At some point after discovering the existence of colleges (while in
early grades of elementary school) I came to think of college attendance as
merely another step along a normal educational process, so I worked the summer
of 1943 knowing I would be back in school in September, for that had been my
routine every fall since 1932.
The probability of military service was over the horizon, but I wasn’t
yet seventeen, so had time for more schooling.
However, I had finished high school with no professional objective and
the summer of parking cars did nothing to facilitate a career decision, so I
had little to point me toward a specific college.
Where to go? I had no
preference, but my mother and dad thought highly of Howard Payne, a small Baptist college
in Brownwood; having no objection to their recommendation, I affirmed it by (1)
attending a midsummer orientation of prospective HPC students conducted by Mr.
J.H. (Cap) Shelton (Howard Payne’s business manager) and (2) committing myself
to that course.
Mother took me to Brownwood in time for mid-September
registration. I unloaded my gear into a
dormitory room, we took care of a business matter or two, and she returned to
Fort Worth, leaving me to the tender mercies of the Howard Payne staff.
The “Men’s
Dormitory,” a converted World War I barracks building, was more usually called
“The Barn,” a well-deserved
appellation. I’ll discuss some of its features
later, but will note here that I heard many years later that Milton Dowd said, upon first seeing the facility after having arrived in
Brownwood by train, that he had decided to get back on the train the next day
and return to Sulphur Springs – but changed his mind overnight after having met
his roommate, fellow Barn-dwellers, and other prospective classmates (girls?)
arriving on campus.
Freshmen
were assigned to the eight student-occupied rooms on the Barn’s first floor;
the Dean of Men (Mr. I.A. Hicks) and his wife lived in an apartment at the
southwest end of that floor.
Second-story rooms were occupied by upperclassmen.
The
sixteen freshmen occupants of the eight first-floor rooms were (1) Harold Dobbs
and Theo Powell from Lipan, (2) Lloyd Ferguson and Guy Joe Roberts from
Burkburnett, (3) John Brite (Pleasanton) and Milton Dowd (Sulphur Springs), (4) G.O. Baten (Slidell) and George MacDonald (Galveston), (5) J.D. Fincher (Levelland) and
Jimmy Kight (Dallas), (6) Truett Black and Homer Swartz from Mirando City, (7)
Joe Lockhard (Copperas Cove) and Wayne Tye (Rising Star), and (8) Bob Milam
(Navasota) and me.
My first contact with
Brownwood church people occurred as I stood in the registration line my first
term at HPC; a man beside me noted, from the forms in my hand, that we had the
same first name. He introduced himself
as K.C. Stedman – the initials stood for Kenneth Conrad. He was probably fifteen or more years older
than I, had been a Houston plumbing contractor for years, but felt called to
preach, so had disposed of his business and moved to Brownwood to pastor
Calvary Baptist Church and enroll at Howard Payne. I suppose mentioning his pastorate implied an invitation to
Calvary, but I felt no pressure, and remembered the contact favorably.
I joined Coggin Avenue Baptist when I first arrived in Brownwood. Coggin’s new pastor, Dr. E.D. Dunlap, came there from Fort Worth’s Poly
Baptist, so it seemed reasonable to join a church where I already knew the
pastor. However, Coggin was a long walk
from the Barn, so I attended there only a few months, then moved my membership
to First Baptist, the “campus” church.
I attended First Baptist until I left school to enter the Navy.
I registered for Bible under
Dr. M.E. Davis, College Algebra under Mr. Cap Shelton, English under Miss Eula Haskew, Physics under Mr. O.E. Winebrenner, and a Social Science course under Miss
Annie Shelton.
Hours in Bible, English, and Social Science were required of all
students, so enrolling for those subjects required little thought; I hoped
added knowledge of mathematics and physics might be helpful when I had to start
job hunting. (As things worked out,
knowledge gained in physics classes was valuable when my call came to enter
military service.)
Only twelve or thirteen students (all boys except
for Rosemary Hargett) were enrolled in Physics I. Mr. Winebrenner called Rosemary “Baby Doll,” probably
because he couldn’t think of her name at the moment he needed it; regardless,
we guys picked up on it, and I called her “Baby Doll” the rest of our time in
college (she even signed her name as “Baby Doll” when she wrote in my
annual). Political correctness hadn’t
entered our culture in those days, so Mr. Winebrenner wasn’t risking the wrath
of militant feminists in his choice of names for his one student of the female
persuasion.
He
was the entire science department during the war years; in addition to Physics,
I took chemistry under him before entering military service.
Students
fondly called him “Whoopy” (but not to his face); I don’t know the origin of
that name. He signed his name
“Winebrenner O.E.,” and often initialed papers “W.O.E.” I suspect scientifically-challenged students
were “WOE-ful” after seeing their grade cards bearing those initials.
I had the same teachers both
semesters of the 1943/44 school-year.
My Bible courses under Dr. Davis were “Major Prophets of the Old
Testament” and “Paul’s Missionary Journeys.”
I remember little from the two Bible courses, but
have never forgotten Dr. Davis’ contentions that (1) the New Testament could be
read in twenty-seven minutes and (2) he would accept all money given for the
Lord’s work, no matter who offered it or how it had been acquired. His “twenty-seven minute” claim seemed
impossible to me, and I’ve always doubted whether money of disreputable origins
should be accepted by churches and other faith-based institutions.
College Algebra was a
one-semester course; I took Trigonometry the second semester. One semester of English was grammar and
composition; the other was literature.
One of the social science courses was history, the other was
government. Physics I was a
two-semester course.
Cap
Shelton, my freshman math
teacher, was HPC’s Business Manager and a well-respected track coach; for years
he served as starter for the annual Texas Relays in Austin. Howard Payne suspended varsity athletic
programs during the war years, so I knew Cap only as a math teacher and
business manager my freshman year at HPC.
Inspired by professorial
pronouncements of Cap Shelton, Miss Haskew, and Miss Annie, I ventured into verse
during that first year at HPC. Three of
my rhymes were preserved by my mother – although I didn’t know she had done so
until after her death October 7, 2000; Twila found them in Mother’s lock
box. The first, entitled “STUDY OR ---?,“ read as follows:
“You’re getting gypped
by your own self,”
Cap Shelton sure would
say.
“You’re wasting fifteen
dollars,
By fooling ‘round this
way.”
Miss Haskew never thinks
of prices;
She only thinks of
knowledge.
“If not to study, why on
earth,
Did you ever come to
college?”
“As a patriot, it’s our
duty
To study hard, you know.”
We hear that from the
teacher
Who loves her history
so.
But I have my own
philosophy
About classes one and
all.
“Just to study only,
Keeps no one on the
ball.”
“You’re wasting fifteen
dollars” referred to tuition for Cap’s course – three semester-hours at five
dollars per hour. His appeal was
economic, whereas Miss Haskew and Miss Annie appealed to sense of duty.
Another of my personal poetic
pursuits preserved in Mother’s lock box, entitled “LITERATURE, Ohhhh,” and dedicated to all fellow sufferers,
revealed my less than desirable attitude about Miss Haskew’s attempts to
improve students’ literary enlightenment:
I slouch into the
classroom
And drop down in my
chair;
I guess I’m nearly
always late
For everybody’s there.
The teacher’s there
a’planning
All the mean things she
can say
To the naughty, naughty,
sorry boy
Who’s tardy every day.
I sit there with a
stupid look,
Deaf to all her sermons,
Visioning those days
ahead
Of fights with Japs and
Germans.
It seems she drones on
endlessly;
I guess she knows a lot
Of prose and ballads,
lyrics, sonnets
And all that kind of
rot.
At last the liberty bell
is rung,
And still she hesitates;
“Remember all those
poems,
And their authors and
their dates.”
I was seldom, if ever, late
for Miss Haskew’s classes, so I don’t know to whom I referred in that second
verse. Perhaps another young fellow was
the culprit, for I don’t think I simply exercised poetic license in my effort
at humor in word rhyming. I did,
however, have a real attitude deficiency (which I weakly attempted to justify
with concern about world affairs and impending military service).
A third “literary creation”
from Mother’s lock box dealt with a non-classrom situation; I don’t recall the
identity of the starstruck lover about whom I wrote “ROMANCE? MAYBE:”
She loves him, she loves
him not;
That’s the question in
his heart.
The way that girl leads
him around
Is truly quite an art.
“Sometimes I wonder,”
We often hear him sing
As he ponders o’er the
prospect
Of giving her that ring.
She’s very smart, she
keeps him guessing;
Oh! It really is a
shame.
It seems he never can
decide
If she wants to change
her name.
The funniest things can
happen;
In church the show is
grand
For us who watch the
girl refuse
To let him hold her
hand.
I guess that boy enjoys
it all;
He seems to persevere.
But if that’s the way
she plays the game,
He’ll never get his
“Dear.”
Sixty years have passed since
I penned that poem, and, as I said above, I can’t recall the couple I had in
mind – although I’m sure I thought I’d never forget their identities. I’m inclined to think the subjects were
Truett Black and
Ruby Raye Collier, but I can’t remember his singing Hoagy Carmichael’s
“STARDUST” in either formal situations or casually
(Truett had a great voice, so hearing him sing wasn’t unusual).
Living in the Barn was a step
backward from amenities to which I’d grown accustomed since leaving our little
house on the Acton farm six years earlier.
The Barn had no running water (other than in the Hicks’ apartment); rest
room facilities were in a separate building several steps from the back
entry. Showers were accessible in the
gym, about 125 yards away, but were often without hot water; I shivered through
many icy showers. Guys who shaved (many
of us didn’t) heated water (from a cold-water faucet in the nearby rest room)
in pans on top of gas space heaters in their rooms.
We
could take showers of sorts in the building housing our rest room facilities,
but that undertaking was hazardous.
Shower heads were connected to (1) a cold water source and (2) live
steam from the campus boiler room; one could turn on both valves and get
alternating spurts of cold water and live steam, with occasional mixes of the
two; always dreading cold showers at the gym, I tried the nearby system from
time to time. One night I experienced a
shock greater than that of alternating spurts of steam and cold water, when, in
complete darkness, I reached up to turn the light bulb in its socket (there was
no switch in the circuit), but the bulb had been removed; I received quite a
jolt as, standing barefooted on a wet concrete floor, I stuck my thumb in the
socket.
My first roommate was Bob
Milam, the son of a Navasota minister; he was a big boy, more than twice my size. Bob spent his free time lying in bed,
smoking cigarettes and reading. He and
I had little in common, and I didn’t like stale cigarette odors, so when Jimmy
Kight left the dormitory to live and work at Davis-Morris Funeral Home I
took his place as J.D. Fincher’s roommate; J.D. was a quiet, pleasant
young fellow, but I didn’t see much of him because he worked afternoons and
evenings at a Camp Bowie PX.
I roomed with J.D. until Wayne
Tye, Joe Lockhart’s roommate, left for the Navy; having much
in common with Joe (we played together on basketball and softball teams), I moved in with him.
He left for the Navy after the spring term ended.
I
stayed in the room I’d shared with Joe through the 1944 summer term, with
Milton Leach as my roommate. Milton was much like J.D. had been, a pleasant, soft-spoken young
fellow; he ultimately married Wilma Poppell, an HPC coed, and made a career of
foreign missions, if I remember correctly.
I
moved upstairs (upperclassmen’s quarters) for the 1944 fall term, with Leroy
Williams as my roommate. Leroy was a likeable Galveston boy; we double-dated some (he with
“Baby Helen” Newton, I with Ann Wells); I best remember him for keeping his
shoes highly shined.
Several of the 1943/44
Barn-dwellers became lifelong friends of mine, as did one non-resident, H. Don
Rodgers, who initiated a friendship that lasted
until his death October 7, 2001.
H.
Don was a few years older than I, was a Brownwood native and a sports writer
for The Brownwood Bulletin; he
became sports editor of that paper during the mid-‘40s, then later moved to the
Abilene Reporter-News. He married an Abilene court reporter,
adopted her profession, then established a court-reporting school (The Stenograph Institute of Texas), one
of whose pupils (Margaret Shaheen) worked under my supervision when I lived in
Abilene years later.
I’m
indebted to H. Don for teaching me (back in 1943) a little ditty sung to the
tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic:”
I
wear my pink pajamas in the summer when it’s hot,
I
wear my pink pajames in the winter when it’s not,
And
sometimes in the springtime, and sometimes in the fall,
I
jump between the covers with nothing on at all.
Nosy,
nosy, what’s it to you? Nosy, nosy,
what’s it to you?
Nosy,
nosy, what’s it to you? If I wear
nothing at all.
One’s status as a freshman
was, for the most part, slightly lower than the quality of life in the
Barn. Upper classmen “ruled” us, so a
good portion of my life was governed by their desires, some of which brought
unpleasantness, others of which only caused me to do things I might not have
chosen for myself:
·
Hazing, though against the rules, was still in
vogue when I entered HPC, so we new residents of the Barn were quickly
introduced to its “pleasures” (e.g., Elbert Yoes and Dick Camp could almost
lift a small freshman off his feet, using their paddles fashioned from one by
four lumber; I won’t describe other indignities imposed upon us).
·
Bob Milam, Truett Black, and I were asked to sing for a fall
social event held in the dining hall.
(Bob, a superb tenor,
and Truett, a smooth baritone, were experienced performers; I had never sung
other than congregationally.) Among the
songs we sang at the event were “Always” and “Somebody Else Is Taking My
Place,” a rather ironic juxtaposition.
We dedicated “Somebody Else…” to one of the dormitory girls who had a
crush on Milton Dowd; they had dated a few times, but he had
moved on to other pastures. We didn’t state
the reason for dedicating the song to her, but many of the kids knew the
story. (We were only teasing the
young lady musically, but it wasn’t a kind thing to do to a friend; we were
unthinking teenagers who hadn’t suffered from unrequited affection, so didn’t
“feel her pain.”)
·
Bob, Truett
and I wound up singing together a number of times during our freshman
year. We were even asked to sing at a
funeral, by people we didn’t know; the letter requesting us to sing for the
funeral was addressed to “The Howard Payne Freshman Trio,” so someone had given us a name.
·
I was asked
(told) to model a strapless evening gown during the Junior Varsity Show.
I thought the idea ridiculous, considering my skinny frame, but I
bravely complied (as if I had a choice!).
The gown I modeled belonged to Bobby Brim, an attractive young lady who
was probably both taller and broader than I, not to mention other differences
in physical characteristics. I used
socks for padding in the area wherein I was most dimensionally-challenged, and
made it through both nights’ performances without losing anything. [The gown wasn’t truly strapless, although I
wore it that way; I let the two thin shoulder straps hang over my upper arms,
providing no support for the dress but letting me flex my shoulders and upper
arms to “tighten things up” if needed.
I don’t remember what I wore under the gown; I probably wore only boxer
shorts, but I should have worn a swimsuit, just in case I lost everything
else.]
·
ChiChi Govett (now Cornelius) and I were drafted to sing “A Bicycle Built
for Two” in chapel on a day when secular
entertainment was the fare. We sang
responsively:
Ken: Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,
I’m half crazy over the love of you.
We won’t have a stylish marriage,
I can’t afford a carriage.
But you’d look sweet upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.
ChiChi: Henry,
Henry, I’ll give you my answer true,
I’m not half crazy over the love of
you.
We won’t have a stylish marriage,
You can’t afford a carriage.
But I’ll be hanged if I’ll be banged
On a bicycle built for two.
[I
discovered while recording these memories that the song was entitled “Daisy
Bell” by its writer, Harry Dacre, and Daisy’s response isn’t included in his
lyrics. I didn’t see written lyrics at
the time ChiChi and I did the song, so don’t know the source of Daisy’s
response – it may have been composed by the upper classman who asked us to sing
it.]
Chapel attendance, at mid-morning each Monday through Friday, was
required of all students, so ChiChi and I had a captive audience. Chapel was generally intended to provide
spiritual nourishment, so the program usually consisted of hymn singing,
prayer, Bible reading, and a devotional time, but there were days when secular
entertainment was the fare – as was the case when we sang “Daisy Bell.”
Freshman Day, a traditional spring affair, was
big. Actually, more than one day was
involved, for freshman boys were expected to be off campus for a couple of days
before the big Saturday event. Several of
us camped at Lake Brownwood, where we had a good time, except (1) I
acquired a serious sunburn, making the mistake of going shirtless most of one
day (dead skin flaked off my shoulders much of the following summer) and (2) we
didn’t take enough food with us. Three
of the guys (John Brite, Harold Dobbs, and Milton Dowd, if I remember correctly) found a rowboat
and crossed to a cabin on the other side, hoping to find food. A windstorm blew up as they rowed back, and
the situation grew dicey; fortunately, they returned successfully, but the outcome
could have been serious. I don’t
remember whether the guys brought any food back, but we camped nearer town and
grocery sources that night, and managed to survive whatever hunger pangs we
experienced.
We were back on campus Saturday
morning for Freshman Day itself, which started with an early-morning
tug-of-war. The next event was a water
fight with upper classmen using hoses provided by the Brownwood Fire Deparment;
Harley Sledge, a senior, took a street-pressure blast directly to his face, and
could hardly see for several days.
[George
MacDonald, a fellow HPC
freshman in 1943/44, told me recently that Harley’s full name was Harley
Davidson Sledge; his dad, a motorcycle “nut,” named his son after the famous
motorcycle manufacturer. Motorcycle
mania must have been in Harley’s genes, for he acquired an army surplus Harley
Davidson later in 1944 – and took me for a ride one cold night shortly before I
left for the Navy.]
After the water fight, freshmen
were “dressed up” for the day by upper classmen, then had to wear the attire
everywhere we went (including classes, for we had Saturday classes all my years
at HPC). As examples of upperclassman
handiwork, G.O. Baten and
George MacDonald were dressed in girls’ sweaters (appropriately padded) and skirts,
big Bob Milam was
in a giant diaper, and I was made up to look like a minstrel show character,
with blackface and a fishing pole; photos of (1) G.O. and George posing
girlishly and (2) Bob in his diaper were printed in the 1944 Lasso (the college annual).
The tug-of-war and water fight
between freshmen and upperclassmen on Freshman Day wasn’t the only competition
between the two factions that spring; our freshman softball team challenged the upperclassmen to a game, which we won
(probably because most good athletes who would have been upperclassmen had
entered military service, leaving those of lesser athletic ability to carry on
in their places).
Most (if not all) of the rest
of our games were in city league competition, played on a diamond behind the
black community center. Joe Lockhart, my roommate, included the following in a
long note penned in my 1944 annual:
“…I
don’t see how you could forget all the softball games we played. We really played the outfield, didn’t we? Remember also all those hits we got…”
I don’t think Joe could
remember very many hits I’d gotten, for I still wasn’t much better with the bat
than I’d been when playing high school ball.
However, we had several pretty good athletes among the freshmen who
played on our team, and we were reasonably good overall:
·
Boyd O’Neal,
later a career missionary to Brazil, was a capable catcher.
·
Jimmy Kight
pitched well.
·
Curtis
Wilkerson could also pitch, but played first base most of the time.
·
Harold Dobbs
at third base and Milton Dowd at
shortstop were very good.
·
Bill Nieman
played acceptably at second, as did John Brite, G.O. Baten, Joe Lockhart, and
I in the outfield.
Playing fast-pitch softball (with good pitching, catching, and infield), we weren’t easy to
score on. I don’t recall much about our
offensive prowess, but I’m sure it was better overall than was mine
individually.
Miss Gladys Hicks, Howard Payne’s Dean of Women (unrelated
to Mr. I.A. Hicks, the Dean of Men) “adopted” the freshman softball team, and presented a miniature bat to each
member of the team as a memento of its accomplishments.
I
carved the initials of each team member on my little bat, which I’ve retained;
it lies between my computer and monitor.
I referred to it some years ago after a discussion with Milton Dowd about the identity of our second baseman; the
initials carved on the bat verified my memory that Bill Nieman had played that
position.
Our freshman softball team’s glory
days were short-lived, for most of us were soon in military service. We were all back in school by the fall of
1946, but never played softball as a team again – although G.O., Joe, and I
played together on intramural football and/or basketball teams after we
returned.
Howard Payne suspended
intercollegiate sports competition during WWII, because most varsity athletes
had entered military service, but upper classmen who were still around tried to
sustain sports-related school traditions.
For example, we did street paintings on Friday nights during the fall,
even though Saturdays were gameless; the street paintings could have been
enjoyable social events had the upperclassmen not brought their paddles.
Athletic competition still
existed on campus, despite the lack of varsity sports. I played on two basketball teams my freshman year – one organized by an upperclassman, the
other by a college staff member:
·
Elbert Lee
Yoes, a sophomore, organized a team of freshmen for intramural
competition. He named us “Barn Beauties” – we competed against “Bombardiers,”
“Todd Hall Saints,” and “Vultures.” The
“Vultures” went undefeated, according to my 1944 annual; we “Beauties” beat
only the “Saints,” a team comprised of married ministerial students.
·
Mr. Barney
Hale, an assistant coach of both prewar and
postwar varsity teams, organized an HPC team to play against teams from nearby
Camp Bowie.
Some of the men on teams we played were said to have been
semi-professional and professional players before entering the Army; they were
both bigger and better than we.
One
night our other guard and I were bringing the ball downcourt after an “Army” score
when I suddenly landed flat of my back near midcourt; one of the soldiers took
my feet right out from under me. The
referee didn’t call a foul – the move was so slick he didn’t see it – so I
jumped up and went on down the court as if nothing had happened.
Those basketball games in which we Howard
Payners played Camp Bowie teams were the only ones in which I ever wore a school’s varsity
uniform. Unfortunately for me, HPC’s
smallest shorts were size 30 or 32, while my waist was only 28, so they were
large at both waist and legs. I used a
safety pin to tighten the waist, so I never lost the shorts, even when that
slick soldier took my legs out from under me, but I looked like the 90-pound
weakling from Charlas Atlas ads.
We
Barn-dwellers probably lost every game we played against the soldiers, but
other men from Camp Bowie lost to us, victims of a non-sporting and
unofficial activity. Soldiers and their
dates could be found around the campus most evenings, lounging under trees or
close to buildings. We boys were able
to gain entrance to “Old Main,” even when it was locked at night, so, upon
finding couples romancing too close to the building, would drop “water bombs” (paper bags
filled with water) from the third floor onto the unsuspecting couples. As I say, that wasn’t sporting.
[I
was told of a cute trick before my time that also required nighttime access to
a campus building. Several boys carried
a Crosley automobile (Crosley’s were much smaller than other cars)
into the Mims Building, lifted it onto the stage, and left it there. I would like to have seen the leader of the
next day’s chapel exercises trying to establish order among mirthful students
(assuming the Crosley was still undiscovered and onstage at that hour).]
Mentioning my oversized
basketball gear in the preceding segment reminds me that, except while engaged
in sports activities, shorts weren’t worn on campus by either guys or
gals. I don’t remember any written
campus dress code, but students well understood the prohibition of abbreviated
attire.
Certain other attire wasn’t
worn on campus. Female
students/faculty/staff didn’t wear slacks to classes or campus events; they were
expected to look ladylike, attired in dresses or skirts and blouses or
sweaters.
Howard Payne was a Baptist
institution, so I’m sure its dress codes were in part an outgrowth of Baptistic expectations, but, as I
reflect back on those days, I don’t remember seeing students in shorts at
secular institutions (e.g., students didn’t wear shorts on campus at The
University of Texas when I was there in the early ‘50s – unless engaged in
sports activities).
Generally speaking, students
living in Howard Payne Hall, the girls’ dormitory, had to be in their
rooms by seven o’clock each evening, with two exceptions:
·
They could
leave the dormitory to attend church on Sunday and Wednesday evenings, but had
to return immediately after church activities were completed.
·
They could be
away from the dormitory until ten o’clock on Friday and Saturday evenings.
Extra nights out were allowed
senior students and those making the honor roll. Twila says she could leave the dormitory six nights per week her
senior year (the Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays allowed all
dormitory girls plus “senior” and “honor roll” nights).
Lights in girls’ rooms had to
be turned off by 10:00 PM (but some used flashlights under bedclothes for
studying after “lights out;” the halls were monitored, so uncovered lights
could be seen shining under doors).
Twila
has reminded me that Miss Hicks let her charges listen to periodic “after
hours” serenades by the boys. Girls in
their housecoats leaned from windows or went out on dormitory balconies to
listen to the guys harmonize on songs such as “Shine on Harvest Moon” and “For
Me and My Gal;” the finale was always “Good Night, Ladies.” Although I participated in the singing, I
don’t remember how frequent those serenades occurred, nor do I know whether
performances were spontaneous or prearranged with Miss Hicks; I’m certain,
however, that the serenades wouldn’t have occurred without her blessing,
whether implied or specific.
Dormitory girls had to have
written parental permission to date soldiers from Camp Bowie. Also, a girl
dating a soldier was
to introduce him to Miss Hicks (Dean of Women) when he came to pick her up.
Student residents of Howard
Payne Hall couldn’t ride in automobiles without special permission from Miss
Hicks.
Violation
of rules – particularly (1) going to unauthorized activities/places and (2)
riding in an automobile without permission – could result in a girl’s restriction
to campus for a period of time – being “campused” could be a real
drag on one’s social life.
Restrictions on dormitory
girls left them at a perceived social disadvantage compared to those who lived
in town without such limitations (thus theoretically more “competitive”). However, I never heard any boy give that as
a reason for going with “town” girls; most wanted to go with the girls who were
attractive to them, thus accepted whatever restrictions were placed on them,
either at home or at the dorm.
Howard
Payne Hall, the girls’ dormitory, was nicknamed “The Dump,” but that
appellation wasn’t used openly, as was “The Barn;” Miss Hicks didn’t take
kindly to the sacrilege.
I
joked (to other students) that Miss Hicks’ motto was “For Howard Payne My Hall,” a takeoff on
the large “For Howard Payne My All”
sign located toward the center of the campus.
◊◊◊
We residents of the Barn could
come and go without restriction, with no “lights out” rule, but that didn’t
mean we could do whatever we wanted wherever we wanted to do it, for we could
have gotten in real trouble if found in undesirable places indulging in undesirable
behavior (e.g., alcohol wasn’t permitted); we were expected to behave as
Baptist boys should.
I
suspect some girls disliked the disparity in dormitory rules and regulations,
but one can see practical reasons for closer oversight of the girls by those
“in loco parentis.”
Except for special supervised
occasions, such as annual “open houses,” boys couldn’t go into girls’ rooms,
and vice versa. Boys could go into the
office and lobby on the first floor of the girls’ dorm (during specified
hours), plus the basement dining hall and kitchen, but couldn’t enter the
residential portions of any floor except during an annual “Open House.”
Girls never entered the boys’ Barn, except during its annual “Open
House.”
Generally speaking, girls
didn’t invite boys on dates or make direct advances toward them – except during
Sadie Hawkins Week, when they were encouraged to take the
boys out; young ladies could use the week as an opportunity to let young men
know of their interest. Although a
young man might not always be receptive to the interest(s) expressed, the
(unwritten) rules of the game prohibited refusals of date requests, so boys
were sometimes seen with distaff companions they would never have chosen for
themselves.
I said in the previous segment
that girls never entered the boys’ dorm except during open house evenings, but
they must have come to the Barn to pick up their dates during Sadie Hawkins
Week (although I have no specific memories of their doing so). I wasn’t overwhelmed with date requests
during that week, or my memory would be better.
Numerous students had jobs on
campus, the most visible being the waiters and cleanup crew in the dining hall
and kitchen. I hadn’t asked about on-campus
work before enrolling, but checked soon thereafter; nothing was available that
first semester, but in subsequent semesters I graded papers for Cap Shelton and
met with struggling mathematics students in afternoon “stupid study” periods.
The pay ($.35/hour) wasn’t great, but was better than nothing.
I also looked for off-campus
work early that first year, without success.
At some point during the spring term I started filling in for Lonnie Richardson
(an upperclassman who worked afternoons at Gilliam’s Radio Shop downtown) when he had to be away.
Lonnie didn’t attend summer school in 1944, so Mr. Gilliam asked me to
take the job; I was glad to get the money.
Gilliam’s
Radio Shop had a sales room at the front, a repair room just behind
it, and an office at the back; Steve Fry’s repair department generated the
major portion of shop revenues. Manning
the front counter, I sold vacuum tubes, resistors, condensers, and similar
items, received/tagged radios for repair, and returned repaired radios to
customers. I usually had quite a bit of
free time, during which Steve regaled me with tales of his exploits, large and
small.
Mrs.
Gilliam kept books for the shop, but her health wasn’t good, so she
occasionally fell behind in recording financial activities. Mr. Gilliam asked me to fill in for her at
those times, but I had little idea what I was doing; I wasn’t even a
bookkeeper, much less the accountant I ultimately became.
College activities occupied
most of my interest and attention, but life went on back home, and I returned
there several times during the school year, for Brownwood is only 125 miles
from Fort Worth. I
went unexpectedly once during the 1943 fall term, to see a Poly High football
game; my parents thought I was crazy, for they wouldn’t have traveled across
town to see it.
I
usually traveled via Bowen Bus Lines, although its service was stressed by the
volume of soldiers traveling between Brownwood and Fort Worth; Bowen used just
about anything that rolled. One
unconventional arrangement was a tractor/trailer setup utilizing wooden
passenger seating in a semi-trailer “box;” the seats were hard, the ride was rough,
and there was no heat. The trucks used
in pulling the “trailer buses” were old, subject to mechanical failures. One Sunday night the engine in the truck
towing the trailer in which I was riding threw a rod and we were stranded for a
time. I don’t remember how passengers
were transported on to Brownwood.
I hitchhiked home a time or two, but catching rides wasn’t easy for civilians;
competition from soldiers was too great.
Willing people with space in their vehicles understandably picked
soldiers up first. I found out later,
when I was in the Navy, how much a uniform helped.
◊◊◊
Sherry Nell Goforth, Ruth’s and Virgil’s daughter, the youngest of my three
cousins, was born May 22, 1944, near the end of my freshman year. Sherry’s birth was received with joy;
Virgil, who had turned forty on May 1, said something to the effect that her
arrival gave meaning to the old saying that “life begins at forty.”
◊◊◊
Twila graduated from Fort Worth’s Poly High at the end of the 1943/44
school-year, then entered Howard Payne that fall, so we were both HPC students
for one semester before I entered military service. For some reason I can’t now recall, I talked her into joining me
in signing up for elementary accounting, a subject in which she wasn’t
interested – and for which I wasn’t ready, for my mind had already turned more
toward upcoming duty than current responsibilities.