Pilgrim on a Long, Long Journey
It was the winter quarter of ’63-’64. I was a freshman at Emory University. Some of the wetness behind my ears had dried.
At a beautiful building with a marble exterior on the university’s quadrangle, I was about to take a final in history, my mental wheelhouse. At 18, I had a short term memory like a sponge. It is more akin to concrete as I compose this at 75.
Over the next three years, my love for history merged with that memory to enhance my overall, grade point average. That was fortunate, aimed at a medical school admission where, a good memory was an essential aspect of the “accepted.”
That winter’s day in 1964, I had over-studied to that point to both make my nervousness a non-issue, and, provide my noggin with images of my notes. The exam was the last of my winter quarter finals.
As I completed…
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