Here I am, going back to school.
May and June are the months for graduations, and I’m going back to celebrate my 70th, yes, make that my 70th anniversary of my graduation from junior college in North Carolina.
My friend, Gail, is driving with me.
I could have done it by myself, but my children would have had a fit, and I knew a trip with Gail, and the time for shopping somewhere, somehow, sometime was an absolute given.
As we crossed the state line, my memories crowded back, as I spent most of my growing up years in Hickory, and then in Raleigh at Peace University for my two junior college years before I transferred back to Lenoir Rhyne.
This old school was used as a hospital during the civil war, and had remained largely unchanged since that time. It began as Peace Institute, then Peace Junior College for Women, then Plain Peace College (because men were now on campus) and now Peace University.
I lived on the fourth floor of the main building, and there was no elevator, so even though I ate about $10 worth of doughnuts every day, the climbing of all those stairs several times a day ate up the calories. The other building in my day had classrooms on the lower level, and dorm suites on the top floor.
About eight years ago, my daughter brought me back to a reunion, ,and I had a great time. There was music during the Saturday night dinner, and the young girls and I danced under the big tent. My daughter was horrified, and I can hear her now saying, ‘Mother-r-r-r,” as her eyes rolled at me.
And now there were going to be men on campus, so I had my watusie ready to rumble. Sadly, not a single dorm man came to the gib bash. The few men were husbands with older wives who had a grab-hold on them. And there was soft grass under the tables, and the dance floor was way up front and very small, so I just sat at my table. There were not a lot of young girls present, and most of those, Gail said, had come for the wine.
That wasn’t the only surprise that day.
We met for mimosas at 10, followed by “art.” I thought we were going to gaze at some of the paintings on main hall, and instead we were ushered into the lecture hall where some canvas and glasses of water and paper towels awaited us and some acrylic paints.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, toddlers and babies, the other thing I absolutely cannot do is paint. I can’t even write a straight line because of my astigmatism. They had sketched out the fountain in front of the main building, and we were supposed to mix paints to match the color painting in front of us, but many feet away.
Happily, we couldn’t finish before lunch, and so there was no “show and tell.” We were instructed to take the canvases home and finish them later. I bought some acrylic paint, but I promise you that, without instruction of what to mix white with or black with, there is no way I could match the original.
Thankfully, no one here in Manning has the original to see, and even if they could, they would not be able to find my painting in the back of the closet. My friend, Gail, was going to cheat and let an artist here in town finish hers. I should have done the same.
At lunch, they re cognized a table of 30-year graduates, two ladies celebrating their 50th and then it was my turn. They said nice things about me, and came to my table and pinned a lovely gold reunion pin on the lanyard holding my name. It was very special.
We had two buildings in my day, and played basketball on a dirt court outside. A story my son likes for me to retell is about the first dance we held on campus. They had gotten a bus load of North Carolina State boys to come and meet with us, and before the dance, the Dean of Women called us together and told us: “Now young ladies, it is too hot to dance cheek-to-cheek, and jitterbugging is not good for a young lady’s insides.”
Now, the campus is full of buildings and a large gym, and a great library without any books. You see, now there are “pods” consisting of a table and chairs and a computer. If you want a book, you call for it from the stacks, or just read what you want directly on the computer. Since I had given them a copy of each of the books I had written, I was very disappointed not to see them. The young librarian said she was going to pull them from the boxes and put them in the antiquities room.
Now, you see, I am an antiquity.
After all, how many 88-year-old women get to celebrate their 70th graduation ceremony. They still carry armfuls of red roses and throw one in the fountain after the ceremony. And we did the same thing the day I went back and had a chapel service. They gave each of us a red rose as we gathered around the fountain and sang our alma mater. I had forgotten the words, but after all, how many little old ladies get to even stand around the fountain, much less sing about it. And now I am going to keep my watusie ready just in case I get to go again.
