she only existed during dining hours in that
place. Like many other students, I enjoyed seeing Evelyn because she was a constant from the
outside world dropped into the midst of the ever-lively college life. She never, ever deviated
off script from what was in that
role—most often, simply, "Hi". I always asked Evelyn how she was because I can still hear her saying her perpetual reply: “Just fine”.
I didn't know enough to
acknowledge my final college dining experience before graduation, and
I realize at some point Evelyn clicked me off one last time. It took many years for me to give it any consideration at all--not until William's time at UT when he mentioned that Morrill cafeteria is no more and, making way for progress, the whole building was eventually razed.
With benefits brought by the passing of time, I now wonder all sorts of things about Evelyn—where did she live, did she have a family, what did she do in life before becoming a college cafeteria clicker, and what brought her to work in a college cafeteria anyway? (I decided she had to be a Baptist from north Knoxville--that just suits her in my mind).
While I was a fairly decent--albeit typical, self-involved--college student who had really good examples in parents who preferred talking with other people about their lives instead of about themselves, I still missed that boat with Evelyn--someone I saw multiple times, five days a week over three years but about whom I know nothing. And she is joined by a cast of thousands whose paths have crossed mine in the real adult world since then.
~~~~~
Thoughts about Evelyn came back around when I visited Furman during Annabelle's time there. There was a legion of university
staffers dotting the
campus landscape early on a warm Sunday morning, bringing direction,
enlightenment, and order to the cavalcade of families descending on
the university. Everyone I encountered was helpful and friendly, and I
marveled at the large number of them deployed for the magnificent
fall ritual. With every arriving parent's mind fixated on the joy that is moving in and the excitement of the new
college year, the Furman folks fell right into place as simply background scenery.
Later on, I asked
Annabelle if she thought folks who work at Furman enjoy being there,
and she answered she did not know because she never had that type of chat with anyone. I suggested that this year she could make opportunities to talk with people she sees every day and find out more about them and their lives. And this was the perfect segue for me to tell the Fable of Evelyn, her clicker, and my wish to know if she really was a Baptist from north Knoxville just like I wanted her to be.
I'm sure Evelyn has
been gone a very long time—but she's not forgotten. I imagine
a woman of Evelyn's reticent sensibilities would never expect that,
way down the road in the future, someone would be writing about her
while pondering the considerable value of learning more about people you
meet along the way.
