You could say that the difference between Arizona and anywhere else is only a matter of degree, but then you’d probably feel bad about saying it. I know I do.

And the truth is that during my visit last week to the Grand Canyon State, a place I generally refer to as having two seasons (February and hot), the degrees were moderate and the weather was perfect. I could get used to this, I thought, but then I could get used to a lot of things, some of them questionable. I was glad to visit and glad to come home.

For all the controversy surrounding my former home state, the new illegal immigration law and the reaction from around the country, I had nothing but thoughtful conversations with thoughtful Arizonans on the subject, people who understood the situation because they live it every day. It’s hard to appreciate the details unless we…well. Appreciate the details.

A long, mostly open border, a rising crime rate, massive drug trafficking and no help to speak of from the folks who are supposed to handle this anyway. I found myself mostly grateful, once again, to live where I do.

But this wasn’t on my mind, not for the most part and not this trip. I came out, as I try to do as often as I can, just for a visit, to get a change of scenery and to relax a little.

And to think about geometry.

If you’re like me, what you remember about high school geometry class is that Pierre is the capitol of Wisconsin, which is wrong on many levels. Geometry stays in the attic of mathematics for most of us, something we once learned and studied and then immediately forgot. There was something about squares, and areas of triangles, none of which tends to come up often, by which I mean never.

I loved geometry, though. It appealed to a teenager who saw the magic of logic and order, and also knew this would be a constant struggle for my brain. I loved solving proofs, working through the steps of given statements and known facts, coming to conclusions that could be justified and demonstrated. It’s an elegant subject, and it fits in my life like a pair of jeans I wore 20 years ago. Awkwardly, in other words, and actually not at all, but I get nostalgic sometimes. And I have pictures.

This is the picture I have, too: I was 15, and my geometry teacher was entertaining me.

He always had a half-smile, knowing that Euclid was battling hormones and losing. He made puns about isosceles triangles and scanned the room, looking for reactions or maybe just consciousness, and he either noticed my interest or wondered why no one had suggested that I get a haircut, hard to say.

I think sometimes I’m aging oddly; I have less sentiment for the past these days than respect, an appreciation of what happened and what might have. I have no idea why Dick Kemper picked me out of a crowd of adolescents and decided I could use some help, but gratitude is sometimes not a big enough word.

He was a 30-something math teacher, a methodical and practical man who believed in keeping good books and playing by the rules, who saw caution as a virtue and order as a necessity for learning. He seemed sure and steady in his philosophy, broad and open-minded in his interests, and interested in me.

Me? I was a teenager who was drawn to drama, to music and to pipe dreams, and (of course) to every girl who looked my way. We were not a match, and instead became friends.

I guess you could call him a mentor, but that’s not a big enough word, either. I think of him more as a shepherd, someone who guided a kid through the maze of growing up, who gave me breaks and attention, and nearly 40 years later it’s rare that a week goes by without his influence showing up in my life.

So I got to visit with Dick Kemper this past week, something I try to do every time I come to Arizona. I’m 51, not 15, and he’s 74, and we’re a better match these days, with shared interests and experiences. Chaos is still not very far from my life, but my skills are sharper and I know where many of them came from.

See, for all my odd occupational choices and interests, my patchwork life and uneasy acquaintance with disorder (see: Basement, My), there’s still some convention. These would be important things -- family, responsibility, relationships. Working hard, trying harder, being aware of ups and downs, keeping my eyes on the prize or at least the road. I don’t do this naturally but I do it, not because I should or because I can, but because that’s the way I was taught, and I remember who taught me.