So, as I’ve written about before, I worked at the Texas A&M college newspaper, the Battalion, and I loved it. I met my dearest Erin there, learned enormous amounts, and … went a bit wild. Elizabeth-style wild, but still …

On my very first day there, a rakish, older columnist by the name of Frank Stanford swaggered in to the office, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. I’m sure he introduced himself to me — he never missed a chance to connect — and I was, in that second, gone. Hook, line and sinker.

The more I knew about him, the more I realized how utterly unsuitable, incompatible, and even dangerous he was for me — and the more I coveted his friendship and his attention.

Frank had a way of making me feel like the center of the world, while at the same time expanding my world enormously. This is going to sound RIDICULOUS, coming from a college junior, but I still didn’t drink (after my shared wine glass with Jana on my 21st birthday); I didn’t watch the Simpsons (I didn’t think it was moral, an opinion I moronically shared with the world in a Point/Counterpoint with Frank in the newspaper — the Simpsons were a big deal in the mid-90s); I certainly didn’t ride motorcycles. Frank changed all that (well, on the drinking, he changed it such that I had four drinks my senior year! CRAZY I’m telling you.).

Jenny Magee, Frank, Me and Erin.

He was close friends with Erin, too, and fairly quickly he and I became friends, of a sort. It’s more accurate to say we became idol and acolyte, roles we both willingly played. The night Frank first took me out on his motorcycle, a BMW he used when he wasn’t driving his Alfa-Romeo Graduate — he was a veritable cliche of wild and free-wheeling guy in 1994 — was astounding. I can still see the road flying by, seemingly inches from my feet, and hear Frank saying, “Hold on tighter” as he maneuvered into a crazy turn or went onto a highway.

[pause for my mom to recover from remembering her worst six months — she was so terrified for me].

I was so inspired I actually signed up for a class and earned my Texas motorcycle license that summer, a story I will sum up in two anecdotes.

1. When I walked in for the second day of class, one instructor said to the other, “She did come back! Damn! I owe you $10.” and

2. They only agreed to give me my Texas motorcycle license if I swore (SWORE) that I would never again even get on a motorcycle.

Done, and done! Although that didn’t prevent me from taking a picture of one in a Harley shop in rural Pennsylvania with Eve …

Me, as close to driving a motorcycle that I ever, ever want to get (the showroom floor, circa 1995).

Anyway, Frank. I think every woman (EXCEPT my daughters!) should know at least one wild, crazy, harebrained summer. I’m really grateful for him teaching me all I’ll ever know about motorcycles, professional-speed chopping of vegetables (with the scarred hands to prove it), and the importance of protecting your heart when dealing with confirmed bachelors.

It was a great summer. Thanks, Frank.