Authors note: As I write this, Art Buchwald is in a hospice in Washington, D.C. He wants to spend his final days with friends and family. This is my memory of the one time our paths crossed.

From my very first day of college in September of 1965 at George Washington University in Washington, D.C., I had wanted to meet Art Buchwald.

There was little progress on that front for almost two years, but then in 1967 I managed to convince the editor of the student newspaper, The Hatchet, to give me a weekly humor column.

The feature, Wolf’s Whistle, became a hit. So much so, in fact, that by the following year more than 100 college newspapers ran the column each week. Many believed I was the first student syndicated humor columnist in the country.

That distinction provided the necessary courage to pursue my dream of meeting Mr. Buchwald. Being both headstrong and naive, I figured I could just look up his home number in the phone book. And there it was. Only much later in my life did I realized how unusual it was for someone of his stature to be listed. Don’t try to look up Dave Barry’s home phone number in the book. Or Andy Rooney’s.

Mr. Buchwald answered the phone and I nervously filled him in on my own “rich” history of writing humor columns. When I told him that I attended classes just a few blocks from his office on Pennsylvania Avenue, he invited me to come over one day for a short visit.

What a generous and uncharacteristic offer that was for someone of his celebrity. Even then, 35 years ago, he had already been one of the country’s top syndicated columnists for almost 20 years.

Two days later, I called Mr. Buchwald’s secretary and explained to her that I had been invited to come to the office. “Yes,” she said, Mr. Buchwald said you’d be calling.” I stammered, “He did?”

I entered Buchwald’s office with a stack of Hatchets under my arm. Buchwald stole a glance at me and snapped: “Let me see one of those newspapers, kid.” He sat at his desk, put up his feet, ripped open the current issue and began reading my column. I’d love to report to you that he burst out laughing. Instead, he just stared at the page, steely-eyed. Not even a smile. But I thought I detected a kind of subtle nod of the head that made me think that maybe – just maybe – he saw a glimmer of potential.

After a few moments, he grabbed a pen off his desk and scribbled a few words over my byline. His phone rang and after he answered it, he grumbled under his breath, apologized that something had come up and walked out the door. The entire meeting with him lasted but two minutes. I hadn’t even had a chance to ask him what he thought of my stuff.

Dejected, I left his office.

I shuffled along Pennsylvania Avenue back to my apartment where I plopped down on the couch and opened the newspaper to the page that Buchwald had read just an hour before. I stared in delight at these words scrawled on the page:

“Wolfsie, stay out of my racket.”-Art Buchwald

I was only 20 at the time, but so far that was the coolest thing that had ever happened to me.

Days later, I cut out his signature and message and placed that part of the newspaper in a cheap black metal frame along with the photo I had snapped of Buchwald at his desk. It is still within eyeshot each week when I sit down to write my column.

Thanks, Art, for those two minutes. And thanks for all the laughs and smiles you have brought me and others. And please know this: I am now 59, and that may still be the coolest thing that has ever happened to me.

-The writer, a GW alumnus and former Hatchet columnist, is a syndicated weekly humor columnist in Indiana.