Posted by Editormum on 14 April 2011 in
News Commentary |
∞
My Alma Mater, Lambuth University, will cease to exist at the close of business on June 30. Lambuth has educated young people for 168 years. She withstood the Great Depression, a couple of recessions, and two World Wars. But she could not withstand the financial mismanagement and the collapsing economy of the last dozen years.
Twenty-five years ago, I drove to Jackson, Tennessee, and first set foot on the soil that would change my life forever. I fell in love with Lambuth College from the moment I laid eyes on her beautiful campus. And I treasure the memories of my four years of undergraduate study under some of the most wonderful, caring professors that have ever graced a college campus.
Seven years ago, on a whim, I drove my two sons to Jackson to show them “where Mommy went to school.” They were five and seven. After we walked the length and breadth of the campus, explored the chapel, library, and student union, and wandered over to the theatre and the athletic fields, my younger son said, “Mommy, I want to come to your college when I grow up.” In the ensuing years, he has repeated this wish to me many times. My older son, not as demonstrative as his brother, has also confided that he wanted to go to my alma mater.
Today I was told that their dreams (and mine) will never come true. My sons will not be able to attend my college, because my college is closing her doors. I wish I could weep. I am too stunned. There is a pain, a sadness, too deep for tears. The death of a dream … the loss of a foundation … these are such pains.
I remember professors who took a personal interest in their students. Marcy Mittelstadt. Bob Hazlewood and his wife Judy. Dean Charles Mayo. Susan Hudacek. Joy Austin. Ronnie Barnes. Lendon Noe. Larry Ray. Dalton Eddleman. Jesse Byrum. Dick Brown. Don Huneycutt. Jo Fleming. Gene Davenport. Lois Lord. Others whose names escape me, but whose faces are vividly etched upon my memory.
I remember my suite in Carney-Johnston hall. And my series of rooms in Sprague. I remember “my” space in the library. “My” seat in the computer lab. “My” spot in the green-room backstage of the theatre. I remember parties at the Sig Ep house and the KA house. Reading on the porch of the tumbledown, historic cabin. Writing reams of bad poetry by the duck pond. Jogging on the fields behind the theatre. Walking from Lambuth to Bnai Israel with two oven-fresh challot in my hand. Passing Jogging even though I spent half the semester on crutches. Setting Sprague’s stove on fire while making beef stroganoff because I didn’t see the grease someone had left in the burner’s drip pan … and the firemen’s reaction when I offered them some fresh-baked bread and told them I’d already put out the fire.
I remember the controversies. Over changing from “college” to “university.” Over Dean Mayo’s “resignation.” (My first sit-in!) Over making one of the dorms co-ed.
I remember the fun. Homecoming parties and games. Old South. All-Sing. Madrigal Feaste. Choir tour (Wisconsin! Orlando! almost England!) Orientation. Graduation. The Miss Lambuth Pageant. Movie night in the Union. Learning to play 8-ball in the game room. Bonfire night. Opening night at the theatre. The plays: Camelot. No Exit. Brigadoon. Charley’s Aunt. House of Blue Leaves. Godspell. Guys and Dolls. The Importance of Being Earnest.
I remember cleaning the greenhouse and the salt water aquarium in the Biology dept. Working with the girls’ basketball team. Talking Dr. Davenport into offering Hebrew for four terms. Tutoring neighbourhood kids in reading skills on the top floor of the Student Union. Working on the Yearbook and the Lit Mag with some awesome, creative people. Sobbing my homesick way through freshman seminar. Turning in two term papers in Shakespeare’s Tragedies when Dr. Hazlewood changed his mind about my chosen topic … three days after I’d finished my paper. Swimming laps and failing to jump off the high platform in the pool. Doing Callanetics in the walkway that overlooked the gym. Cleaning up the theatre’s attic. Drooling over the antique books being sold in the library. All-night typing sessions to help my first customers complete their term papers on time. Choir rehearsals and piano practise in the basement of the chapel. Cups and cups and cups of coffee during all-night cramming for exams.
I met so many friends there. I met myself there. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. I am devastated that my sons will not be able to have the Lambuth experience. I realize that many of the experiences I had are universal to college, no matter where you go. But Lambuth was special. To me, her strength was in her size, the beauty of her campus, and the love of her faculty for her students. Lambuth was too small to get lost in, and too big to get spoiled in. Lambuth was like a hand-picked, close-knit family. Lambuth was home.
I know that all good things must come to an end. But I would have preferred that this end be a little longer in coming.
.
Tags: eulogy, Lambuth Universtiy, True Stories
Raise the Lamp, the White and Blue …
My Alma Mater, Lambuth University, will cease to exist at the close of business on June 30. Lambuth has educated young people for 168 years. She withstood the Great Depression, a couple of recessions, and two World Wars. But she could not withstand the financial mismanagement and the collapsing economy of the last dozen years.
Twenty-five years ago, I drove to Jackson, Tennessee, and first set foot on the soil that would change my life forever. I fell in love with Lambuth College from the moment I laid eyes on her beautiful campus. And I treasure the memories of my four years of undergraduate study under some of the most wonderful, caring professors that have ever graced a college campus.
Seven years ago, on a whim, I drove my two sons to Jackson to show them “where Mommy went to school.” They were five and seven. After we walked the length and breadth of the campus, explored the chapel, library, and student union, and wandered over to the theatre and the athletic fields, my younger son said, “Mommy, I want to come to your college when I grow up.” In the ensuing years, he has repeated this wish to me many times. My older son, not as demonstrative as his brother, has also confided that he wanted to go to my alma mater.
Today I was told that their dreams (and mine) will never come true. My sons will not be able to attend my college, because my college is closing her doors. I wish I could weep. I am too stunned. There is a pain, a sadness, too deep for tears. The death of a dream … the loss of a foundation … these are such pains.
I remember professors who took a personal interest in their students. Marcy Mittelstadt. Bob Hazlewood and his wife Judy. Dean Charles Mayo. Susan Hudacek. Joy Austin. Ronnie Barnes. Lendon Noe. Larry Ray. Dalton Eddleman. Jesse Byrum. Dick Brown. Don Huneycutt. Jo Fleming. Gene Davenport. Lois Lord. Others whose names escape me, but whose faces are vividly etched upon my memory.
I remember my suite in Carney-Johnston hall. And my series of rooms in Sprague. I remember “my” space in the library. “My” seat in the computer lab. “My” spot in the green-room backstage of the theatre. I remember parties at the Sig Ep house and the KA house. Reading on the porch of the tumbledown, historic cabin. Writing reams of bad poetry by the duck pond. Jogging on the fields behind the theatre. Walking from Lambuth to Bnai Israel with two oven-fresh challot in my hand. Passing Jogging even though I spent half the semester on crutches. Setting Sprague’s stove on fire while making beef stroganoff because I didn’t see the grease someone had left in the burner’s drip pan … and the firemen’s reaction when I offered them some fresh-baked bread and told them I’d already put out the fire.
I remember the controversies. Over changing from “college” to “university.” Over Dean Mayo’s “resignation.” (My first sit-in!) Over making one of the dorms co-ed.
I remember the fun. Homecoming parties and games. Old South. All-Sing. Madrigal Feaste. Choir tour (Wisconsin! Orlando! almost England!) Orientation. Graduation. The Miss Lambuth Pageant. Movie night in the Union. Learning to play 8-ball in the game room. Bonfire night. Opening night at the theatre. The plays: Camelot. No Exit. Brigadoon. Charley’s Aunt. House of Blue Leaves. Godspell. Guys and Dolls. The Importance of Being Earnest.
I remember cleaning the greenhouse and the salt water aquarium in the Biology dept. Working with the girls’ basketball team. Talking Dr. Davenport into offering Hebrew for four terms. Tutoring neighbourhood kids in reading skills on the top floor of the Student Union. Working on the Yearbook and the Lit Mag with some awesome, creative people. Sobbing my homesick way through freshman seminar. Turning in two term papers in Shakespeare’s Tragedies when Dr. Hazlewood changed his mind about my chosen topic … three days after I’d finished my paper. Swimming laps and failing to jump off the high platform in the pool. Doing Callanetics in the walkway that overlooked the gym. Cleaning up the theatre’s attic. Drooling over the antique books being sold in the library. All-night typing sessions to help my first customers complete their term papers on time. Choir rehearsals and piano practise in the basement of the chapel. Cups and cups and cups of coffee during all-night cramming for exams.
I met so many friends there. I met myself there. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. I am devastated that my sons will not be able to have the Lambuth experience. I realize that many of the experiences I had are universal to college, no matter where you go. But Lambuth was special. To me, her strength was in her size, the beauty of her campus, and the love of her faculty for her students. Lambuth was too small to get lost in, and too big to get spoiled in. Lambuth was like a hand-picked, close-knit family. Lambuth was home.
I know that all good things must come to an end. But I would have preferred that this end be a little longer in coming.
.
Tags: eulogy, Lambuth Universtiy, True Stories