I love late spring at the U. All the trees in the state arboretum are in full bloom; people come out of hiding and eat lunch al fresco; outside the Union Building, students throw a Frisbee back and forth on the lawn; community members walk their dogs; squirrels become more active; birds begin chirping; and the rabbit that lives close to my building  makes its way out to a patch of grass to nibble. What can I say? It’s a Disney movie out there.

A bunny getting breakfast outside of the Union Building.

Soon, the quail coveys will start to show and the chicks that look like speckled cotton balls will be running zig-zags behind their parents. So, at this time of year, right before Father’s Day, and while witnessing the rebirth of nature, I drift fondly back to my days at the U. One day in particular…

(if this were a TV show, it would be where the camera gets up close, goes fuzzy, and does that wavy thing to indicate a memory)

I was walking down the hill to class from my dorm room (in the old dorms, not the spiffy ones we have on campus now), when I noticed a female quail nervously running back and forth in front of a 4-foot-deep window well next to another dormitory. A girl was watching out her window and I asked what was up. She said, “There are baby quail down there.” Sure enough, about 8 little chicks were squeaking and running around on top of each other at the bottom of the window well. My mom used to volunteer for a nature center that would give her various young birds to nurse, so I was kind of familiar with some of the rules. The big rule is: don’t touch the chicks because the mother may never feed them if they have your scent or, worse yet, might peck them to death. The only thing available and that I could think to use besides my hands was a window screen. So I prepared to get to work (class, what class?).

The girl took the screen out of her room window and left (I guess she wasn’t worried about valuables, or quail). I proceeded to lay on my belly and try to get the chicks onto the screen, which was almost the same width as the window well, so I had to be careful not to crush the little fluff-balls against the side. They would run so fast, though, I couldn’t keep them on the screen. I ended up sprawled like that for at least an hour, dipping the screen into the mass of pop-corn-like chicks, picking up a few, tilting the screen back and forth as they ran from one side to another, getting them half-way up the well and then one would run all the way off and PLOP! down to his brothers and sisters. It’s a good thing little birds are designed to take falls from a great distance.

All the while, when “Mom” wasn’t running back and forth and making distressed noises, she was dive-bombing me because she had no idea I was trying to help. I admit, for a long time I didn’t seem very helpful. As I’d inch one chick up to the top and set it on the grass, however, it would fall in line behind her and she would calm down … a bit.

I finally got the last little quail out, and Mom had everyone in line behind her. Without so much as a “thanks for saving my babies,” she and the little ones ran off. Unbeknownst to me, about 20 yards away was a male quail, who had been watching, and who I assume was the “baby daddy,” as they say. When Mom got over to Dad, she stood right next to him, facing each chick. They honestly lined up like the Von Trapp family…I was waiting for a song.

But, then, the dad started squawking at them. Now, I don’t speak quail, but he was speaking a language I do know…the international language of “Dad.” It surely went something like this (loosely translated): “Now, haven’t your mother and I told you a million times to watch where you’re going, especially when you get close to those buildings and big holes? What would you have done if that girl hadn’t come along? You would have gone without dinner, that’s what. Your mother and I can’t worry about you out gallivanting and falling down holes. We have work to do to feed you and provide  you shelter. And, you, Suzie, you hatched first. You should have watched your brothers and sisters more carefully. I tell you, I have half a mind to run you back over to that window well and push you all in. Now, get in line, and don’t even think of making a peep until we get home!”

If he’d had a finger, I’m sure he’d have been wagging it at them. Happy Father’s Day, Dads.

Want to know what a quail sounds like? Go to the Western Soundscape archive at Marriott Library here.

My time at the U now consists of conversations about Twitter, tweets, feeds, the Facebook “ecosystem,” and all sorts of things that sound natural enough…but it wasn’t that long ago that I was actually experiencing campus in its natural, and newborn, glory.

It was my first day of school. How exciting! A fresh new backpack, my textbooks ready to be cracked open, even a few blue test booklets that my stepdad made me buy ahead of time because, “You can never be too prepared in college.” It was pouring rain. Walking toward my Italian class, I had visions of Firenze and falling in love (albeit those visions were right out of the movie A Room with a View, set in Victorian England and Italy). My soggy daydream was interrupted by a faint mew coming from the bushes next to Orson Spencer Hall. I looked for the source of the mew, but the bushes were dense and I was worried I would be late, so I went to find my classroom, which happened to have a window open to the same area. Fate has a way of persisting, you know.

As everyone was finding their seats and anticipating the Italian god we’d been envisioning as our instructor (in my head, he was a mix between Al Pacino and the street vendor in A Room…), the mewing lofted over the scene and mixed with the hard rain in a desperate plea. Others began looking out the window. One classmate and I headed outside. We slid between the scratchy bushes and wall of the building toward the sound. Not far in, we found an orange and white kitten, sure to drown, with his face in a puddle. He was so young his eyes hadn’t opened yet and he couldn’t crawl or lift up his head. We concluded the mamma must have taken the rest of the litter to dryer ground. The classmate took off his brand-new shirt and wrapped up the kitten. I carried both into the classroom, walked up to the professor (not quite a god or Al Pacino/street vendor mix, BTW), and spoke as formally and “adult-like” as I could: Would it be ok if we missed class to take the cat to the vet and what were the repercussions?

He looked at me like I was…well…speaking a different language. For a brief moment we just blinked at each other. Then he said, “This is your education. You make this decision.”

We took the kitten, dubbed “Osh,” to a pet hospital just blocks away, where the nurses fed him from an eye-dropper. I visited him every day with the hopes of sneaking him into my dorm room when he was old enough…until I found out the cost of the vet care. When I told them that I couldn’t afford to take Osh, one of the nurses couldn’t hide her smile, even over the phone. It seems she had also fallen in love with Osh and wanted to keep him for herself. I couldn’t think of a better resolution (not being a good rule-breaker and all).

As for my Italian—I kept at it and eventually studied abroad. That instructor taught me a lot, and it all began with, “You make this decision.” It was exactly the lesson I needed to begin my college career.

* Thanks to Wasatch Girl for the alternate title!

Are you in the Mark Matheson fan club? I’ve been a member for a while now…going on 15 years, I believe…ever since I went to an orientation to learn about what getting an Honors at Entrance scholarship to the U really afforded me. Turns out, one of the most important things it gave me – aside from the opportunity at hand-selected courses with fewer students – was an enduring friendship with one of the most elegant and unassuming, yet passionate and involved people I’ve ever met.

Mark Matheson is not shy, but he’s not overbearing. His laugh booms, but his voice will subtly lilt as he recites a Shakespearean sonnet when the mood strikes as he looks out the window while teaching. I think, though, the most remarkable thing about him is his ability to retain personal details about his students. It has taken 15 years, but I’m onto him: I know he uses this technique to woo his students. Guess what? It works like a charm. I am – as probably countless others are – eternally grateful that it does. Take it from me: I can’t remember how many quarters (yes, at that time it was a quarter system) I took from Mark Matheson, but he always squeezed me in, even though his classes were full and I’d already heard some of the lessons from previous courses. A funny thing happened, though: I would learn different nuances to Hamlet or Antony and Cleopatra that I hadn’t picked up in his class before. Taking multiple classes was like seeing a good movie again: it allowed me to realize the complexity of what I thought before was merely entertaining.

Mark is now an advisor at the U’s Department of English. I can’t think of a luckier set of students. He was my unofficial advisor back when I attended. He still is. I am lucky to have a coffee with him and a dear friend (also a 15-year member of the MMFC) once in a while. We don’t have mind-blowing conversations about literary theory or iambic pentameter. We talk about politics or family or nature. After all, aren’t these things the essence of humanity…and the Humanities? Still, each time we sit down, a student (or several) will walk by and give a smile, not wanting to interrupt. Mark will wave heartily, greet them by name, and ask how they have been and often about their family. I know the Mark Matheson Fan Club includes an enormous number. He would deny it, but we are here to stay. Are you one of us?