THOSE WERE HAPPY DAYS
MEMORIES—THE GOOD ONES—bring solace to advancing years. They lessen the rigors of living, and titilate ego long since deflated. The happy days in college were the days when a man could be a big shot without money; when the personality kid was king; when living extended not far beyond the present. And then, all of a sudden, you awakened and found yourself with a sheepskin in your hand. The pang of parting, and you were out on your own. But it was fun while it lasted.
Back in the early part of the twentieth century, Reed Hall was still a dorm, and that's where Dutch Schildmiller and I roomed as sophomores. We had a two-by- four nook on the first floor, back of the corner room occupied by Follette Isaacson 'OB. In an alcove were double-decker beds with straw mattresses. Schildmiller slept above, and I, below. You see he was an athlete and needed the training of climb- ing up there every night. His mattress had a hole in it, directly above my face, and when we got into bed he'd purposely move around, and the straw would drop down. Another irritating trick of Schildmiller's was to pepper me with dried prunes, about the time I was getting to sleep. That was to keep his baseball arm in shape, I suppose.
Our room was probably one of the most disordered in Reed Hall. A corner couch we had constructed out of odd pieces of lumber provided sitting space for guests until one of the legs collapsed. It was never fixed. We had the unsavory habit of chewing tobacco, and using the waste basket as a garboon. Our habits of house- keeping were trying to Mr. Goodrich, the janitor, who one day wrote us this note:
"I want to ask you once more to not spit on the flor or waist basket. I cleaned your room yesterday and now look at it. Now don't make me go any father with this. Yrs Resptfully, J. K. Goodrich." Poor old Goodrich. He's dead and gone now, most likely. I hope he's in a place where he doesn't have to worry about careless col- lege students.
Schildmiller and I, with not too much pocket money at our disposal, were saving on laundry. Our bed sheets went without washing for months at a time. This neglect was never called to the attention of the col- lege health authorities, nor to our mothers.
Across the hall in the corner roomed a couple of Irishmen—"Greetings" Norton 'OB, and Big Clark Tobin 'lO. They had larger quarters, and there we frequently gathered for after-supper "beefs." Tom Uniac 'O4, then in medical school, used to drop in quite frequently, although he didn't live in Reed Hall. All of us, except Clark who was a pure freshman from South Boston, had that filthy habit of chewing tobacco. Jack, being the perfect host, furnished a spittoon which we some- times hit.
As the boys in Reed Hall became better acquainted, they were more fraternal in spirit. You will recall, those of you who wer*e in college at the time, that the second and third floor corridors extended the length of the building with end windows above the entrances. It was a mark of hospitality to drop bags of water on the heads of students entering the building.
Those of us who belonged to fraterni- ties took them seriously, and we guarded our badges carefully, for had we not been cautioned at the time of initiation never to allow our pins to leave our persons, not even while taking a shower, when we were supposed to hold them in the mouth? Bill Bailey 'O9, who roomed with his class- mate, George Burns, in a second floor corner room, was one of those particular gents. But one day he left his Alpha Delt pin on the dresser. In collusion with Burns, we pinned it on the seat of his pajamas and hung the garment on the chandelier. It took Bill about a year to get over that insult.
Two other classmates, Freddie Carroll and Reggie Colley roomed down the hall from us. Even as a sophomore, Freddie showed promise as an orator, and he was dramatic in bearing. Reggie, exercising his prerogative as sophomore, grew a mus- tache, a stringy, blond affair that did not set well with some of us in the dormitory. One night a bunch of us, headed by Clark Tobin, the big freshman, and Athlete Schildmiller, marched into Reggie's room, got him down on the floor, and shaved off half of the mustache. It was a mean trick to play on a sophomore.
When we crashed the Carroll-Colley quarters, Freddie didn't like the intrusion of his personal privacy. There was a bit of a onesided scuffle in which Freddie was quickly subdued physically, but not in spirit. He walked dramatically up to Tobin and said in an emotional voice, "If you weren't so big, Clark Tobin, I'd hit you." This was an incident that clings to my memory.
"Clark" was a pretty fancy name for a big Irishman like Tobin, but he wasn't fancy by nature, later becoming one of the star linesmen on the football team. He al- ways followed training rules, retiring early to his couch which was under a transom opening into the hall. A hall radiator was directly below the transom. One night, while Clark was sleeping, I climbed up on the radiator with a pail of water, and let him have it. Then I ran back to our room and pushed a trunk in front of the door.
If you've ever heard an enraged Irish- man, you'll know how Clark was affected. He came stomping out of his room talk- ing to himself, going from door to door as he tried to figure out who pulled that one. In our darkened room with a guilty con- science, I imagined that he sensed who did it, and called through the closed door, "Ah go to hell, you Irish so-and-so." I thought he'd splinter the door down, but he didn't. He went back to his room, grabbed up the garboon full of tobacco sludge, and threw it through our transom. Old man Goodrich had another cleaning job the next day.
Our time, however, was not spent en- tirely in playing pranks on each other. There was a lot of good-fellowship in Reed. Well do I remember the Reed Hall balls we'd pull of an evening, with Bill Bailey and I furnishing the music on mandolin and guitar. Out the boys came from their rooms, and then the grand march would be led by Tobin and Norton. I can see that gang yet, kicking up their heels to the rhythm of the music.
"Greetings" Norton was one of my fa- vorite companions. He was care-free, and had a keen sense of humor. He it was who started the custom on the campus of call- ing "greetings" to passing friends, and that's how he got his nickname. Another fad he originated was holding the nose with one hand and saying "I apologize," when an apology was in order. He even had Homer Eaton Keyes' young daughter doing it, as you can see in the picture. That same disposition which attracted people to him in college has remained with "Greetings" during his mature years. Today, he is one of the most popular and influential educators in St. Paul. Tobin, his big, brawny roommate, is selling ladies' underwear, the last I heard.
Reed Hall—one of the oldest buildings on the campus. It wasn't much to look at, then, and no match for modern dorms with private baths, single nooks, and such conveniences known to modern youth. They've rebuilt Reed Hall as an up-to- date structure, but they can't demolish the memories of those of us who lived there as undergraduates.
HERE you SEE YOUNG MISS KEYES MAKING "GREETINGS" NORTON "APOLOGIZE." THE PICTURE WAS TAKEN THIRTY-FOUR YEARS AGO ON THE OLD BOARD TRACK BY THE INN.
Student and alumni members of Kappa Kappa Kappa joined in celebrating the 100 th anniversary of the Societyin Hanover October 2-3. MaMany of the members participating in the ceremonies are shown in front of the fraternityhouse. At right is reproduced the plaque which was presented to Prof. James P. Richardson '99, long-time regentand historian of the Society. Kenneth W. Davis '24 made the presentation at the conclusion of Professor Richardson's address at the anniversary dinner when New Hampshire Governor Blood, President Hopkins, Channing H.Cox '0I, E. E. Martin 'l9, and Robert M. Clark '43 were speakers.
