In the fall of 1963, there was a brand new graduate student in the Mathematics Department, a girl called Pat Merkle from Tulane University. I knew nothing about her other than the name of her undergraduate college, but I had known somebody at Davidson who had gone on to be a grad student at that New Orleans school, so I thought I might have an in with Ms. Merkle. I was still inept at striking up a conversation with a stranger, particularly one of the opposite sex, but this time I figured at least I had an opening line. So toward the middle of November, still buoyed by my independent summer's experience in Sweden, I stuck my head in the office where this girl and her office mate had their desks and said, “Anybody here know a fellow called Bill Babcock?”

“Yes, I know Bill Babcock,” the new girl said, and so I married her. Well, not that very day, but that was the beginning of my first real romance. A few days later I worked up the courage to ask her out for drinks, a date we did keep, although it turned out to be Friday November 22, the very day that President Kennedy was assassinated. Yes, it was kind of a morbid first date.

We were both young, shy, and inexperienced, basically fearful kids, which may explain why we were drawn to each other so quickly. I think we both must have thought, “at last, at long last, somebody cares.” In retrospect, it seems clear that this is not a promising attitude to have when choosing a marriage partner; our union lasted ten years.