Of the 27 people writing the final:
One was a baby in '85 when I held her for her mother, a writer friend.
Two asked me what "awe" means.
All 27, for the first time all term, face the same direction: toward me, as if I'm the bus driver, with seat reversed, facing them.
One had given up coming to class a month ago but showed up for the final, stayed a half hour and left, forgetting her purse.
All of them observed my flight-attendant-walk up and down the rows, checking that everyone was double-spacing (for readability), or my bingo-worker-walk, displaying extra exam booklets.
Five will be in one of my classes next term.
About 16 whisper "thank you" and "have a good Christmas" as they hand in exam booklets and pick up essays on the way out.
In the "Instructor's Name" space on the booklets: Gerry Hill (10 times), Gerald Hill (8), Hill (1), Gerald A. Hill (1), Gerald Hall (1), Hill, Gerry (1), [blank] (4), Prof. Hill (1).