DER HIPPIESCHNITZEL hit hard times. Our friendly, old A-frame is now a charred pile of debris. We stand in the snow steaming miasma from our mouths, remembering glory days forty years ago. We’d trudge the mile from the campus to our tiny, over crowded crash pad, welcomed by its’ drafty warmth and the divine comfort of our own funk. Even now, we seem caught up in a surreal spell. Ursula digs around the periphery, as if looking for something. She comes up with a rusty, blackened pair of hemostats, holds them aloft and says: “I wondered what happened to these!”

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