As of this past May, I have five grandchildren who have graduated from college, two with Masters degrees. I know it's bragging, but I don't think of it that way. It's simply a fact. They are gainfully employed, and relatively responsible members of society. When they look back on their not so long ago college days, they break out in smiles. What great experiences! What wonderful fun! What cool bars! And...nearly all of these little darlings have "cum laude" or "magna cum laude" cords hanging someplace on their wall. Where did these kids come from? Not from Grandma, unfortunately. I just don't have tremendously happy memories of college. For example:
When I went to college (and, trust me, I couldn't wait) I knew I was hot stuff. I had graduated from St. Mary of the Plains High School third or fourth, maybe fifth, in my class academically. That is pretty good considering we had maybe 36 people in our class. Or, was it 26? No matter. I had been a cheerleader, third page editor of the school newspaper, and editor of the school yearbook. Those are hot things. I had also chosen the theme for the Junior-Senior Prom--Bali Ha'i. South Pacific (the movie) had been out for a few years but, apparently, had only recently reached Dodge City because I was totally enthralled with it and the Bali Ha'i concept. Obviously, I was ready for college...the big leagues. Kansas State University of Agriculture and Applied Science, here I come.
On the second day of classes at KSU of A&AS, I was happily hurrying to my Freshman Honors English class. How did I qualify for an Honors English class, you may ask? God only knows. Apparently, there were major problems with the non-computerized standardized testing system of the time. However, there I was entering a rather dingy classroom wearing my oh-so-new plaid wool skirt and matching sweater and feeling oh, so good about myself.
I think his name was Ralph Adamany, and all of his tall, dark, gorgeousness was casually draped against the drab, scratched instructor's desk at the front of the rather drab, scratched room. Without hesitation, I took the seat immediately in front of him. I was 210 miles from home, I'd just pledged Kappa Kappa Gamma, and God had dropped my ticket to heaven right in front of my eyes. It could not get any better than this.
Ours was a smallish class made up (as I remember it) of a lot of Kansas City kids. Big City kids from Big City high schools. I was undaunted, however. They may have looked down on St. Mary of the Plains High School and not been able to find Dodge City on a map, but I was fine with that. I could run with the best of them.
The rather exotic Mr. Adamany began to speak in a beautifully languid tone of his recent time in Italy. Thank you, Lord. This is definitely not Dodge City. He had been studying literature, of course, but way too soon I realized he was also giving us an assignment. Our first reading exercise would be Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms which we would, of course, compare to Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front.
What! What? We are going to do what...before when? Are you sure? Big City Hotshot Guy on my left is already letting us know his feelings on Hemingway's style. I do recognize the Hemingway name but who the hell is Remarque? Does anyone else think it's hot in here? Big City Girl behind me has just begun criticizing Big City Boy's Hemingway theories by presenting her own. Mr. Adamany is looking at her with some interest. Show Off! Can someone open a window? I don't know what these people are talking about and I think I'm just about to topple into a full blown panic attack.
To make a sad story a bit longer, I must tell you that I struggled with Hemingway. I struggled with Remarque. I struggled with metaphors and totally missed similes. Frankly, I was completely over my head. I was in deep trouble. I assume it was either Mr. Adamany's pity, or total ennui that let me escape his class with a C just before I sadly requested he place me in a regular Freshman English Class. I didn't marry this handsome English teacher, nor did I see Italy until I was pushing middle age. In fact, within the week, Mr. Adamany not only forgot my name, he forgot I was ever in his class. Mr. Adamany broke my heart and my spirit. I was never that young, nor hot again
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