50 years ago, I got in my Brother’s car as we embarked on what we were still allowed to call “Christmas” break.
(The semester did not end in those days, we had to return to classes and finals in January.)

There was a warmth in my parents house that gave much comfort after riding through
the stark, winter, I65, landscape that led in a very straight line from the red bricks of West Lafayette to the smoking stacks of the Steel City’s mills.
This warmth was tempered by the chilly reception to my perception that Purdue was not the place for me.

Suddenly, the phone rang.
“It’s for you, ‘Cootz’…some guy named Dennis…probably another dropout”
(I had met Dennis Terry at a church camp a year or so before and hadn’t heard from him for at least 6 months.)
(If anybody knows where he is now, I would love to reconnect)
I took the phone from my father.
“Dennis! Hi, I just walked in the door, can I call you back?”
“Oh sorry, real quick, I’m having a party tomorrow night and everybody wants you to come.”
“Well, let me think about that”
“Great! call me back”

As I hung up, a barrage of verbal, NO-BASIS-IN-FACT innuendos about drugs and other unsavory activities were bandied about.
“Oh, it’s so good to be home. I love you too.”
I walked back to what used to be “my room” realizing that Purdue was not the only place I didn’t belong.