Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on what was learned. That paper is presented here.
The last class of my old professor's life had only one student. I was the student.
It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon.
Hundreds of us sit together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding chairs on the main campus lawn.
We wear blue nylon robes. We listen impatiently to long speeches.
When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college,
the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts.
For many of us, the curtain has just come down on childhood.
Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and introduce him to my parents.
He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the clouds.
In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a biblical prophet and a Christmas elf.
He has sparkling blue green eyes, thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows.
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