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I used to chat up my math professor in Duluth for an hour every day after class in an attempt to charm my way into passing Calculus.

He was telling me one afternoon how stressed he was over planning an RV trip out to Yellowstone for his family flying in from the Czech Republic the following week. He stopped suddenly and pointed to a white board on his wall filled with mathematical equations. "That," he said, "That is home to me, Eric." He sighed. "I am not much good at anything else. I tell you this because you write and you must know what I mean."

I smiled a little. "Yeah, Dalibour. I guess I do."