With thanks to Spider Robinson, the Heinlein Forum, and, most of all, Connie. Without them, I don't know if I would have been able to say what I meant.

"Everyone," he said, stepping up to the line.

"This is a toast I should have made months ago, only I didn't know I needed to make it. I received my copy of the October Binghamton Alumni Journal, a happy occasion because I knew my wedding announcement was in this particular issue. But when I leafed through the magazine, right there on page five was an Obituary. Connie Coiner is dead.

She died on TWA Flight 800, alongside her twelve-year-old daughter, Ana. They leave behind Stephen, Connie's husband, Ana's father. I didn't know because the papers near me didn't carry a passenger list. Apparently they were going on an extended tour of Europe.

I was in Connie's first class she taught at SUNY-B. She came East from UCLA as a respected professor. Her first day, she warned us that her class was tough. It was. But it was also fun. She introduced me to writers that I never would have experienced on my own. And she made me do things I was afraid to do.

Her class required an oral presentation, and when the time came to do mine, I was scared. I didn't like speaking in public, often times I would break down in tears unable to complete a sentence. But in her class I knew I had someone who was patient, and who was interested in what I had to say. I prepared like heck, and when the time came I not only gave my presentation, but took questions from both her and the other students without embarrassing myself.

I still remember the sight of her scribbling down notes; not a critique of me, but notes on what I was saying. It was the first time that I felt comfortable being the center of attention.

Now, in my everyday work, I am constantly called upon to teach and supervise other people. Without Connie, it would have been harder to learn to do that.

At the end of that term, I remember her standing up front and telling us that we were special as her first course at SUNY, that she would always remember her first time. I raised my hand, innocently, and asked with a straight face, 'Was it good for you too?' The class exploded with laughter, she was red, and I was downright flushed.

I saw her a few times in the next semester and we laughed over that last class; she wrote me a recommendation later that term, but I really didn't have much more to do with her. I graduated, and moved on.

So now I'm here, and she's gone. Except that her memory should live wherever teachers give a damn and students try their best."

He raised his glass above his head. "To Connie." The glass drained, he flung it into the flames, and sat down at the bar.