In 2004, the Boston Red Sox swept the St. Louis Cardinals in four games to win the World Series, their first Series win since 1918. While I was delighted for all us long-suffering Sox fans, I was most happy because my dear friend Clark Truesdell, who was battling cancer, would get to savor the victory.

Clark was a year behind me at Bowdoin, but we hit it off and became roommates during my junior year. We both decided to take the introduction to philosophy course taught by Ed Pols, Bowdoin’s esteemed professor of philosophy. Pols was known to be an excellent professor but a tough grader.

Clark and I spent many hours in our room in the Zeta Psi house, clarifying the views of this or that philosopher or philosophical theory. Meanwhile our frat brothers were swilling beers and playing card games or planning their upcoming weekends with this or that young lady from another college. (Note: I served as the Zeta Psi scholarship chairman one year — a thankless task given the house’s perennial academic ranking of 11th or 12th among the college’s 12 fraternities. Clark took over the job for me a year later.)

Anyway, that course with Ed Pols helped me learn how to think and, as a result, how to write. It also put me in the habit of stepping back and asking big picture questions. Why are we here. What does it all mean? Remember that commercial where some smug old rich guy asks, “How do you think a man like me got to be a man like me?”

How did any of us get to be who we are today? Why do people get so rabid about a certain sports team — or religion or country or musical idol or political leader or hobby? Why do we develop habits which have proven to be harmful? What prompts someone to kill another human being? Is there a God? Or, as the dyslexic might ask, is there a dog? What makes something funny? Why does humor matter? Why is it important to be kind to others? And on and on.

Sometimes when Tina and I are driving along we’ll see a person who’s obviously having a bad day, and we’ll make up reasons for what happened. Maybe he just lost his job. Maybe she went through a tough divorce. Why is that little girl dancing by herself on her front lawn? Why do some people insist on wearing the “right” brand of clothing? Or trying out the hottest new restaurant? Or making fun of people who look or act different?

When I’m watching a musical concert or theatrical performance or athletic contest, I often think about the hundreds and thousands of hours each of the people on stage or on the field or court had spent preparing for that night, that moment.

When we’re having dinner with special friends, I sometimes like to ask probing questions, rather than talk about the weather — or the Sox — or the latest political shockwave. Do you have any regrets in life? Who was the biggest influence in your growth besides your parents? What is your proudest legacy? What do you hope to do next year that you’ve never done before? What gives you most joy, what most lifts your soul?

As I recall, Clark and I each got an A- in that course. That felt great since the average grade at Bowdoin back in those pre-grade inflation days was a C+. Clark died in the spring of 2005 and Ed Pols died later that same year. I still nod to Clark when I drive by the cemetery where he’s buried on Maine Street. And I still thank Ed Pols in my heart for his immense influence on my writing and my life.

As I enter the November, okay, December, of my years, I learned that no one has all the answers. Life is complicated and glorious and scary and joyous — sometimes all at the same time. Meanwhile, it’s good to keep asking question and searching for answers. Or as sage old Socrates is reported to have said, “An unexamined life is not worth living.”

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns at dtreadw575@aol.com.