Like most of the summers since he had earned his Ph.D., this one had gone too fast. It had been filled with the normal things -- preparing for fall semester, cleaning up the debris from spring semester, and a brief vacation with his family. Summer was too brief this year, also, because he had taught a 5-week summer statistics course. Finally, he had attended an extended workshop on teaching.

But now it was the second week of fall semester. New faces to teach old facts to. That was how he approached his job -- fill the empty heads with material. Ladle it in for 14 weeks. The only method he used was to lecture -- other methods were less efficient. Pack the facts in with four exams and a paper.

Across 12 years he had changed as a person. His hair was graying. His midsection expanding. Wrinkles (he called them laugh lines) crossed his middle aged face. He was no longer one of them -- the students. Once they had confided in him and he with them. But no longer. Now he had become one of "them." Students now viewed him as a advisor. A professional counselor. He had begun to attend more closely to the word "deadwood" to make sure it didn't refer to him.

His classes were predictable, not inspiring. He viewed teaching about the way he thought about brushing teeth -- do it when necessary but don't dwell on methods. After all, except for one girl who had fainted early on in his teaching, no one had been injured attending one of his classes. In spite of it all he was conscious.

He was deeply disturbed by the outcomes of his professional choice. He mentioned to the Dean that he wanted to take teaching more seriously. The Dean, in turn, sent him to a teaching workshop.

The workshop had been outstanding. Really good teachers, really good presentations on improvement of teaching. A really good opportunity to learn about the scholarly literature on teaching which had developed since he had gotten his degree.

For the week of the workshop he had kept his mouth shut. He knew that he was selected on the basis of an offhand remark to the Dean -- not on any past teaching accomplishments. Except for one other cynic, no one knew that he didn't belong. He kept his mouth shut and his ears open.

But he had attended workshops before. He had left with good, but generally unrealized intentions to modify his courses. It's not that he didn't want to become a better teacher. He just didn't have the faintest idea of what the change involved -- where to start -- what the goal was.

But now it was the second week of the fall semester. He was teaching four courses again and hardly had time to try to modify one class. It was a lot easier to just use the old notes, use the old exams, be the old person.

The room his 11 AM class was in had windows along the left side. From anywhere in the room he could look across the street and see the Dean's office. Often, while teaching he would see the Dean staring out. He always waved to the Dean when they passed on the street. But he never knew if the Dean was engaged in a vexing problem or surveying his minions when he saw him from his class. There were some things he and the Dean didn't discuss.

Like present day students proclivity to enter a zomboid mental state when he asked the class a question. Didn't they understand the question? Was it their fault? Or was it his? Had he become what he had denegrated during his college days -- deadwood reading ancient notes to people he had no way of contacting?

On this particular day, two weeks into the semester, the students were gradually withdrawing from his class -- not physically, but mentally. That was the most distressing thing about teaching for him. His efforts were wasted. This is when his depression began every semester. He couldn't deal with the failure, so he insulated himself from the responsibility by withdrawing further. Lecturing from a more distant podium.

In this class he had already moved the podium back one foot - there were only five feet to work with. Students had responded similarly -- they moved back in room. It reminded him of church. He had become the old minister -- the messenger from God. He had chosen teaching because he liked interacting with people. And with each passing day the gulf widened. His metaphone for teaching had become a comedian who isn't at all funny. Punchline -- shuffle feet -- embarrassed, heavy, time. Move on and explain the joke. Panic. Move on. It is the material's fault, not the comedian.

"The correlation coefficient describes the relationship between two variables. Pick any two variables." No reply. "Think of two interesting variables." No answer.

He could see the gulf widen. He could watch as another class became irretrievably distant. Lost to the interaction that he so craved. And he knew it was his fault.

But this time, he heard a voice. At first he thought one of the students had actually spoken. No, they were all sleeping comfortably. Was it the Dean? Nope, he had left his tower. Then who?

He listened intently during the silent wake of his question. The voice said "Engage them." Good idea. But how. "Try something different, what do you have to lose." But what. What new? "Try groups, try discussion, try writing, try anything."

He knew that voice. It was a teacher he had met during the summer workshop. She was a great teacher. She was wonderful. He admired everything about her. But had he gone nuts? Voices? Did the class hear her? Nope - zzzzz.

At that moment something happened. He tried, for the first time that he could recall, a new technique to engage the students.

"Write down two variables."

"Get into groups of three people."

"Pick two variables your group thinks are related."

"Write down why they are related."

"Collect the data from other people in the class."

"Make a poster and present it to the class."

At first the students looked puzzled. He had always been scatterbrained, but this was not like him. Very unpredictable. They looked around to see if other's were taking the task seriously.

He repeated the first few steps.

"Write down..."

"Get into groups..."

That moment reminded him of ice fishing. The best ice fishing is in the fall, is just as the ice forms. The best fishing is out in open water. Fish bite at night. So to go ice fishing you dress warmly, take a flashlight and "slowly" walk onto the ice. You never know how thick the ice under you is. Can it support you? On a really successful night you come home with five walleyes. On a bad night you get too close to the edge and crash through. While most people who fall through survive, some actually die from the cold. He had never fallen through. Nor had he ever come home with five fish.

But at that moment, in that class, he knew that he had just taken a risk.

He had flat out thrown away his lesson plan. And he didn't know, at that moment, if he had a prayer. He didn't have any idea how thick the ice was under him.

The students wrote briefly, and assembled into their assigned groups. They looked at each other and then a group, way in the back, started to talk to each other. Another and another, the room filled with noise. Students teaching students. Learning that could be measured on a DB meter. So much learning that he had to shut the door to keep from intruding on the class next door. Student questions to him, too. Each new voice was like a warm wave covering him and the class. He felt wonderful -- exhilarated, really. He had caught a huge fish. The ice was strong.

For the first time he felt great about something in his classroom. He felt at peace with his occupational choice, with his students, with himself. He had, for that one moment, become an excellent teacher.

The class ended -- students needed more time on the project -- and he walked to the door and opened it. In the past he had closed the door to keep out outsiders from knowing what happened in his classroom. But this time, as he opened the door, good was inside He was ecstatic. He wanted to share his success with colleagues. With the Dean, with colleagues, with anyone. Like in graduate school when an experiment worked. Like as an undergraduate, when you get a good grade on an exam. Like when you get a grant. Like when you win the lottery.

He had gambled and won and now he wanted to share the adrenalin of the moment and discuss what had just happened. As he left the room, he heard the crowd roar its approval as it had years ago when he was a high school athlete. He needed to share his enthusiasm for teaching with someone. He recognized the significance of what had happened and wanted to share this moment- this personal transition - with someone. Anyone. He wanted to bask in the afterglow of the moment. But the hallway was empty.