It was 6:30 p.m., and the campus was all but deserted. Not even a jogger. Where was everyone?

Not in Memorial Stadium, I knew. But where did the thousands of students go on a Saturday when there was no football game? Few were in the union; even the food court was closed. So was Love Library. Continuing north through a drizzle toward Andrews Hall, I was momentarily disoriented by a pile of rubble. Surely they hadn't demolished the Mueller Carillon. Wrong side. I was looking to the east of Andrews, toward the remains of what I think had been Bancroft Hall.

It was the first college reunion that I had attended since Chancellor Clifford Hardin had given me my degree nearly 40 years ago - before Big Red, before Herbie Husker. Calling me back was a chance to share memories with former colleagues on the Rag, a nickname that has since been sanitized to "the DN."

I don't need to tell you that it wasn't the best weekend to gather people from around the country. Some of us made it, including one stubborn ex-editor who traveled by Amtrak, arriving 16 hours late and 90 minutes into the affair's Friday evening banquet. Talk about missing a deadline.

I retraced my steps toward the west and passed between the two halves of the library, enjoying the silence but hoping to encounter some sort of unpublicized symposium or recital.

A small box of leaflets caught my eye - brochures about the Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery's Sculpture Garden and the Cather Garden. The Cather brochure was handsomely designed and thoughtfully composed.

But what was the point of this italicized advisory? "It is the policy of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln not to discriminate on the basis of sex, age, disability, race, color, religion, marital status, veteran's status, national or ethnic origin or sexual orientation."

What administrator ordered that statement on a simple leaflet about Willa Cather and prairie plants?

Later, I figured it out. If you pick the flowers, it doesn't matter whether you are white, black, red or brown, gay or straight, married or single. You will be punished without favor. From the same people, no doubt, who bring us mission statements.

Walking on, I found an open building - the Sheldon Art Gallery, one of the gems of the campus. I was too late for the 7 p.m. film, but I found much to look at. The evening was not a loss.

By 8:15 p.m., I was ready for supper and drove to the Bosnian Kitchen near 18th and O streets. It's a curious place and one that ought to be visited by a Rag writer with an interest in cultures and food. My wife and I enjoyed lunch there earlier this year. Inside, I found mostly empty tables and what appeared to be a gathering of Bosnians.

"Are you open?" I asked of the man who had served us last spring.

"Yes, we are open."

"Do you have any soup?"

From the gathered group, a man rattled off something in a Slavic tongue. I wasn't sure whether it was directed at me or somebody else.

"No," the first man replied. "We don't have soup tonight."

So I returned to the Villager Motel Best Western and found its cafe still open, but barely. The kitchen was closed, but soup was still available. And so were apple pie and coffee.

There. I have written the allowed 20 inches and think I have managed to avoid offending anyone too much. I had enough of that 40 years ago, and I leave it to the current staff to create new controversy.

One last comment from a now-retired copy editor: Will somebody please advise the alumni office that the architectural adornment atop Love Library is a "cupola" and not a "copula"? (See the recent wine brochure sent to member alumni.)

Herb Probasco was editor of The Daily Nebraskan in the first semester of the 1960-61 academic year. He can be reached at hprobasco@yahoo.com.