“I guess one of the rumors is that I was a drill sergeant,” John told me. Drill sergeant, WWE fighter, motorcycle gang member. “I think it’s the voice.”

Loud, deep, and raspy, every student at St. Lawrence knows John Staie’s voice. His dark hair is long and tied back. Rolled-up short sleeves proclaim his readiness to get to work cooking and serving the long trays of food in Dana Dining Hall, or manning the register to swipe students in with a thunderous greeting.

At two o’clock, John was waiting by Dana’s wide entrance for me. He stood tall next to his wife Cindy, who was working the register. The two exude warmth, exchanging constant “How are you?”s and “Good to see ya!”s with the students trickling in.

The lunch rush had settled down, and it was easy for John and me to find a quiet spot near the windows. We sat at one of the honey-wood tables, forks and knives and plates clattered softly in the background.

“So how did you get here? To St. Lawrence?” I asked, wondering how a strong, gruff, yet endlessly optimistic man found his way to a school famously touted by students as “the middle of nowhere.”

“I really wanted to work with my hands growing up,” John smiled at me. “I was always mechanically inclined, I always felt like I wanted to build something. My uncle owned his own construction business so I learned how to work on houses and that type of thing. And that was fun, I liked how you got to see your creation when you were done.”

As he spoke, gestured with those selfsame hands. They opened, rough and seasoned. “But my brother taught me how to see my creation in food. So when you’re done, this is your house, this is your bowl of food, this is your whatever. He showed me there can be a passion in cooking, a passion in the finished project.”

John followed his passion for creation to Rochester, and elsewhere throughout the state. Restaurants, department stores, plumbing and heating, and even a cheese production plant. “Everywhere it seems I went, I ended up starting at the bottom and then I was back up at the top again.”

But management was not what he was looking for. “I had two sons during that period, and I just wanted to slow life down. Work a nice hourly job that wasn’t too stressful. And that’s how I ended up here.”

I looked at John across the table, where his energetic eyes were framed by the remnants of laughter, and then out the window. A few kids were walking by, and one gave another a playful shove. They laughed together as they entered the Student Center.

Just this year, Dana was renovated during winter break. They began the painting in December, though, and would test various shades of white in the afternoons or the mid-mornings, when it wasn’t busy. My friend Rosie and I would sit and watch. Rosie, who is much bolder than I, made friends with the painter man. She’d approach with youthful curiosity, asking about the color selection, the baseboards (which would either be dark purple or green), and the

wooden trim. She was invested, because it was home. I sat by, watching the old tan paint disappear and wondering what it had seen.

Whatever the paint has seen, John has seen it too. “Would you say it’s the students that make working in Dana different than a restaurant?” I asked, smiling because I already knew his answer.

“Oh yeah,” he boomed. “You kids are in the stage of your life where you’re venturing on your own. You’re coming into yourself. It’s kind of cool, because when you first get here you’re eighteen and a freshman, y’all seem young. We can hear it in your tones and how you talk. And then we watch you guys go through the four years and you go from wearing a backward baseball cap to button-downs or dresses. It’s really neat, to watch you guys grow up.”

Growing up was on the minds of many St. Lawrence Seniors. Students were heading homeward for a month of online learning, a month that we now know has been extended to the rest of the semester. In the days before departure, it seems that everyone was trying to have one last Dana meal. Already long tables were pushed together, snaking through groups of friends, sports teams, and theme houses like some sort of large everyday family get-together.

I even saw a group of four friends bring flowers and a tablecloth. The finest of dining for the end of the world.

John, of course, was a centerpiece in the final, quintessential Dana experience we were all searching for. Some students asked him for his email, others gave him a hug. They waved goodbye, knowing they could count on a warm welcome upon return, whenever that may be. Sure, atmosphere in Dana is nice, and the food is generally good. But it’s John and our peers that make the place special. Hearing John’s gravelly voice as you wait in line brings a smile to almost everyone’s face.

“You know, I tell my boys this all the time,” he says to me, leaning in. “And I’ll tell you all too: if you get the chance to slow your life down, take it. I don’t want to live with regrets, regretting not giving a relationship my all or not giving something a try.”

I laughed softly. “If this week has taught us anything….”

“If this week has taught us anything,” he echoed.

Dana Dining Hall is not a classroom, and John is not a professor. You can’t earn a degree in Dana Sitting, however much I’d like to. But it seems that in our new reality, it’s here, and from John, that we have learned some of our most important lessons.

“This is it,” said John, gesturing out towards the tables. “This is where I want to retire. You guys make our jobs worthwhile. Other than that, it’s just serving food.”