Tilting at Tuition Windmills

 Sept 24, 2012

What's with Blogger? It went from displaying 10 entries on this page to four, without being asked to. The preferences still say 10. It's like the shaky old days before Google bought it.

Got another gimme letter from my alma mater a while ago, which I found today under one of the stacks of papers that grow on one of my desks. "Vanderbilt is already full of energy as students arrive on campus and the preparations for the new academic year intensify," says one of the opening sentences. Yep, that and early-year parties.

One September dorm night many years ago I remember learning how to play Thumper with a circle a people I'd just met. That evening I became acquainted with a fellow who later became a close friend. He drank more enthusiastically than I did, and threw up vigorously in the bathroom. These days he's a tenured professor of history at a different Southern university.

Back to the gimme letter. I have a deal for VU. I'll start donating money after tuition has been lowered to the equivalent of what it was 30 years ago (1982 tuition, adjusted for inflation, that is). Heck, they can add 5 percent to that adjusted figure, just in case the inflation calculations are a little rough. It wasn't an inexpensive school back then, as I recall. But it wasn't insanely expensive, either.

Who Shot What's-His-Name?

I read that All My Children is going to end its run this month after 40-plus years. Not counting spoofs such as Soap and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, it was one of only two soap operas I ever took any interest in. That's because during the 1979-80 academic year at Vanderbilt, my freshman year, I roomed on the fifth floor of Lupton Hall with a fellow named Harry. We'd been put together randomly, or so I assume. I believe random roommate selection is usually a good thing, since you're bound to learn something from your random roommate.

I hope Harry learned something from me. I know I did from him. For example, some people live in Indiana and feel some affection for it. Also, some people care deeply about sports and even have an astonishing talent for sports statistics. Finally, I learned that soap operas have other viewers besides housewives.

Harry, for one. He watched All My Children regularly, even arranged his schedule (I think) so that he could be back in our room to see it. Sometimes other lads from down the hall would watch it, too. TVs were a fairly rare item on the hall, hard as that is to believe. All Harry had was a small black-and-white set.

I watched enough of the show to get the gist of the story sometimes, and knew some of the characters' names. In the spring of 1980 (again, I think), there was a weeks-long story line about the murder of one of the characters, an unlikable man who had many enemies among the other characters. For weeks, it seemed, the show teased the audience with the question of who'd shot the bastard. Come to think of it, that story line might have been inspired by J.R. Ewing's shooting, which was the same spring. The goal of goosing up viewership was certainly the same.

I don't remember how that All My Children story arc played out. But there was a fair amount of speculation about whodunnit among the Lupton 5 residents who came to our room to watch. I made my own suggestion, mostly to annoy Harry, which was the "some guy" theory. That is, none of the regular characters did it. Some guy came in off the street and blew him away.

Earth, Air, Fire & Water

It was hot today, up in the 90s F. It hasn't been that hot since we returned from Washington, but for the opening days of September, we get a warm blast to remember summer by. By Labor Day, they say, a mass of cool air will be in from Canada to reminder us of all the much colder masses ahead. Still, looking out at my back yard, it's a little hard to believe that all the flush greens will be gone by the opening days of December, and the ground will (probably) be covered with frozen water.

No posting till Tuesday, since Labor Day weekend is no time to blog.

I can't let September 1 pass with noting that I met two of my closest friends in college, Dan and Steve, on this day 30 years ago. I know this because I wrote about meeting them in a diary I kept at the time, though it took a while for the significance of the day to become apparent. Anyway, here they are, Steve on the left and Dan on the right.

The picture was taken in 1986, which is close enough, considering how young we were. I have no images of them in college. Can college kids today imagine such a thing?

On September 1, 1981, Rich and I -- pictured here, also at the same 1986 event, and looking rather young ourselves -- met Steve and Dan.

That evening we went to a party at Vanderbilt's McGill dormitory, where we met a girl named Kim, who in turn introduced us to Dan and Steve and some other people in room 320. It was a lively bunch.

I described the meeting: "The talking went on. My mind tingled with all of it. Many subjects, a lot of laughing."

By the spring of '82, "Earth, Air, Fire & Water" was one way we described our complementary temperaments. Yet as tight as we were during my last two years in college, this is probably the only picture of the four of us together -- that same moment in May 1986, in Washington, DC, as it happens.

Left to right: Freeman, Bill (two high school friends of Dan), me, Dan, Rich, Mike (a close friend of all of ours) and Steve.

RIP, WRVU

An old college associate of mine, Pete Wilson, writes in The Nashville Scene about the June 7 demise of WRVU (91.1 FM), Vanderbilt's student radio, as a broadcast station. "What's lost?" he asks. "The real-world immediacy that made broadcast radio a better learning experience than online simulation. The respect of students, alumni and Nashvillians who were patronized, told half-truths and kept in the dark until June 7. And one of the best ways of sharing culture that Vanderbilt ever had.

"WRVU gave people all over Middle Tennessee music of all kinds to enjoy for free. It was a site of cultural production at an exceedingly democratic level. Not only could it be received by anyone with a few dollars for a radio, but that same person could find him or herself on the transmitting end as well. In addition to dedicated students, WRVU drew smart, imaginative outsiders into its arms and gave them an opportunity to entertain, educate and inspire as part of a Vanderbilt enterprise."

Once upon a time, I listened fairly often to the WRVU "terrestrial" signal (the only kind of signal at the time), both in my student years and in fact more when I lived in Nashville after finishing school. I knew a number of people who did shifts there, and now and then would visit the broadcast booth. Two other students and I mixed the sound for a movie we made in film class at WRVU, using some of the sound effects records the station had in its vast collection. WRVU in the early '80s was refreshingly informal.

Sure, the station will survive in some form online. Maybe in 30 years few will remember that it was ever on the air -- and they might be increasingly vague on the whole concept of terrestrial radio anyway, considering it something that their grandparents listened to. But I'm with Pete. It's a distinct loss, and the "Vanderbilt enterprise" and Middle Tennessee are poorer for it.

Item From the Past: East Hall Ensemble

May 8, 1981

Looks like we were in a good mood. We'd just finished our exams for the year. This ensemble of friends, formed during our sophomore year, had gathered one more time in Neal and Stewart's room in East Hall before we scattered for the summer and, in fact, the 30 years since then: Cynthia, me, Layne, Julie, Neal and Jim (left to right). Jim was my roommate, also in East Hall; the girls all lived in one of the nearby girls' dorms (Gillette Hall, if memory doesn't fail me).

I think Stewart took the picture. But the impulse to snap images, facilitated these days by cameras in every gizmo imaginable, was mostly missing then. This and three other photographs taken within minutes of each other -- probably because we knew it was unlikely that we'd get together again -- are the only images I have from that entire school year.

The length of my hair at that moment owed to the fact that I only had it cut during Christmas break and in the summer when I was in college. The was no ideological or aesthetic imperative at work, just that I couldn't be bothered to go to the barber more often. As for the Mr. Bill shirt, I think I'd gotten it for Christmas a few months earlier. At some later point in the 1980s, it vanished.

Not Much of an Item From the Past: The Other Elvis

While thinking about inaugurations last week, I remembered that on the day Ronald Reagan became president, Elvis Costello and the Attractions, with Squeeze as the opening act, happened to play at Vanderbilt. I saw them, but I'll never be a music critic because all I wrote about it -- and I was keeping a diary regularly at the time -- was "Neal, Layne and I went to Langford to see Elvis Costello and Squeeze. Good show."

Langford was Langford Auditorium, and I also remember that the acoustics were lousy. They always were at Langford. So maybe the show wasn't quite as good as it could have been.

Macklam Feldman Management manages Mr. Costello these days, and interestingly enough publishes a detailed chronology of his career that mentions the VU date. Apparently he took advantage of being in Nashville.

"A Nashville date at Vanderbilt University provides an opportunity for a trial session with Billy Sherrill at legendary Columbia Studio B -- venue for 'Stand By Your Man,' 'Behind Closed Doors' and 'Blonde on Blonde,' " notes the site.

"Pedal-steel player, Pete Drake, augments the Attractions for the session, which yields two cuts, Hank Cochran’s, 'He’s Got You' -- a hit for Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn as 'She’s Got You' -- and the Bobby 'Blue' Bland R&B ballad, 'I’ll Take Care Of You.' ”

The Endless Ring

I've been inconsistent about this over the years, but time for the MLK holiday to be a no posting holiday. Back on Tuesday.

Today was a monochromatic day. Full grey overcast skies hanging over just enough snow cover to obscure the ground, all the while at some degrees below freezing, where the temps are predicted to stay for a while. We're entering the pit of winter. But at least the days are slightly longer now, just enough to be noticeable.

I wrote this recently about a dorm -- I mean, a fairly new student housing community near, but not on, a university campus: "[It] is comprised of two‐ and four‐bedroom units. Amenities include outdoor basketball and volleyball courts, a fitness center, game room, computer lab, tanning salon, pool and spa. [The property] also includes... retail space, and is also near [shops], restaurants and entertainment venues."

It sounds like an excellent property and a fine place to live. But the description also inspires curmudgeonly thoughts. Students need all that? They're students. They ought to be pretty good at inventing their own diversions.

I'm reminded of an amenity we had in the dorm I lived in exactly 30 years ago, a place called East Hall. That is, we had a telephone in the room. Bet most new student housing doesn't have that.

The box was fixed to the wall, of course. It had a rotary dial and, remarkably, there was no way to disconnect it, either the receiver from the cord or the box from the wall. That's not important unless it starts ringing in the middle of the night for no understandable reason, which is what happened periodically. And I don't mean a regular series of rings, but a constant ringing. One time we let it ring just to see how long it would ring, and the thing went on for about five minutes, until our next-door neighbor, a fellow called Spoon, banged on our door demanding that we stop it.

Usually, we would take it off the hook, which would stop the ringing (and there was nothing but silence in the receiver). But then we'd hear a fairly loud zzzt! zzzt! zzzt! to let us know that the phone was off the hook. That was just as bad as the ringing. Hanging it up again usually brought back the ringing. Soon we settled on putting the receiver into a nearby drawer, wrapped in towels. That usually muffled it enough, especially if the room's steam heat or the air conditioner were running. (We had those amenities, too; it was toward the end of the 20th century, after all.)

I'd forgotten about that damned phone until I paused today to think about my accommodations all those decades ago. Sometimes it's good to have an adversarial relationship with part of your dwelling space, as aggravating as that can be at the time. It teaches, or hones, problem-solving. Students living in a resort-like community might miss out on that kind of experience.

Item From the Past: A Boring Chat With the Man Upstairs

September 1981

LS visited. Had a good talk. She said that NM wants me to call; that she knows Sam the McGillite, whom I met last Saturday; and the she's gotten a job at Capt. D's. I told her about my summer, of Austin and other places, of Fritz and other people. Fritz, she asked? He was the fellow RF and I had dinner with on May 14. Fritz and RF went to high school together. Poor, gullible Fritz. I had him believing I was from Alaska and some other rubbish.

Since that evening, RF had told me, no good has come Fritz. One day this summer, he stole a bicycle and was hit by a car while riding it. He was unconscious for a few days, and even when he woke, wasn't all together there for a few more. RF relayed an account of a conversation between Fritz, still in his hospital bed, and a mutual friend, Jim. I can't vouch for its accuracy, but it's a good Fritz story anyway.

Jim: How are you, Fritz?

Fritz: I talked to the Man Upstairs.

Jim: What?

Fritz: I said, I talked to the Man Upstairs!

Jim: Who do you mean? The guys on the next floor?

Fritz: No! I mean God! God!

Jim: You talked to God? What did He have to say?

Fritz: Not much.

RIP, Jim Leeson

Too many ill tidings from Nashville. The awful flooding, of course, word of which has traveled far. Unrelated to the disaster is the recent death of Jim Leeson, word of which hasn't traveled so far. I heard about it on Facebook this morning from Nashville journalist Tom Wood, whom I knew at Vanderbilt a good many years ago.

"It breaks my heart to report that Jim Leeson took his own life over the weekend," Tom wrote. "He shot himself on a back road near his home in rural Williamson County. He had been worried lately about a decline in mental acuity that he perceived, though Nicki and I did not see it in our frequent visits with him and almost daily phone conversations. He had some chronic physical issues as well.

"Jim would have been 80 on May 13. Now an Irish wake is planned for that day, to take place on the deep-woods overlook he built in the 1990s to serve as a party venue. Some of you may not even remember Jim very well, but he took pride in the achievements of all the old Tunnel-Rats, and he asked about many of you over the years."

I remember Leeson well. The "Tunnel-Rats" Tom mentioned were student staff members of the various Vanderbilt Student Communications (VSC) media: the newspaper, magazine, yearbook and radio station, among other things. Their offices were all located along a windowless tunnel through Sarratt Student Center. I spent a lot of time there in the early '80s.

Leeson was an advisor to VSC at the time. Truth is, I don't know when he started doing that or when he stopped; he was there the entire time I was a part of VSC. I also don't know much about his previous career as a professional journalist or the details about how he actually made his living by the 1980s, which was as a real estate broker in Williamson County. In his capacity as VSC advisor, he was the grownup among the kids, but not an overbearing presence sent by the university. He gave good advice.

During my senior year, Dan Monroe and I wanted to persuade the VSC board -- all students, plus Leeson -- to fund the publication of a comic book we'd dreamed up, inspired by a previous work by Geof Huth. We made a presentation to the other members, and then withdrew to let them discuss it. I doubt they would have given us anything but for a compromise suggestion by Leeson (I'm pretty sure it was his idea, anyway): we had to sell some ads to pay for part of the thing, just like any normal pub. And so in the fall of '82 we were able to publish The Cosmic Cowboys. Not a bad collegiate effort, I think, from the perspective of 30 years. I'm glad we got to do it, regardless, and I can thank Leeson for his support.

Leeson periodically invited groups of us to his home in Williamson County -- out of Nashville on a major highway, then along a smaller road, then along a gravel road to his gate. He had a fine country home surrounded by the forested hills of Middle Tennessee; he had an expanse of land; and he had livestock and dogs. We ate, talked and got away from our student concerns during a day at Leeson's. Leeson was always a hospitable host. I don't remember anyone who didn't like going out to Leeson's.

After VU graduation ceremonies on May 13, 1983, a number of us newly minted graduates went out to Leeson's -- with our parents and other family members too -- for a few hours after lunch at the Loveless Cafe. I remember that excursion a lot more fondly that the actual graduation ceremony. (I didn't know until now that was his 53rd birthday, too.)

The last time I saw him was probably in '85 or '86, when Steve Freitag, former Versus editor, came to town. When visiting Nashville, the thing to do was visit Leeson too. So I went with Steve and (I think) another former Versus Tunnel-Rat, Pete Wilson. I can't say that I remember any details of that particular visit, but I'm certain we had an enjoyable time. We always did at Leeson's. Perhaps by this May 13, I can find some Tennessee whiskey -- I've got some Jack somewhere -- to toast to the memory of Jim Leeson.

A Cup o' Kindness Yet

About 10 minutes into 2010, I asked my daughters to put on their coats and shoes and come outside with me into the back yard. The night was clear and too cold. The bright-coin full Moon was nearly straight overhead -- in brightness as close as it ever comes to being the Sun -- laying a moonglow on the carpet of snow below, interrupted only by gray patterns of tree-branch shadows. Ann noticed the tiny diamond sparkles in the snow before the rest of us did, but once pointed out, they were impossible to miss.

Won't be long, sometime in the '10s yawning ahead, before the girls are hanging out with their friends, not their parents, for the change of years. I hope so anyway, because it's something youth should do. Recently I saw Facebook pictures of my nephew Robert, 21, with his friends for December 31/January 1 festivities. I didn't know anyone in the pictures except him, but it all looked familiar. If my old high school friends and I had had Facebook on January 1, 1980, we'd probably have made similar postings.

I don't have any images from the first day of the 1980s. People weren't snap-happy in those days. I do have some from Day One of the 1990s, though:

By this time, old college friends. Left to right: Mike, Dan, Steve, me, Victor, Rich and Lisa, in front of the Golden Palace Restaurant in Boston's Chinatown (amazingly, it still seems to be there); photo taken by another in our party, Karin. A nicely composed impromptu group portrait of happy friends.

We had dim sum at the Golden Palace for lunch that day. More of a breakfast, since we'd stayed up till 4 or 5 that morning. Hard to believe I used to have energy for that kind of thing. I suppose I could still stay up that late if absolutely necessary, but I'm not sure I'd be quite so glad about things the next day.

SPQR 2.0

Finally got around to watching the first episodes of the second season of the sometimes meretricious, always interesting Rome this weekend. It picked up right where the first season left off, right after the assassination of Caesar. It bothered me a little that the first season had that event in the Senate, rather than the Theater of Pompey, as history tells us. But the actual staging of the deed was spot-on. Rather than having Caesar say "Et tu, Brute?" or "You too you sonofabitch?!?" or some such, that exact sentiment was conveyed by his look at Brutus.

Caesar must have thirsted for immortal glory. One can only wonder what he would have made of the fact that people are still telling the story of his death, etching it in light even, more than 2,000 years later. Of course, he had help. But for the consolidation of his legacy by Augustus, his story would probably be no better known than that of Marius or Sulla.

As with the first season, I'm so taken with the series' verisimilitude that I can overlook its worst aspects, especially its gratuitously prurient nature (but hey, it's HBO). Besides the extraordinary look and feel of the production, I like its more-or-less historic accuracy, which is certainly better than you usually get with dramatized Romans; and the well-drawn fictional characters, especially the two soldiers. I also like the way that the story doesn't bother to explain everything the characters do, either in historic or cultural terms.

Another a good point: the show allows the characters to take their religion seriously, or not. Roman paganism is not treated, even implicitly, as a mere warm-up for Christianity.

It's made me pull my Cary and Scullard A History of Rome, Third Edition, off the shelf again. I open it up and written on the inside front cover is "Dees Stribling, Jan 14, 1981." Bought it for Roman history class that semester, taught tediously by a young classics professor.

Luckily that wasn't my introduction to the subject. My brothers were, sort of, at least with their commentary on the sword & sandal movies we'd see on TV; and then there was Mrs. Quarles, high school Latin teacher, henna-haired and eccentric, who had actually been places and seen things, such as former parts of the Roman Empire. I was also a member of the Texas State Junior Classical League for a few years, and went to TSJCL conventions primarily as a reason to get out of town (the same goal as with National Forensic League meets). One year I went all the way with the Latin Club to Amarillo. Exotic Amarillo. A vigorous dust storm buffeted the bus en route to the Panhandle.

My VU Latin professor, the late Dr. Ned Nabors, also referred to C&S from time to time. "If it isn't in Cary and Scullard, it didn't happen," he said, overstating the case, but he was fond of overstating things. Anyway, it's a worn old hardback, and if I want to know where Rome is fudging or conflating things, I look there. Just me being old-fashioned, since I could look on-line just as easily.

Thursday Odds

On Tuesday, the first day at Lilly and Ann's elementary school, all the students gathered outside before classes and entered the building with their respective teachers. It was warm and clear that morning, perfect from such a gathering. Later in the day, it was hot -- the essence of a summer day. Very early on Wednesday, rain blew through, lowering the temps and visiting on and off since then, mostly as drizzle. As if to say, "No more summer for you kids."

The persistent rains have also highlighted a couple of silvery, intricate spider webs hanging from plants in the back yard. One of them is just above my car, dangling from two branches of the tree next to the driveway. Last I checked, a spider was still resident. I'll have to point it out to one or both of my daughters soon, to elicit girlish cries of fear or disgust. Which might not be heartfelt in Lilly's case; the web might have some fascination.

We went to three big boxes -- three, that's nearly an overdose for any particular day -- earlier this evening to finish off school-supply acquisition. Locusts had visited each store before we arrived, focusing on the aisles containing the supplies, and had carried off some of the items we were looking for. I will explain this in a note to Lilly's teacher, who reportedly wants all supplies in hand on Friday. But I probably won't mention the locust metaphor.

Received Tunnel Vision in the mail the other day. "A publication for alumni of student media at Vanderbilt University" that shows up occasionally. VU student media alumni Sen. Lamar Alexander, sports journalist Skip Bayless and humorist Roy Blount Jr. are all on the cover, to remind the rest of us how small our achievements are. But I can do that by going out any starry night.

Which reminds me of a Gahan Wilson cartoon I saw long ago. (He's still alive at last report, glad to see it.) I think the cartoon was in his early '70s collection I Paint What I See. We had that book around the house and it probably made me one of the few kids at Woodridge Elementary School who knew his work, which remains instantly recognizable to me. In Wilson's cartoon, an old man is looking out from his balcony at the vault of stars overhead, gesturing defiantly: "You don't make me feel insignificant, fella!"

Senator Ted

I made a point of watching Ted Kennedy's speech at the Democratic National Convention, not live, but later, which is easy enough in the age of YouTube. It's also easy enough to be ambivalent about him and the rest of the Kennedys, but he is a presidential brother, and a doyen of the US Senate. He's also near the end of the line, though he looked well enough considering his condition.

Naturally, it was little more than a pep talk -- which is all you're going to get from the televised parts of a convention. But I was glad to see him cite the Moon landings as a prime example of American determination (and by implication, Kennedy moxie): "Today an American flag still marks the surface of the Moon."

Alas, he didn't suggest accelerating the manned mission to Mars. I'd get behind that. I'd even pay a little more in taxes to see it happen.

I saw Ted Kennedy make a speech in the spring of 1980, during his effort to dislodge President Carter. Why his campaign thought speaking at Vanderbilt was a good idea, I couldn't say. But he did draw a crowd to the largest auditorium on campus. I remember that because crowd control outside the venue was spotty that evening, and it was so jammed outside the entrance that it was impossible to move around before the doors were opened. But fortunately he wasn't enough of a draw to cause a Cincinnati-style Who concert stampede (an incident fresh in everyone's mind at that moment).

Pete 'n' Bob, roommates who lived on my hall, had strong opinions about Ted Kennedy, and planned to heckle him. They even talked of making signs that said, "Where'd You Go, Mary Jo?" and "A Blonde in Every Pond," but since I didn't end up sitting near them, I don't know if they actually made them or got into the auditorium with them. As for Kennedy, I don't remember a thing he said.

207 31st Ave. N.

Over the years, urban landscapes churn. In Nashville recently, I duly noted that a lot of places, mostly retail establishments, had vanished in the years since I last lived there. But the fact that the Pizza Hut (or Inn?) that I visited a number of times during my freshman year in college has become a Qdoba Mexican Grill is of very little consequence, except maybe to the former franchiser of the pizza joint (Obie's Pizza was much better, anyway, and it's still there).

Some changes amused me. My first full-time job was in an ugly, early '60s office building on West End Ave. Now it's an Indigo Hotel and looks pretty good. Next time I'm in town, I might stay there, if I can get a room on the same floor as my office used to be. (Provided I can remember which floor it was, which I can't right now.)

Then there's the case of the house at 207 31st Ave. N. From the fall of 1982 to the spring of 1983, I lived there with two friends and a divinity graduate student, while the year before that, the house had been a duplex, part occupied by my friends, part occupied by a guy who made his living as a session drummer in Nashville's many studios.

For younger readers (if any), imagine this: no one living there in 1982-83 had a still camera that I remember, or if so, didn't use it much. We could have had cameras, but it would have involved developing film at some remote location, and I don't think any of us could be bothered with it. Likewise, no one had a 8mm camera. None of us had any video cameras, digital cameras or cellphone cameras either, because those weren't on the market yet. All that is a long-winded way of saying that I have no images of 207 31st Ave. N. that I know of, except for fuzzy scenes I shot for film class movies that used the house as a set.

In my mind's eye, though, I see a one-story brick house with brown trim, probably dating from the 1920s, when it would have been a nice middle-class property. By the time my friends and I lived there, it had that rundown student housing feel, complete with creaking floors, a fireplace that leaned a little, and other defects. "Firetrap," my mother called it when she saw it just before our graduation.

I prefer "dump," since there were plenty of loose windows from which to escape an inferno. The sort of dump that's perfect for young men. Just thinking about it floods me with nostalgia, but it's the kind of detail that bores people who didn't share the time and place -- except maybe for certain events, such as the time about 10 people crammed into the one of the house's small bathrooms, and accidentally brought down the shower curtains (or was it the medicine cabinet? I remember a crash and drunken laughter, but can't visualize anything). Or the game of Monopoly four of us played in the living room without saying anything. (Try it sometime. There's a lot of gesturing and grunting and pointing to deed cards.) Or the isolation tank we built in the garage and put in one of the rooms, which apparently worried the landlord. Considering the condition of the beams in the damp, moldy basement supporting the house, he might have been on to something. But the weight of the salt water and the wooden superstructure of the tank never broke through the floor, thank God.

Now the house at 207 31st Ave. N., Nashville, Tennessee, is gone. Late last month I drove by en route to the Parthenon, and in its place -- and in the place of the old apartment structure on one side of it, and another old house on the other, was a condo development. Local sources tell me the condos were developed about three years ago, so our old house had an 80-year run or so. A lot of other people must have passed through it, families in its early days, transient students later on. Now it exists only when any of us who can remember it, care to remember it.

Gee, Chancellor Gee

Got an e-mail today from Gordon Gee, the aptly named Chancellor of Vanderbilt, for under his expert leadership (I’ve read) the university’s endowment has ballooned to the point at which people say, “Gee, that’s some big endowment you got.” My alma mater, you might say, is well endowed.

Anyway, Chancellor Gee says:

Dear Vanderbilt Friends:

“In this season, we are reminded by the holidays and our observances of an increasing amount of light in the world. We at Vanderbilt have our own lights to add to the gathering glow. This fall semester, now in its closing moments, has yielded a veritable power surge of accomplishment and honor within our University community! …”

Glad to know that the Chancellor still believes in progress, or at least illumination. I’m not sure a “power surge” is a good thing, since they’re often associated with equipment failure, but I’ll give him the benefit of the linguistic doubt. He doesn’t explicitly ask for money in this letter, by the way, but I suspect it’s on his mind.

As an example of recent accomplishment, he goes on to say: “Associate Professor of Biological Sciences Kenneth Catania was awarded a $500,000 grant from the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation [a genius grant]. Professor Catania, who studies insectivorous mammals such as star-nosed moles, water shrews and naked mole rats, will continue to research these animals who, through their own unusual styles of perception, reveal insights into the response of the mind, through sense, to stimulus."

I wish Professor Catania well, I really do, and someone probably should study star-nosed moles, water shrews and naked mole rats, if only because who would think of studying such creatures? But the idea of genius grants annoys me because there’s no such thing as a “pretty bright person grant.” It wouldn’t have to be on the scale of the genius grant – pretty bright isn’t genius, after all – say $50,000 instead of half a million. That way, you could reward 10 times as many pretty bright people as geniuses, and let the effects ripple outward from each recipient.

The Amazing Class of '10

Got a longwinded gimme letter from my alma mater the other day, part of that institution’s ongoing, and futile, effort to tunnel into my wallet. I quash any temptation I might have to donate with the following reflection: Vanderbilt’s endowment is how large already? Hm, can’t remember, but it’s measured in the billions of dollars. My own net worth isn’t measured in units that large, or even in tiny fractions of whatever the endowment is. Pass.

Not that I dislike Vanderbilt, or disliked it 25-odd years ago. It’s a fine school. Harvard of the South in the Athens of the South. Glad I went. Wealthy alumni ought to pony up on its behalf now and then.

The letter was two and half pages long, which assumes a lot of free reading time on my part. But I did read the long graph on page one about the Class of 2010, composed of about 1000 people who didn’t exist the day I started at VU, though the letter didn’t point that out. It did call the class an “amazing” one, and offered some examples. The girl who represented the US in six international chess tourneys, besides being tennis team captain and student body president; the black student body president, basketball ace and soup kitchen volunteer; the high school valedictorian whose parents were refugees from some Third World hellhole, the web site designer, the fiddle contest champ, the president of the Junior Civitans International (who?) and so on.

Sorry, that’s not going to make me give money either. Fine kids all, I’m sure, but tedious overachievement doesn’t resonate with me. It would have been better for the letter to say, “The Class of 2010 includes a lot of really bright kids, mostly stable and hardworking, but sprinkled with a few real head cases, just like you remember in your class. Almost everyone did extracurriculars in high school, and a few did remarkable things. But mostly not. That’s the way it’ll be in college, too.”

Leftover: March 2000

Early in 2000, someone ratted me out to Vanderbilt, my alma mater, which—despite me being in phone books, published in certain magazines and at certain web sites—had never had my correct current address before. At once VU started begging for money to add to its roughly $2.2 billion endowment (a billion dollars ain’t what it used to be). Sorry, no. If I ever have any extra money to donate to higher education, it’ll go to Fisk.

Vanderbilt has tracked me down, which means that from time to time items arrive by mail, some asking for money, others — such as the publication A&S Cornerstone — trying to interest me in goings-on down at VU. Anyway, such a Cornerstone arrived recently, with an article about a “Southern writers conference” to be held on campus. I read in it that “writers with Vanderbilt ties will be well represented at the conference, [including] novelist Elizabeth Dewberry (BS ’83)...”

By golly, Betsy. I knew her (but not very well) in Walter Sullivan's creative writing class in the fall of ’82, and I recall that she wrote a reasonably good story for that class. (Mine was good too, but my hold on literary talent I have is like a leaky balloon’s hold on air.) This morning I looked for her on Amazon.com and sure enough, Betsy is the published author of two novels, Many Things Have Happened Since He Died: And Here Are the Highlights (I like that title) and Break the Heart of Me, under the name Elizabeth Dewberry Vaughn.

According to Amazon, both sound like they’re within the Southern-gothic-dysfunctional family with secrets tradition, and both are out of print, despite good reviews. Guess that’s the price of not being chosen by Oprah®. (That trademark is no joke: There it is at the Amazon site, a Hound o’ Hell guarding the commercial rights to O’s name.)

September 1

September 1 has long had a resonance for me, at least since I was a sophomore in college, when I decided that I was going to stick to keeping a diary, by God (“journal” in those days, since I thought “diary” was a girlish word -- a callow notion common to 19-year-olds). So on September 1, 1980, a full quarter of a century ago, I was newly ensconced in my little room in East Hall, and started writing: “Slept till 8:20 am...”

I won’t transcribe the rest of that day; it isn’t all that interesting, just a record of classes attended, people I saw, and things I read. But I was fairly good at keeping that diary. I filled 378 pages in a college-ruled spiral notebook, ending on April 20, 1981, after which I stared another spiral volume. Of course, I haven’t been consistent as all that over the years, but diaries, letters and now web logs have all accumulated with some regularity. I’m glad to have them.

Also around September 1 every year since 2000 -- and, as it happens, on September 1 this year, that is today -- I’ve attended an industrial real estate trade show near O’Hare. It always ends in the mid-afternoon, too late to return to the office (when I had an office), but too early to go home. So every year I’ve spent an hour or so visiting a storied Chicago-area cemetery not too far away, except for the year I visited a forest preserve that had a graveyard with exactly one grave: an old half-Indian, half-pioneer who lived near the future site of the airport before such a thing could even be imagined, and whose stone was worn and neglected.

Last year I visited the Bohemian National Cemetery, an enormous necropolis on the Northwest Side of Chicago, full of Czech names such as Marek, Navek, Proorny, Stetka (I took notes) as you’d expect, but now open to anyone -- as the head cremator, Bob, told me. There I was, ambling along in the vicinity of the crematorium. Actually, I didn’t know that’s what it was, but I could see it was a splendid domed structure, which I later learned was a Renaissance Revival style, dating from before World War I: a sturdy-looking exterior. A fellow in overalls with a patch that said Bob asked me if I was looking for anyone in particular. I said no, and then he asked me if I’d like to see the inside. So he opened the place up for me. Wow. The stained glass and the occasional frescoes were especially fetching, fit for any church of old Europe, and, just like a church, it had a place for an altar, plus pews.

Since it was meant for old Europeans, I suppose the style made sense. Bob told me that the coffin is placed on a platform that’s then raised to the level of the “altar space,” after which the funeral proceeds, with the mourners in the pews. When it’s over, the dearly departed takes one last trip, via this slow, dedicated elevator, down to where the actual burning takes place (Bob didn’t offer to show me that, and I didn’t ask).

Recently, he said, he’d witnessed an enormous funeral for an Indian woman who owned a number of successful restaurants in the Indian neighborhood along Devon Ave., not too far from Bohemian National. “You never seen so many flowers,” he said. “They were piled everywhere, big bouquets, like at a mobster’s funeral.” He went on to tell me that it was also the most colorful funeral he’d ever seen, because of all the saris.

The woman’s ashes, he thought, went back to India, perhaps (I thought) for disposition in the Ganges, though my knowledge of Indian funerary customs is pretty scant. Other people put the ashes in the building’s columbarium, composed of glass-in niches along the entranceway to the chapel. Bob said that most of the niches were taken, though a few at the top were still for sale. Some of them had urns and nothing else, but others were decorated with photos of the deceased, which tended to be black-and-whites or even sepias of stern-looking, formally dressed immigrants.

This year I didn’t have quite that kind of experience, but I did make it to a cemetery I’ve long wanted to visit, Woodlawn, which includes Showmen’s Rest. More on that tomorrow.

McGill

I’m glad I took a walk to the park just before sunset while Yuriko and Lilly and Ann were on bicycles (Ann in a wee seat behind her mother). Just a little wind, a little rustling of the trees full of leaves, friendly sunlight from the west, a huge moon rising roughly south-southeast. Just a shade less than full. It will be full, more or less, to honor the 36th anniversary of Apollo XI’s landing tomorrow.

“July is dressed up and playing her tune.” Always liked that lyric. It fits this evening.

My brother Jay writes: “The reappearance of Dan Monroe -- I remember you speaking of him -- inspired me to run his name through Google, with "Alabama" added as a control. I found this, which may interest you, assuming, of course, that it hadn't already been brought to your attention.

“The article appeared in Nashville Scene late last summer. It concerns McGill Hall, a dormitory at Vanderbilt, and its reputation as a haven for nonconformist types:

‘Although this bold endeavor [the McGill Project] officially succeeded, it produced a byproduct: a group of smart, offbeat students inclined to act on their wildest, most absurd impulses. The rest of campus refers to McGill by its unofficial nickname, 'The Freak Dorm,' and its residents have been called everything from drugged-out hippies to flamboyant, cross-dressing “fags.” ‘

“Mr. Monroe is mentioned about halfway through as a former resident of McGill, presumably as a typical denizen:

‘After living in McGill, Dan Monroe moved into a house off campus, where he and other McGillites built an isolation tank and studied John C. Lilly's sensory deprivation theories. He now runs an ad agency in Alabama.’

" 'Other McGillites' would include you, I assume."

I’m a little astonished that there was an article about McGill anywhere beyond campus, and that the dorm still has more or less the same reputation it did in the early 1980s. A justified reputation, I might add, and a campus asset, regardless of majority opinion. (Though I can’t recall much cross-dressing, or even rumors of it.)

I was never actually a McGillite, in that I never lived there. More of a fellow traveler. I knew a lot of people who lived there, such as Dan (in fact, I met him at a 1981 party there, which I mentioned yesterday.) There were five of us who built and operated the isolation tank from spring ’82 to spring ’83: Mike, Dan, Steve, Rich and me. Dan and Steve had previously lived in McGill; Rich and I never did; and I’m not sure about Mike.

The isolation tank is another blog for another time, I think. I don’t recall mentioning it here.

Dan's Blog

Mondays are still Mondays, even when you work for yourself. It just has that stigma. That, and my work has picked up. Three assignments to do over next three weeks.

My old friend Dan Monroe, currently of Birmingham, Alabama, has started a blog, Story of the day. So far it has one entry (yesterday), which is called “Finding Dees.” He's got kind words for me, which I appreciate. I hope he'll post many more interesting things—he's got the chops for it. (See also his comment on my Next Door posting, July 12.)

On September 1, I will have known Dan exactly 24 years, a little more than half my life, though, of course, we’ve gone separate ways since the early ’80s, as he notes. How I remember that date so exactly is a matter of a written record, lore among friends, and my own propensity to remember that sort of thing, at least sometimes.