Spiders! I was scared of spiders. No way was I going to climb up the ladder to the peak of Norman's house and paint the trim without getting rid of some of those arachnids. Norman sensed my fear. "And I don't want you to hurt my spiders," he said. "Just talk to them and ask them to move."

I couldn't believe I was doing it, but next thing I knew I was climbing up the ladder and talking to Norman's spiders, asking them to move so that I could paint their space. To my utter surprise, none of the spiders attacked me. Better yet, they abandoned the area so I could paint, and as I came down the ladder, proud of myself for having faced a fear, I realized Norman had once again taught me something. I was grateful.

I first met Norman when I was a graduate student here at ECU. Norman Rosenfeld was teaching a contemporary poetry class, and though poetry wasn't my favorite type of literature, I signed up for the course without any huge expectations. I immediately took to his style of teaching. Rather than try to impart "holy" knowledge to us, Norman threw out controversial poems and had us tangle with the subject matter among ourselves. We wrestled with gender issues, with war and peace, with race, with lifestyle problems; the poems were the catalyst, and Norman played devil's advocate to keep us on our toes, thinking. He never lectured, but every once in a while he'd offer his opinions about the chemistry of poetry, and since he spoke little, I listened closely and heard a brilliant mind at work. By the end of the semester, I was a total fan of contemporary poetry and of Norman's teaching style.

I didn't know Norman was a tennis player until later, when he became my thesis advisor. From what I hear, he was a really good player. But he didn't look like an athlete. He was a small man, about 5'7" with dark brown hair and glasses. He wore button down shirts and loafers. I don't know if women considered him handsome, but there was no mistaking the mischievous grin that he often flashed around the English Department. Perhaps the feature I remember most, however, was his voice. He had a distinctive nasal drawl that was part Woody Allen and part Pittsburgh, where he grew up.

I thought I was a decent writer in those days; after all, I got A's and B's on all my papers as an undergraduate and graduate English major, and I was a feature writer and feature editor for The East Carolinian. My freshmen think I am rough on their grammar, but I never expected the surprise I got when Norman looked over the third draft of my thesis. You've never seen so much red ink. At first I was devastated, but as I looked over his editing, I realized Norman had found weaknesses in my writing style that no one else had ever pointed out before. In that painful process of revision, I learned more about writing style than I ever had before.

I got to know Norman pretty well over the years. He often invited me over to his house where we'd talk about politics or music or religion. I think Norman thought that I was hopelessly naïve and optimistic about matters of belief in a God. Philosophically, Norm was more skeptic than believer, but his experience of having grown up Jewish in the holocaust days of World War II gave him an appreciation for peace and respect toward all living creatures, human and animal.

After Norman retired, he and I kept up a tradition of having lunch at a Chinese restaurant about once a season to talk and to catch up on personal news. For the first few years of his retirement, Norman read a lot of the books he hadn't had time to read while he was teaching. Because of his insomnia, he watched quite a bit of late night television, too. He also seemed to be constantly working on repairing the roof of his house, a house that was unusual and attractive with its cathedral ceiling and large windows that ran up and down one side, but it had a bad roof. One day when we were having lunch, Norman told me he was starting to play around with some pieces of glass and stone; he was making art. I was surprised.

Over the next year, whenever we would get together, Norman talked about his pieces. He was spending more and more time working on them. By this time, I was curious, so he promised to have me come over and take a look. When I saw his artwork, I was astounded. The pieces were collages of stained glass fragments mainly, with added glass marbles and pieces of stone, wood or metal, all glued on to a three-foot square piece of plexiglass and lit from behind with small light bulbs. The pieces were fun, and they were good! With no training, Norman was making beautiful art.

Last October, Norman had an art opening at his house where he showed all the pieces he had made, about ten in all. I was happy that he asked me to play my hammer dulcimer for the occasion, and I had a great time being around all those playful swirls of color and texture. That turned out to be the last time I saw Norman. On Christmas morning, he had a sudden heart attack, and he died within the hour. I didn't find out about his death until a week later. His wife, Vi, was devastated, as were all of his friends and colleagues. Suddenly there was a new emptiness in my life.

There's an anonymous quote that says, "No Scotch improves the flavor of water like teachers." Norman certainly improved the taste of my life. I was fortunate to have a teacher and mentor who taught me so much about literature and art, about living passionately, and about how to age. Norman was a dear friend who is still alive in my memory. Now, rather than automatically try to squish spiders, I speak to them first.