I woke up last night having a mild nightmare: no bloody monster behind me; no car going over a cliff; not even a plane crashing into our house.

It was a teacher's nightmare: I was in front of a class of Cottey students and hadn't the faintest idea what I was supposed to tell them. There's no teacher in the world who hasn't had this dream at one time or another. It surely, however, beats the alternative teacher's nightmare, in which I'm in front of a class of Cottey students, knowing full well what I'm supposed to teach them, but clothed in only a pair of undershorts. "Class dismissed!"

I think I've begun dreaming and thinking consciously about my former Cottey students because I miss them so. Ten years ago, 20 years ago, 30 years ago; there's no difference between the best of them: I remember them with equal fondness.

I began working toward my Ph.D. in English at the University of Minnesota because I loved writing and reading; American literature especially, but English literature, too. The prospect of teaching writing and literature to freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors excited me. But the research and writing aspect of college teaching bothered me. By the time I was about to graduate, more and more colleges required of their professors not only the Ph.D. but at least a smattering of scholarly articles in their fields. I loved writing, and my favorite professor, Irving Howe at Hunter College, editor of Dissent periodical and author of a National Book Award-winner, clearly thrived on it, too. But professors at Minnesota regarded it as a constant drag on energies that should be used in the classroom. One outstanding teaching-professor was "let go" because he hadn't published a scholarly article in two years. (Mercy!) I was at the proverbial fork in the road. Did I want a high-paying, prestigious professorship that demanded research and publications in such best-selling periodicals as Publications of the Modern Language Association? Or did I want a lower-paying, but no less demanding position where I could devote my energies to teaching students whom I could get to know as people. At Minnesota, as I looked back, the only teachers who fit into the latter category were the very young. I pondered that conundrum--for a minute.

When I arrived at Cottey, and was introduced to members of its English Department, I was impressed by the dedication of its four members. Tina Norton, Marjorie Goss, Jeanie Middleton, Billy Valgardson, and I---we all had offices on the same corridor of the new Academic Building. And from 8 a.m. until late afternoon I could hear one of us conferring with students on their essays. Thus, I came to understand the expectations we teachers had of one another. There was no regulation regarding mandatory office hours in the faculty handbook; there didn't need to be.

In my second year at Cottey, Dave Smith, an ambitious young poet who would later publish his poems in The New Yorker Magazine, occupied the office next to mine. One morning in September, over the sound of his typewriter tap-tap-tapping furiously, I heard one of his freshman students knock at his office door.

"Mr. Smith?" No answer. Somewhat louder: "Mr. Smith?" No answer.

Somewhat louder still: "Please, Mr. Smith! I need help on my essay!"

A long silence, then: "Please stop knocking, will you? How can I become famous if you insist on knocking at my door?"

As a teacher of poetry, Dave excelled, but as a teacher of the required course, "English Composition," Dave had little patience with the average student's everyday problems, such as plain and emphatic writing and insightful reading. And so, at the end of his first year, Dave moved on to greener pastures.

In the 30 years I taught English at Cottey, there was a firm classroom tradition -- in all subjects, not only in English -- of nudging shy students to participate in classroom discussion.

There was no such thing as a "dumb question," and if you had a question you thought was "dumb," chances are that two or three other students in the room had the same question. As a teacher, one of the greatest rewards I had was seeing a girl who in grade school, middle school, and high school had been overshadowed by the boys quite suddenly blossom into a contributing member of the class. And this was not only because she was now surrounded by an encouraging atmosphere, but because there were so few fellow classmates in the room. I used to tell my students that the only "dumb question" is the unasked one.

I'm not sure how classes conducted online work, but I imagine that if the student desires the close attention from her teacher, then that is what she gets.

When our daughter Jessica entered Macalester College, in St. Paul, Minn., straight out of Nevada High School, where she was a National Honor Society member, she said it was like running into a stone wall. In fact, that's the typical reaction of most students who go from high school straight into a four-year college.

"Bam!"

That's where I think Cottey College comes in. In a liberal arts education, the student takes the foundation courses in her first two years, and it's very important that she thoroughly understand that primary material. If she's in a large class, as she's likely to be if she's enrolled in a large college or university, chances are she may miss something, and the unstated pressure of the class is to move on. She can always ask her Cottey professor.

Although, after a certain age, I never told Jessica to do anything, I think in retrospect I'd have strongly suggested she enroll at Cottey for her first two years, then enter Macalester for her last two. She would have learned how to study, for one thing, and that's a very basic skill that most high school graduates simply don't have.

Finally, any high school graduate who chooses to go away to college inevitably begins to lose touch with her classmates who have chosen other paths. Jessica, who after college chose to travel literally all over the world, kept in touch with a select few whose interests seem to match her own. Today, when she comes home for a weekend, she gets together with a few of them for an evening trip to Casa Azteca. These are very good friends. I'm sure, however, she hasn't seen the bulk of the kids who graduated with her in an age. That's life. . . .

One of the constants of a teenager's being away from home for any extended period of time is . . . yes, homesickness. I used to be able to predict the exact weekend when it sets in for Cottey freshmen, but I've been away from Cottey too long. What I haven't forgotten, however, is that all freshman students get homesick together, and that in their momentary despair they reach out to others who are also weeping vigorously. Since their boyfriends are not in the immediate neighborhood, the students they reach out to are . . . other girls. And this, to be sure, in a culture that prompts them to turn to males for help, is maybe the first time they learn just how good and helpful a female friend can be. I've heard middle-aged and elderly graduates return to Cottey and explain that it was here that they met those people who remain the dearest, most trusted friends they have.

At the beginning of each school year, for the last 30 years, I felt like looking out over my classroom full of Cottey students and saying to them through the tears that were beginning to form in my eyes, "You're at the beginning of a wonderful journey into adulthood. You may be scared of all the unfamiliar stuff that lies ahead of you, but don't worry. You've got plenty of company. Just look around you. Good luck, guys. And if you've got a question about anything -- ask."