Back to School, Part 2

It was my first year in college and supposedly, my first year of “growing up”. Yet after Mom and Dad left after that miserable weekend from Hell, I felt as clueless, small and lost as on the first day of high school. To be fair, there were people around me trying to help me assimilate. But the process was coming along slowly; too slowly. Of course I knew it was because I wasn't trying all that hard. But at that point, I really didn’t want to. Locked in a self-imposed morose that I’d grown accustomed to, what was the point? Being miserable met all my expectations

However, one of the few routines I actually looked forward to during that first semester at Whitworth was my daily sojourn to the HUB, or Hardwick Union Building. That’s where student’s got their mail and I was so homesick, peeking into the tiny mailbox window and seeing something there in the Fall of 1974 was like water to a thirsty man in the desert. Mostly it was cards and notes from family or somebody at church. But sometimes Mom would surprise me with a care package of cookies or other homemade goodies. The cookies were sometimes broken and falling apart- or even a little stale- but it was a taste of home and nothing ever tasted sweeter.  After treats, the best mail came from Glenn Vogel and my neighborhood pals. Though out of sight, hearing from those guys made me smile and feel I wasn't out of mind, too.

I was still sad, though, and weekends were the worst. Classes and other activities- like homework- ate up the days Monday through Friday. But the weekends seemed to drag on forever and I’d be blue, so I’d get in my car and just go driving. Somewhere, anywhere. I’d drive for hours out in the country and back roads around Spokane. I had no sense or idea where I was going; I just pointed the car in a direction and drove. Using several routes, these weekend excursions taught me how to get in and out of Spokane and back to campus again. Even without a map and long before a GPS, by Halloween I knew my way around Eastern Washington and North Idaho like I knew the back of my hand.

 

During these drives, the radio was always on to KJRB or KREM or KHQ- whichever wasn't in commercial. Among the hits of the day, ”Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin, Chicago’s “Wishing You Were Here” and “When Will I See You Again” by the Three Degrees always seemed to come up in rotation every couple of hours. I heard these songs so much I learned to loathe them. I hated them, not just because of the annoying repetition, but because they somehow made me long for home. (Today? These classic tunes make me think back nostalgically to that time, those long solitary drives. In the moment though, I’d have sacrificed my last dollar to never hear them again)

 

And as the random miles clicked by on these aimless forays, though I didn’t want to like the Pacific Northwest my antipathy was offset by the beautiful fall surroundings I couldn't help notice on those long journeys to no place. The scenery was gorgeous. How could you not be awed by God’s handiwork? Fall comes early in that part of the world and there were colors of leaves on trees and laying on the expanse of green fields that I don’t believe I’d ever seen in the 18 California autumns I lived through.

 

The World’s Fair (or Expo ‘74) took place in Spokane that year. It was downtown in the newly constructed Riverfront Park area and coming back from my Sunday forays, if there was enough daylight left, after getting off the freeway I’d occasionally make a side trip there to stretch my legs, kill more time and get some air. As a “world’s fair”, it seemed kind of puny compared to the one in Seattle I’d visited as a little kid. But President Nixon had come to the opening ceremonies in May so I guess it was the real deal. It did feature a few interesting international exhibits along with lots of all-American rides hauling lots of happy people, kids and couples. Seeing all that happiness never failed to remind me how completely un-happy I was; naturally the prefect topper to another perfect day.

 

One ‘perfect’ Sunday I even drove all the way into Montana, just to say I'd been there. I left at 10:00 in the morning, got out to 1-90 and headed east. Three and a half hours and about 190 miles later, I was eating a late lunch at a Denny’s in Missoula. Then I turned around and went right back to Spokane. Both coming and going, though, I had to pass through the little town of Wallace, Idaho, a dot on the map notorious for nothing except its regionally famous whore house. To be clear, I did not stop. But knowing how friendless I felt that day, I’d be a liar saying I wasn’t tempted to.

 

I mean, so far I hadn’t run into any of these great girls Mom and Dad and Steve and Lynn promised I’d meet at Whitworth. Where were they? I guess they were around, likely hidden in plain sight. I just wasn’t looking hard enough, I guess, either too shy or chicken to do really focus in. So I was lonely a lot. Nevertheless, I didn't stop in Wallace and visit their house of the rising sun. Some guys probably would. I didn't. Doesn't make me a good person, though; the thought did cross my mind. I just didn’t. Call me Ishmael. Or gutless. Or bothered by a potential guilty conscious. Whatever, I didn’t stop. I drove right past the Wallace exit and kept going. But imagine if I hadn’t and been stupid enough to mentioned it to Mom. Good God, Almighty, Hell hath no fury like what my mother would reign down on her brothel visiting wayward son. She’d have me castrated. But it also could’ve been my ticket home, too; she’d get me back to California and not let me leave the house till I was 30 or something.

 

Back on campus, of the few people in the dorm I dared let in, all continued trying to make me feel more part of the group- even if I remained resistant. And I can’t explain it or point to any one reason why, but shortly after Mom and Dad’s disastrous visit, sometime during the second half of the semester, things began to change. If only a little. I stared spending less time in my room and a little more time trying to integrate myself. I remember hanging out with the guys more in the TV lounge. I also allowed myself to be drafted” into playing intramural soccer for our floor. I was even coaxed into going to the dorm Halloween party by  Ken Crawford, He and his roomie Gary Frank dressed me as a girl and with Ken as my “date”, we won first prize.

 

Their room was directly across the hall from the one I shared with Paul. And after we were Hallowwed ‘King and Queen”, I began spending more time with both Ken and Gary. They'd invite me in and we’d kill an evening, chit-chatting about sports or listening to records. (Although it seems like we only ever listened to one record, Crawford's copy of ”Procol Harum’s Greatest Hits”. Must've been their favorite because I swear I heard “A Whiter Shade of Pale” about a thousand times that semester. Ken was a large fellow, gregarious, sort of a mini-Oliver Hardy type without the bowler hat (and Laurel). Gary on the other hand, was tall, thin and wore glasses. Serious and geeky looking, he was actually neither. But I liked them both.

 

Besides Gary and Ken, I became friends with floor-mates Lance Jones, Lee Ramaley, Greg Neff, Mike Ruebrecht, Ken Young, Dave Matsamura and Rick Smith, or as everybody called him. "Smitty".  (“Smitty" had been at Whitworth a year before I got there and was still taking classes two years after I graduated. For all I know he might still be. I guess he just liked being in college). And there were the two Brad Sprague's, too. I wonder what the odds are of being on the same college dorm floor with two guys who shared the same name? Probably better than the odds of me getting a date that semester. But Brad L. or “Big Brad” was 6’2” and Brad A, or “Little Brad”, 5’5”’ so it was easy telling them apart. 

And if homesickness, loneliness or self-pity once again tried blotting out too much of the big picture, and none of my new friends were around to distract me, "Mom" Hendrick's door was always open, and she was always ready to lend a sympathetic ear. She was wise and compassionate and I always felt better after having one of our little ‘chats” And slowly-- very slowly-- I started to get it. Being at Whitworth and living in the dorm wasn't so bad after all.

 

But probably the best friends I made that first semester was Bill Woolum.  I liked Bill almost from the start. Though I was a mere freshman from California and he was a sophomore from Kellogg, Idaho, Bill took the time and went out of his way to befriend me. A big strapping kid, I could listen for hours as he retold stories of his youth and of working summers in the Kellogg silver mines. More than knowledgeable in sports, Bill was also well versed in the absurdities of life, and on a dime could crack a well-crafted witty joke or marvelously raunchy one-liner, each punctuated with an infectious bellow of a laugh. I loved hanging with Bill. He was great company.

 

And whenever I felt like doing the proverbial cry in my beer thing, Bill was good counsel, too.  On the days when I was feeling a little bluer than usual- wish he’d been around the weekend my folks were up- Bill would take me with him over to Idaho to kill part of an afternoon. Though I was only 19, that was the drinking age in Idaho so Bill would take me to one of his favorite haunts, the Laker’s Tavern in Coeur d’Alene, where we’d shoot some stick, laugh, talk sports, laugh and knock back a few, sometimes a little more than a few. And by the time we started the 40 mile trek back to campus, whatever my mood when we got there, after the Old Milwaukee on tap and hours of Bill’s stories and good humor, I was always happy when we left. If I never see him again, I'll always have fond memories of my days spent with Bill Woolum, a great guy and a great friend.

Another buddy I made that fall wasn't even a registered student, he was a guinea pig, a little brownish-orange critter named “Flip”. I still don’t know why I thought living in a small room with a stinky guinea pig was a good idea but having “Flip” around turned out to be sort of therapeutic for me; it was good looking after something besides myself and got my mind off my own problems. Given to me by a friend of a friend, Paul was on board with it, so Flip moved in.

 

Having the guinea around gave me a reason to go to the dining hall, too, if only to stuff my pockets with a culinary favorite of all small furry rodents- lettuce. Flip loved his greens. I know, because he was very, very regular and his cage, located right under my desk, required much cleaning up after. When I was studying, I let him out so he could get some exercise. His little squeaky nose took a whiff of everything at eye level, satisfying his curiosity then he’d move on to the next object or corner. He seemed happy enough and was a distraction from the books. But Flip only lasted a couple months.

 

I came back from my journalism class one Tuesday afternoon and, as I always did, peeked in his cage when I set my books down. It looked like he was curled up in a corner asleep so I left him alone. An hour later, though, when I’d heard no stirring and I noticed he was still in the same position, I picked him up and discovered Flip had gone on to that great exercise wheel in the sky. Nobody could figure out why, either. Sometimes little animals like that don’t do so well in captivity. I suppose I could’ve taken him to the science lab and let them do an autopsy. But instead, I buried him by the fence next to the football field.

 

However, and for reasons I still don’t get, after the guinea pig died Gary Frank started calling me "Flip", too.  He said it was out of respect for the dearly departed rodent and its keeper; that I was quiet and small like the real one, too. But living in fairly close quarters, it didn’t take long for word to get around and soon everybody on the floor was calling me “Flip”. At first I didn't like it. My inborn shyness and desire to stay under the radar was now going head to head with an easy-to-remember nick name. But that easy-to-remember and interesting nick name was starting to help me feel less like I wasn't just an anonymous homesick freshman hoping for parole at the end of the semester anymore, and more like I belonged there. Okay, being named after a dead guinea pig may not have been the most image enhancing handle. But for the first time since arriving on campus I felt accepted and liked. I couldn't believe it, but everybody who'd been scary strangers in early September, in late October were now my friends.

And I began joining my new friends in some long Friday nights of M & M's, Dorritos, beer and poker. These South Warren poker parties moved from room to room, all were penny ante (played with real coins) and to play all you had to do was show up with a cup or cap full of spare change. There was no minimum or limit and we played until last round or until you ran out of money. But if you were in good with your roommate or had coinage stashed inside a car ashtray or something there were no rules prohibiting the acquisition of more change in-game. We didn't play Texas Hold 'Em all night like everybody does now. It was dealers choice;  5 card draw, 7 card stud, Spit-in-The-Ocean, Day Baseball, Night Baseball, 7 card draw (deuces and the suicide king wild), and a simply stupid game called “Chicago” (or Indian Poker).
 

In “Chicago”, everybody gets one card, dealt face down. When everybody’s dealt, all at once everyone picks up their card and holds it on their forehead. Everyone at the table sees your card except you. You could have an Ace or a deuce, but you don't know. You bet on what you see and hope your card is high. One night, there was a “Chicago” hand where the highest card showing was a four of hearts. Greg Neff had it- and obviously didn’t know it- but after round and round of bets, for whatever reason, everyone else at the table had folded but me. So I just kept raising; surely I was holding something better than a stinking 4 of hearts. There was probably ten bucks in the pot and I was imagining how I’d spend it. But when I called him and we looked at each other’s cards, Greg's three of spades had beaten my two of clubs. I told you it was a stupid game.

 

However being in college was finally fun. That was the longest, loudest laugh I’d had- and shared with others- all semester. And as the nights- like that one- and days ticked by until mid-December, it was odd finding myself thinking I didn't want that once unpleasant three months to end after all. I’d started to like my classes and dorm mates and, much to my shock, had started to like Spokane and Whitworth College. I was beginning to think- and believe- how badly I’d misjudged it and hadn't given it much of a chance. But now I knew now it was a good school, a fun place to attend school. There was something really special about the place. I had friends there, too. People liked me. And now I was going to turn my back and leave it all behind.

On the night before I left  Whitworth College, for what could’ve been the very last time, I shook hands and said goodbyes to people who, in September, I hadn’t known; wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but was certain they wouldn’t want to know me. Now they were a part of my life, a good part, and I hoped I’d get to see them again. But when I drove off the next morning, there were no guarantees. Because of my deal with Dad, I hadn’t committed to the spring semester and, technically, had forfeited my room and place in the dorm. And it was too late to change my mind. If I chose to come back, the only thing the registrar’s office could do was leave me on a South Warren waiting list.

 

In essence, I’d screwed up in reverse. Instead of looking forward to going home- like I thought I would- now I kind of wanted to stay. That is NOT how I felt in September, although the end results were about the same. In September, I’d have done anything to stay where I was. And by December, part of me- most of me- wanted to stay where I was. I didn’t want that Friday night to be my last night in Spokane or the end of my days at Whitworth College. But with my car loaded as if they were, on the morning of December 14, 1974 I began my return trip home, setting off in a driving snow storm.

 

I was lucky to make it back all in one piece, too (see “Somebody Up There Likes Me”; blogpost 2.1.11), and after getting home, for a spell I semi-contentedly settled into life post-Whitworth. After leaving in such bad weather, I enjoyed an unusually warm Northern California January; playing golf and baseball with my neighborhood buddies, and basically just hanging out a lot. We even went to a couple Oakland Seals games. However, there was the issue of my agreement with Dad- which got in the way of me having such a good time. So I also went out job hunting several times a week, though, admittedly, in a mostly half-hearted way.

 

But one night on the way back to Sac from the hockey game in the Bay Area, I was bragging to the guys about being able to get hammered in Idaho, about how cool it was being out from under parental control, to do whatever I wanted, anytime I wanted. How Whitworth hadn’t been such a bad place after all; that I’d made some really good friends. The car got quiet until, from the back seat, Scott Winter asked a very simple question, “Then what are you doing here?” I had no answer. That’s when I knew I was going back. And to be honest, when it was clear my lackluster efforts would rule me out from holding up my end of Dad’s deal, I started counting the days.

 

On February 6, 1975 I began the return trip to Spokane and, in contrast to the previous fall, this time willingly. And I ran into weather, from Redding on, as bad as when I’d left Spokane in December. It was a difficult journey. But I didn’t care. God guided my path, I was able to get the classes I wanted, was able to get back into South Warren and I got to room with my best friend, Bill Woolum. It’s like the stars were all perfectly aligned, just for me. And when I finally got back to campus the following evening, it was the start of the most exciting four year adventure of my life; some very awesome days were waiting just beyond the horizon. And I'm forever glad I got to go back.

 

On this subject, however, I just hate having to admit both parents and my brother were right.