We were sitting in my dorm room -- a friend and I. It was Sunday afternoon -- a day usually spent catching up on class work. We decided to do something different -- catch up on each other. Due to hectic schedules, we simply hadn't had time to talk beforehand.

That really bothers me. No matter how hard I try to make time for people, my good intentions always get lost in a pile of paper work (like this column), pressing appointments and other pertinent affairs.

A small part of me continues to say, "It's not your fault, Denise. You've got a lot of work to do this semester. You can't just blow it off."

Things like grades, internships, and Collegian commitments definitely don't take a back seat. But, neither should people -- especially those who were there when I needed them most.

Case in point: My father. Since I was a kid, my Dad has been one of the driving forces in my life. I used to say he did this by driving me up the wall.

He was the kind of person who would come to all my softball games, sporting the latest in polyester. The guy continually screamed, "Way to go, Denise!" although all I did was run behind the umpire every time the ball was pitched over the plate.

My driving days were worse. My father insisted he would teach me to become a defensive driver -- able to meet the challenge of twisting turns, winding roads and little old ladies that went 10 mph in a 55 mph zone.

He was a nervous wreck. A guy who would grip the dashboard for dear life whenever I hit the brakes. The person who screamed, "There's a stop sign coming!" when the stop sign was 20 miles away.

And, let's not forget the words of hope and inspiration he gave me every time we pulled out of the garage, "Remember, Denise, this is a machine that can kill."

It's funny. I used to look forward to the day when my father would stop interfering with my life. So here I am in State College, three hours away from the lectures, long winded speeches and "I told you so," lines.

You know what? I miss that bald guy in polyester. I never realized how much I valued the time we spent together until it was taken away.

Tonight I'm going to call my father and tell him I love him -- baggy shorts and all -- because he took the time to care, to criticize so I could become a better person and to clap loudly to let me know he was proud of his daughter.

More timely thoughts: Making time for other people sounds great on paper. But the question still remains: is it possible in a world which runs on cutting through red tape to get something done?

In other words, you must do A, B and C before you can even approach D. A world that recognizes the importance of accomplishments, but tends to de-value the role of human relationships. If it is feasible, how much time can we be expected to give?

Case in point: If every single person on this campus set aside two hours each week, that would amount to more than 60,000 hours of total personal time.

Time for people to talk to friends, share something with someone, or just sit back and relax. Time for people to be with people, which slowly is becoming a rarity in our day.

The funny thing about time is it's so fleeting and uncertain. Here one minute. Gone the next. The trick is to use it -- and use it wisely -- while we have it.

So, starting this week, I'm going to take two hours and spend it on those human beings who patiently waited their turn, while I took care of other things. I figure I owe them that much.

The skeptic in many of us might venture to say that two hours is not enough. Can we possibly hope to give people quality attention with such a limited quantity of time?

Case in point: She would be waiting for us every morning at 5:30 a.m., when my sister Sue and I delivered the Scranton Tribune. Her name was Mrs. Wilson.

God, I loved that lady. She gave the greatest neighborhood gossip -- about the guy next door who was a peeping tom and his wife who kept 450,000 votive candles in her living room.

There was only one drawback: Mrs. Wilson could talk forever. So, many times Sue and I found ourselves cutting the conversation short because we had to deliver our papers.

One day, Mrs. Wilson told us she wanted to see our entire family on Easter Sunday because we were important to her. Sue and I didn't feel like making the trip. My parents also pointed out that we were having dinner at my grandmother's house and wouldn't have enough time.

For some reason, my mother changed her mind. My father ended up making a detour onto Veteran's Drive, where Mrs. Wilson lived. When she opened the door and saw all of us standing there, she broke down in tears, saying, "My babies came to see me."

After we left, I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes had elapsed. Fifteen minutes to make someone happy. Fifteen minutes to help someone feel they were important to somebody else.

Fifteen minutes which made me realize nothing is more valuable than our time.