Jerry Rice Dies  I'm sitting with my friend Hilary Nano and a man and woman in their mid 20's. Hilary and I talk with them about sex using a piece of bacon and either a belt or broccoli, wrapping one of these items around the waist and inserting one into the vagina. The woman tells us she's done this. I ask her questions to determine if she did it correctly. I say to the man, "...so you're from Canada...". He says no, his wife is from Canada: I have misunderstood. The couple is not married: he isn't wearing a ring. The man explains about his wife and he, and while he's talking he says, in passing, "...When Jerry died...". I'm shocked to hear this: I'm thinking of my professor Jerry Rice. I look at Hilary, and she confirms my dismay: Jerry Rice died last night. The woman there had been an adviser to or had known Jerry somehow. I am deeply saddened, and roll to the floor on my knees, crying. I leave, walking north to Carter Church in Oak Valley, which is a short walk. I look for a funeral notice on the doors of the church, and seeing none, remember that Jerry is Jewish, so I'll call the Jewish funeral homes around. I walk into the church and notice that a young man with dark hair has followed me there to see that I made it okay. In the church are a half-dozen people who seem to be coordinating or running the church. I see my friend Sara Miller. She is very happy to see me, and is loquacious and smiley. I am somber, and say nothing. I leave with her out the sacristy door and walk home with her and my grade school classmate Brownie Bruny. There is ice and snow on the ground: it's winter. Someone mentions that if the cement of a sidewalk is exposed, uncovered from the snow and ice for at least 24 hours, then people have a right to dig there, with a ditch-digger or a backhoe! My family is staying elsewhere for a few days after the death. I go to the new residence. It is my old neighbor Donald Branson's old house. I kick the door open loudly because my hands are full. There are two dinner tables. I see a family that is like the Flanders family on the television show the Simpsons at one table, and my mom and my brother Wally at the other table. We are sharing with this family for now. I set my load down and tell everyone about Jerry's death. I say what Jerry meant to me: that he was a facilitator: he allowed me the extra freedom to do my own thing. We're all having homemade pasta and steak for dinner. Some of the boys from the other family come to introduce themselves to me. One of them is named Tod. Another boy tells me to say "farmers" and then he squeezes my cheeks together as I say the "ers" portion of the word, so his name sounds like "Farmears", but is spelled Farmers. They pick up small, arranged strands of colored pasta from my plate. This is a really artsy, fancy, finicky, almost childish way to prepare pasta, and I'm kind of annoyed by it. I think of my honors proposal, and if I should get in touch with someone else to write the recommendation for it.