#22 of 365: Robin G.
Crater Lake gift shop Assistant Manager. You'd renamed yourself Robin and you were birdlike - tiny, sharp-featured, alert. You suffered little nonsense, but I'm glad I knew your warm, witty side. Hope your hands are staying warm.

#21 of 365: Carrie O.
You managed the Pier 1 where I worked post-college. I saw your wedding picture once; you were fresh, pretty. 20 years later, your helmet perm and frumpy wardrobe showed me everything I never wanted to become.

#20 of 365: Susie M.
We were six years old, sitting atop the wall at the Sacred Heart playground, when you taught me how to smoke. Aged six! We moved shortly afterward, and I'm glad. That friendship was headed nowhere good.

OK, it's time to get back on the x365 bandwagon, I think. Next one's easy...

#19 of 365: Mrs. Collier (6th grade)
You had a great sense of humor. You'd throw chalk and erasers at class disruptors, and every new class rule was announced as "rule #409". You also taught gym class; I loved how strong you seemed.

#18 of 365: Miss Murphy (5th grade)
Gah, I loathed you. You overcompensated for your youthful inexperience by being a humorless bitch, and you tried (unsuccessfully) to kick me off the track team for sneaking a rest during laps. Hope you mellowed out.

#17 of 365: Mrs. Kemnitzer (4th grade)
A pint-sized legend among elementary teachers. My parents still use the pig cutting-board your husband cut and we sanded. Your vivid Swiss vacation stories rocked our small-town worldviews. You excelled at encouraging imagination and celebrating creativity.

#16 of 365: Mrs. Allen (3rd grade)
You reminded me of a dark-haired Carol Brady - always upbeat, but nothing got past you. The year after I was in your class, you gave me a teacher's aide gig, coming in early to staple worksheets.

#15 of 365: Mrs. Smith (2nd grade)
Curly-headed and pretty. Pregnant with twin girls, you took maternity leave before year end. One baby, named Stacy, passed away. Our classroom's Stacy was so upset at the news that she vomited in the lunch line.

OK, by overwhelming demand, I'm going to start with grade school teachers. Those scandalous Other Women will just have to cool their heels for now.

#14 of 365: Mrs. Womer (1st Grade)
Silvery mushroom hair, distinctive perfume, and a kind voice. You helped me learn to count using beans, and you didn't get mad when I sobbingly confessed to jamming the sharpener by sticking my pencil in eraser-first.

I'm thinking I may get some help with inspiration for this x365 thing by doing some theme weeks. Which should I do next week?

- Classmates Who Died Young Week - there was some fallout in our classmate ranks during my teens/young adulthood.

- Week of Scotts that I didn't date - who didn't know a lot of Scotts in the late 80's? It was the Connor of its day.

- The Competition Week - girls with whom I vied for some boy's attention, and lost.

- Grade School Teachers - I really don't expect this to be anyone's #1 choice. This is one of those categories I'm keeping handy for when I get blocked.

#13 of 365: Jamie M.
You had the best Halloween birthday parties. We lost our platinum-haired ringleader when you moved to Spokane, but visiting your family's Idaho cabin was idyllic. We named your dad "Mr. George". You're a preacher's wife now.

#12 of 365: Justin S.
Junior year you manifested, taking KU by storm. You were unprecedented - honors student and metalhead party-god. My friends had crushes on you, but I didn't... They were outraged when I made out with you. Sorry, ladies!

#11 of 365: Professor Huelshoff
My favorite Poli Sci professor. Dry-witted, good lecturer. You sorta reminded me of Richard Dreyfuss. You loved your Labrador and loathed Bavarians. I had one very inappropriate dream about you; going to class afterward was mortifying.

#10 of 365: Mr. Snyder
Gravel-voiced company founder and recreational tyrant. Smoking constantly, you'd lurch around finding excuses to bitch. People abused lunch breaks; business-card vendors switched cardstocks without permission (they hadn't; like yourself, your sample card was discolored with age).

#9 of 365: Marijo D.
My dorm buddy. Your distinctive drawl made everyone assume you were Southern, not native Oregonian. Superstar athlete, curly-topped, impossibly pretty, studious, level-headed, hilarious - you had perfect everything (until basketball wrecked your knee). I liked you anyway.

#7 of 365: Odette N.
You introduced me to the Philippines when we became penpals. I liked you. Then we turned 15; you began asking whether I knew any single men interested in writing a pretty Filipina. I stopped writing back.

#6 of 365: Tommy T.
I hated that others teased you. You lived near me, and although you had anger problems at school, we got along fine. You moved after 4th grade; I hope the next school was happier for you.

#5 of 365: Chris H.
We were in so many of the same classes in college, and got along so well, that it's odd we never became better friends. That constant booger in your nose did kind of bug me, though.

#4 of 365: Gary Riley
Shaggy and funny, you frequented our Pier 1 for candles and incense. Flirtatious Amy recognized you from "Summer School"; you'd filmed "Stand By Me" in Oregon and returned, escaping struggling-actor-land. Wikipedia says you died this June.

#3 of 365: Mr. Labos
A beloved legend among substitute teachers. Mysteriously European-accented and ancient, you dispensed butterscotches from your tweedy jacket pockets, told great stories, and didn't always bother with the assigned work. "Now we're cooking with kerosene", you'd say.

#2 of 365: James Y.
I crushed hard on you in grade school. I thought you looked like Superman. Your rich parents would fly a flag on days we neighbor kids could use your pool, but you never joined us. Snob.

Oh, you all (both of you) know what a sucker I am for Internet memes.

The latest is x365 - where you write about 365 people you've met, using only a certain pre-defined format, such as the same # of words as your current age (the guy who started it did so as a way to mark his 40th birthday). So, following that format, I get 36 words per person. That's a hardship for a long-winded writer like me. I think it's going to be a good lesson in brevity.

I'm going to try to keep my list, for now, to people whom I've only met once or a couple of times, or whom I only knew casually but who've stayed in my memory for some reason. I may not always know their names, but that's OK too. So, I'm just going to start with the very first random person who springs to mind:

#1 of 365: Aggie
A kind elderly lady; I used to visit you on neighborhood walkabouts at age 5. One day, your husband Craig stopped coming home. Because you were lonely without him, I looked for him everywhere I went.