After the Army, after a year of working in corporate America, I decided to return to college, to UCLA. But there was a problem. All my college credits were from Cal Tech, which was on the quarter system. UCLA was on the semester system. So in transfer I had 2 and a fraction units for several 3 unit classes, which meant UCLA required that I take them again. I decided to do this for less money at a community college and so enrolled in Pasadena City College in 1963. This is where I met Trevor.
At Cal Tech I had been a math major. At UCLA I anticipated being a Philosophy major. But I was curious about all the humanities for the first time. On a recommendation, I enrolled in Trevor's Modern Poetry class -- and in retrospect, it and he changed my life.
What made Trevor special was his manner. He was tall and lean, urbane, witty. He was Jeremy Irons in the classroom. His sensitivity to literature was in his body language. He began every class by reading a poem -- twice. We did not discuss it. He told us to listen carefully and to absorb it. A discussion, he said, an explanation, is always less than the work itself. Learn to appreciate the work more than the explanation.
I ended up taking every Trevor course I could before transferring to UCLA. Because I was an older student, we had hit it off and stayed in touch. Trevor moved on to become VP at a community college in St. Louis, which is where he was when I won a playwriting contest in grad school sponsored by the Univ of Missouri. So I stayed with him when I was flown out to receive the award (one of three). I was a big guy with a big beard then, who took my guitar everywhere and sang folk songs. Trevor said I reminded him of Walt Whitman.
Trevor retired to Honolulu. Every Xmas he sent me a case of macadamia nuts. I visited him in Honolulu, he showed me all the non-tourist spots, and I fell in love with the place, which wasn't even more expensive than Portland. And it was here that brought the memory this morning. Trevor had breakfast at the same restaurant every morning, sitting in the same booth, served by the same waitress. An old man's routine I understand myself very well today.
And so this morning, I stopped by for my usual iced coffee, joined a long rush hour line, and by the time I got to the register my order was already ready, "Saw you coming, Charles," said the barista, and this reminded me of Trevor getting breakfast. Routine seems like a small thing but it can be a big thing, a nice stability, a connection however minor, an example of the rhythm of one's life. This is a good thing. As a young person, I looked at it with less charity but I see now, I feel now, that this is a good thing. Trevor getting his breakfast, me getting my coffee, the rhythm of the day beginning. A good thing.
Trevor died quite a while ago. A woman I didn't know let me know, contacting everyone in his address book. His ashes were dropped at sea. She said a school of dolphins swam around the boat as if in honor and celebration.
I can still hear Trevor reading a poem. Jeremy Irons in the classroom. All class.
I'm honored that several of my own past grad students feel toward me the way I felt toward Trevor. Carry it on.
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