Image: Library of Congress collection (not me!) After chapel we students, about 1000-strong, stop traffic crossing a two-lane state highway, still brick-paved, treacherous to walk across in high heels. (Not that I wore heels often.) Our chapel exodus toward the main campus brings to a halt all the trucks with pigs or cows, their noses visible between the steel bars., eaded to the slaughter house. We are young and therefore immortal; of course, traffic will stop for the tidal wave of youth headed for the campus post office (the PO, pronounced poe), then to a class, or lunch. The PO is critical in these days before internet and social media. I might—and probably will—have a letter from my mother, maybe one from a friend, or a graded exam or essay. On occasion, there is a "call for packages" note; the item too large for our post office boxes, might have snacks inside. We can place notes to one another in intracampus mail, too, so there might be a note and a candy bar from my secret prayer pal. (Each quarter we draw names of girls in our hall and are expected to be encouraging and praying for them.) The PO also houses the teletype machine, cranking out news twenty-four seven—and draft numbers. When the cheap paper scrolls to the floor, someone tears it off and posts the draft numbers on a bulletin board that also carries announcements and requests or offers for a ride home. The teletype also spits out news and weather. For a brief time I read news for the campus radio station, tucked into the back of the PO, which also broadcast to neighboring towns. Given the tight time between my class and my scheduled news slot, I followed the example of other readers, called “rip and read.’ As I walked in the door, I grabbed whatever was pounding out of the machine, reading the text cold, mangling names of places in Vietnam and Cambodia. By the time we cross campus, squeeze into the PO, and grab our mail, much of chapel is forgotten, and it’s on to our next class, or for people who plan well, lunch. My problem is that so many of the classes I need or want to take are at 11, so lunch is delayed. During my sophomore and junior years, 11:00 means Greek class. As we struggling students joked, "I’m not taking Greek; Greek is taking me."
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Baptist GirlI was a conservative Baptist girl who grew up to become a career Christian, working first in a Baptist school and then in a Baptist college. For about three decades, it was very good until it wasn’t, and I had to leave. But the Baptists formed me. This is my homage to the good times and good people of the world I left, finally, at forty-three, when I became an Episcopalian. These are my memories; others might disagree with my recollections. So be it. Archives
January 2024
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