Author: patcamerino

College years were ones in which strange events became part of my life. Things happened that were totally different from any I had encountered in high school and would never have expected, given the limited social interactions I had back then. One of them began in a very unanticipated way.

It was midweek when my pledge class had been called together for an evening work-session to prepare the House for a weekend rush party. Fraternities seemed to be constantly desiring to expand memberships. As a result of the winter smoker, we had become pledges only a month ago, but we were now part of the spring season for recruitment. My class was required to get the House ready for the event.

Our work started about 10:30 p.m. We cleaned the House from top to bottom. I, like fellow pledges, tried to get out of doing some of the work, or at least, to find something that was not too energy demanding. About 2:00 a.m. Jerry Lange, the house-manager, sent me out for newspapers to line the cupboards. I was returning from the J&E all-night diner when Chuck Ramsey, one of the Actives, yelled to me from a car he was driving. I stopped.

Suddenly three other Actives rushed toward me from the idling car. There wasn’t much use in my running. The four of them shoved me into the car and blindfolded me. Off we drove. We passed the greenhouses on the edge of town (the blindfold had been placed rather haphazardly) and I was lost. Finally, after many bumps, we stopped.

I was led out of the car. I heard nearby crickets; we were definitely in the country outside the town of Kent. I was told not to remove the blindfold until I heard the motor start up. Then I was to remove it and walk down the road at my right until I came to Jack Hinley, a fellow pledge, who was tied up. The car drove off; minutes later I found Jack and untied him.

The moon was bright so walking wasn’t too bad. But why walk back to Kent; what other way was there? The trucks that passed wouldn’t stop. Finally a car with a somewhat drunken driver squealed to a stop. He gave us a ride into Brimfield. There we found a telephone. The actives had taken my money but Jack had a dime. We called the House in hopes that a pledge would answer. Ed Burley, our pledge-class president, finally did, after a struggle with one of the Actives who had been in the car with me. Jerry finally allowed one of the other pledges to come for us; he claimed he needed our help to finish cleaning the House.

Our fellow pledge finally found Jack and me. My only problem was: Why, while we were walking for an hour, did Jack have to keep singing, “Boomerang?” (“What can I do? Why can’t I come back to you? Just like a boomerang … boom, boom, boom-erang … right back to you …”)

We worked until 4:30 a.m. and polished shoes until 5:30 a.m. Then we marched through the House, singing. The Actives didn’t appreciate our recital. I then went to the Diner for coffee. I had wake-duty at 7:00 a.m. and saw no point in going to bed.

The strain didn’t show until that afternoon when one of the Actives told me he didn’t like the parody script for the rush party he had asked me to prepare. I was to write another one. For some reason I felt like crying. I almost de-pledged right there. But that would have never gone over. I wrote a new script which he turned down in favor of the first one. That evening we didn’t use either one.

But we did use our best smiles as we drank beer at Rocky’s. Afterwards, a “cut session” was held to determine who should be invited for another smoker. The session lasted much too long. I saw the Actives in all their oratorical glory, even though we were merely pledges and had no inclusion in the decisions made. And then I went to bed. Exhausted, but happy.

The prelude to Hell Week started on Friday. It was the nicest part of the final week of pledging. At 3:00 p.m., pledges assembled at the House and were divided into groups for our “long summons.” In the basement, pledge-master Dan Patridge told Ken Kalish, Jack Gordan, Jack Hinley and me to go to the Delta Gamma house for a letter containing our assignment. And so, we were off in Hinley’s yellow convertible.

When we arrived at her sorority house, we were told that Barbara Springer (Jerry Lange’s girlfriend), who the DG’s thought might have the letter, was in class. The four of us went to the Brady for coffee, and, for the next hour, made guesses about where we might be going for the weekend. Once back at the Delta Gam house we waited for Barbara. When she returned, she informed us she knew nothing about a letter. However, some entertainment might refresh her memory. We sang and danced. Ken prayed to “Budda-Budda” for a good DG convention in Akron tomorrow. Finally, she remembered the letter. Our destination was Ohio State.

It was a long drive. With a stop for eating, we reached Columbus about 9:30 p.m. A telephone book gave us the address of the Delta Upsilon House, which we found thirty minutes later. No one at the House knew we were coming. However, they located four bunks and a place for our bags. The House was not impressive, although it was much larger than ours back home. The furniture was worse, with cigarette burns in practically every chair. The Actives did not seem too friendly, either.

No one volunteered to take us out for a drink, although they did tell us how to find Larry’s, a local bar. At Larry’s we managed to get some 3.2 beers. When the place closed at midnight, we went back to the House where we talked until 1:00 a.m. We did not meet any pledge brothers for they, too, had gone on their own long summons this weekend. And so, to bed.

On Saturday morning, I awoke voluntarily at 7:30 a.m. The other pledges were rolled out at 8:00 a.m. We were “requested” to paint the front porch. The Sauter-Finegan jazz band was coming to OSU that evening to play for the Military Ball. They were to dine at the House before their concert. Instead of helping paint the House, we skipped out for breakfast at a local diner.

Then we went looking for pledge paddles that we were to buy as part of our assignment in Columbus. We finally found a place and had the manager put them aside. We looked over OSU’s Student Union building I had first visited while still at McKinley High School. Once again, I was thoroughly impressed. The MAC bowling tournament was being held there. Of course, with Jack Gordan, our addicted bowler, we had to watch.

We also gave the campus the once over. After picking up the paddles we returned to the House before going to the sororities for signatures, which was the next part of our assignment. As we were ready to leave, a brick from the chimney, which was being repaired, fell on Jack’s car, making a large dent in it. The DU’s said they would pay for it.

While Jack took the car for an estimate, Kalish, Gordan, and I went around to the sororities identified by the Kent State Actives for us to visit. The houses at OSU were large and attractive. The DU House seemed about the worst one. Having obtained the required signatures, we returned to our House and helped the Actives paint the front porch. We then went out to eat. Since everyone was going to the dance, when we returned to the House we decided to head back to Kent. We left Columbus about 9:00 p.m.

The weekend was interesting, mainly because of Ohio State, itself. The DU’s there did nothing to add to our weekend. It was a heck of a way to start Hell Week. However, we knew the next few days would be intense and we had needed a quiet way to being. That’s what we got.

Wednesday: games-night began in earnest. It was by far, the most strenuous and the most fun evening of the entire pledge period.

At ten-thirty we were assembled for the mile run. We were driven to a back road and then paced by Actives, who were basketball players, to run to the Big House, a bar-hangout near Kent. One of the Actives, who had become a close friend during my pledging, yanked me from the race on the grounds that I had a “weak-heart problem.” After the race, all of us were driven back to the House and we looked forward to a chance to rest. Ha!

We were welcomed by the usual questions posed during this final week: “What do you do when an active enters a room?” and its follow-up: “How many pushups can you do, Camerino?” Once more I was excused, by my health-conscience Active-buddy, and did not need to follow the command for extensive pushups. Then the games truly began.

The uniform of the day was a jockstrap and a burlap bag with holes for head and arms. First there was the “war game.” The battlefield made use of furniture scattered throughout the living room and first floor of the House. Active-umpires determined who had been killed. The two sides were armed with pledge-paddle guns accompanied by different mouth sounds according to our designated names. The sound for my group was “guinea-guinea-wop-wop.” Our enemies shouted “jew-jew-jew.” We entered the stage singing the Grenadiers’ March, “Sing, row, row, row, row.” Our opponents sang “Abie, Abie, joined the Jewish navy to fight, fight, fight for Palestine.” We guineas were slaughtered.

Now that we were warmed up for war games, we went down to the bare basement for bombardier. Three pledges lay on the floor with a towel protecting their eyes. Three pledges above them on a table were instructed to break raw eggs into waiting, open mouths. The direct hits had to be swallowed! Places were exchanged so all of us played both roles. I received two near hits. Unfortunately, I scored a direct hit on one of my fellow pledges, Ken Kalish. I felt terrible.

Soon the Actives tired of our struggle. One of them started the next round by ordering us to put raw eggs inside of our jockstraps, to crack them, and to do belly rolls and bicycles on the concrete floor. It was gooey. But more goo followed. We paired off in a circle and washed one another’s faces and hair with more raw eggs. Then we were given cups of flour into which we blew. I now knew how a cake feels. The flour stuck nicely on the egg scum.

A potato race followed. Chunks of potato were placed on the concrete floor. We had to squat over a self-selected piece, pick it up with our anal muscles, and carry it as far as we could. I lost mine and had to eat a sandwich which one of the Actives claimed was made of the winner’s potato. It tasted good, only because I recognized its ingredients, one of which was cold chile.

It was past three o’clock when the Actives became tired of our games. We ended them and began to clean up the mess of eggs, shells and flour that covered the floor. While we were cleaning up, I was called aside into the officers’ bedroom on the second floor of the House. It was dark save for the burning ΔΥ candle. I was instructed to mount a straight-back chair. The next test was to show my loyalty to DU. I had to pull down my jockstrap and tie a slip string to my bit of manliness. The string was tied to a rock. If I trusted the Actives, I was to drop the rock. I dropped it and the waxed string parted. I was then permitted to shower and go home for my two hours of sleep before classes.

What was once, I thought, an evening of tortuous fun, would, six decades later, be considered to represent an evening of hateful torture. I could have omitted writing about Hell Night, but it was an important event in my life, one which led to a comradeship I had never experienced before nor afterwards. Today, the hatefulness would be associated with the language we used, words which, at the time, we did not consider being hateful. They were part of the ongoing culture, one which existed then, but is under radical change, today. The sounds we made during our mock battle, were, to us, as innocuous as the N-word Mark Twain used repeatedly in “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn.”

Just as the words of a former culture are now being modified, the physicality of that evening would no longer be acceptable. Hazing in all of its forms has been eliminated as part of a procedure for initiation into any group. Potential harm is now illicit, if not illegal. Forcing a pledge to down large amounts of alcohol in a brief interval has, rightfully, been eliminated. Fortunately, this was never part of the pledge process with which I was familiar. Being urged to consume psychologically devastating food, however, was used. This activity would be forbidden today. In the fifties, eating green sauces over burned “Mother’s Oats” and drinking blue buttermilk, as we did during our earlier Pledge Banquet, were viewed as elaborate pranks, distasteful but not physically harmful.

The average pledge was skilled in avoiding activities that might, indeed, be harmful. I was not unique in smearing my disgusting repast around my face and hiding much of it under my paper plate. Getting out of running marathons or doing pushups by means of assistance from a friendly Active was also part of the methodology employed by “Hogan’s heroes” as well as by other “collaborators,” throughout human history.

Hell Week and Hell Last night were parts of joining any brotherhood in the mid-fifties. Adversity was employed to help bring about a fellowship. Modern activism is the opposite side of the coin of hazing. Hazing is used by those in power to induce followers, ultimately, to become coequals. Pledges become Actives. Activism is used by those lacking power in order to force Actives to allow the powerless (pledges) to become coequals of the Actives.

Conflict has been used for centuries, if not since the beginning of human culture, as a means to bring about the union occurring in a family, clan, tribe, or nation. We have not yet learned how to bring about unity through a nonviolent system, albeit Gandhi and his followers have tired in modern times. Christianity in its origins was an even earlier attempt, but it, too, suffered from inadequacies. The culmination of “Holy Week” had its own Hell Night before the dawn of a reconciling Redemption.

The final week of pledging Delta Upsilon began with our return from the long summons to the Ohio State Chapter. Monday was work night; the first event was cleaning up the garage. Then we could study until midnight, the customary time for games to begin. However, tonight was different; there was no time for study and the games were called off.

About one o’clock in the morning, we were ordered into the backyard and, with the aid of spotlights, began construction of a patio made with flat, paving blocks. This was the pet project of one of the older Actives. It was never completely finished and was seldom used for any real purpose, other than as a place to practice outdoors for “Songfest” competition, held every spring. Our toil lasted until about 4:00 a.m., when we were finally allowed to get some sleep. The Active who had directed our efforts for his special project had yelled at us so much that he had lost his voice.

Tuesday was short summons. Two groups of pledges were assigned for tonight’s special trips. Five of us were told to drive to Youngstown and get the name of the manager of the Vernier Hotel and the number of rooms it had. Next, we had to drive to Smith’s Corners and count the number of tombstones in the cemetery by the Smith’s Corner’s church.

We didn’t drive into Youngstown. Instead we went to Niles where we ate at the local Handy Andy’s. Then we telephoned Youngstown for the information about the Vernier Hotel. (We may have been mere pledges but we weren’t stupid!)

We also called the Warren highway-patrol and Niles police for information on the location of Smith’s Corners, since it did not appear on any map we had, although we knew it was supposed to be near Niles. Finally, the Youngstown police said it was at the intersection of routes 7 and 46 in Columbiana township. We drove and drove but could find no Smith’s Corners. One of us again called the Youngstown patrol and learned we had gone twenty miles past Smith’s Corners. Tony, the veteran in our class, was really pissed off, especially at me, since I, having come from Niles, was supposed to know where Smith’s Corners was located.

We turned back and at last pulled into a cemetery and counted 980 headstones. However, I had seen no church. A few minutes later we passed a church and another cemetery. A sign read Smith’s Corners. It was less than twelve miles from Niles! We counted 137 headstones and got back to Kent at 6:00 a.m. I had to be up at seven o’clock and decided to go to the diner to reload on coffee, before the real day began.

Thursday, the final night. There were no games tonight, we were allowed to study. The Actives decided to go downtown to drink. At midnight we were herded, once more, into the officers’ bedroom on the second floor to wait. No Active was to enter under any circumstances, unless he was Gindlesberger, Lange, or Bob Owen. The house was quiet; we could continue studying but were forbidden to sleep. I tried to read some psych but couldn’t concentrate. A few Actives tried to get in but couldn’t. Bob Patterson sounded drunk. The pledges made a pool of a nickel each for the first one to go down. Ed Burley collected the money at 12:55 a.m. Shortly afterwards we heard some yelling from the basement. At 1:23 a.m., Jack Gordan was called. I was next.

Bob Owen took me into the hall. He told me to hold tightly to my paddle and not let anyone take it. The actives were drunk and liable to try anything. I descended the stairs slowly, expecting at any moment a fight. The living room was dark. The lights in the trophy case sparkled on the gold. Before the fireplace was a card table with the ΔΥ candle. A knee-rest of some sort was in front of it. I knelt.

Nic LaLumia, our recently elected President, in a blue bathrobe and slippers appeared and sounded like a priest in a Confessional as he told me tonight was the first part of the ceremony. Downstairs they were waiting to interview me for the last time. He had no control over them. He would remain up here. He then draped a blanket over me and instructed me to hold out my paddle at arm’s length and not lose it if an Active tried to knock it from my hands.

Owen blind-folded me and led me through the music room and down to the basement meeting room. He gave words of encouragement and instructions. I knocked on the door of the meeting room. “Who is it?” the Chapter boomed. “Pledge Camerino.” “What do you want?” they demanded. I then began my entrance song, the song which several times in the last week almost made me de-pledge. Knowing I could not carry any tune, the Actives spared me (and themselves); they admitted me before I finished. I was led over what must have been folding chairs to a table. The blindfold came off; I faced a hot-white lamp with my eyes still closed. Third degree commenced.

As I knelt there, pledge-master Dan Patridge asked me questions. The red behind my lids was strangely comforting. A voice on my right, Jerry Lange, helped with the answers, even though I knew them. On my left were Phil Miracle and Bob Patterson whispering wrong answers and telling me not to take this crap but walk out now. I smiled at the situation of the good and bad angles. I didn’t even mind the hot candlewax being dripped on the back of my hands. I withstood the slaps on the paddle.

And then Patterson’s, “Damn it, Camerino, I don’t want you!” Drunkenly he began a tirade against me. What could I do for DU? The others tried to shout him down but failed. “Camerino, you haven’t shown me nothing. Get out of here. Pass the box; I want a vote.”

It was decided a vote could be called. The box was passed. I was told to reach in. A “black ball” was actually a cube. I found a cube! Shaking, I told Jerry. The Chapter exploded at me and Patterson. Al Dalcher then read the rules. Bob was in his right. I was blackballed right out of DU and by Patterson, the last one I’d expect to do that.

I got up and as I stumbled over the chairs to the door, I heard Bob in a drunken, mocking monotone sing, “I ex-pledge Camerino, desire to leave.” I don’t think I cried then. Not until Owen offered me congratulations! Nic learned of the blackballing and offered his apologies. He said I was still welcomed to visit the House; Patterson was graduating. I said I had no hard feelings about the fraternity or even Patterson, but I wouldn’t be back. I had to give him the pledge pin.

And there was Stillwell. Even he looked sad, and now I’d never get to know him. Someone called my big brother. Dick got my books and we left. Corny perhaps, but the last thing I said was, “Hail Dikiaia.”

Dick and I went out to the car. But his was too far back in the parking lot, so he returned to the house to get someone else’s keys. I stayed on the porch.

He came back and said Nic wanted me in the Chapter room for a minute. When I entered, there was Bob Patterson and the rest of the Chapter. I groaned an “Oh, no” and fell into Bob’s arms. It had been a prank, another waxed string! I was now a Brother. The Actives, all of whom were quite sober, hurried off to get the next victim, Ken Kalish. I slumped down, peeled the hardened candle wax from my hands and talked to Nic and brothers Burley and Gordan.

But shortly I saw Kalish do the same thing I had done. My Big Brother and I then went out for coffee and donuts. We returned for the other interrogations. Of the twelve, ten cracked. Only Imrie and Angle didn’t. Vinciguerra, who had exhibited stomach trouble at the time, didn’t go through anything but third degree. Needless to say, I cut my eight, nine and ten o’clock classes that morning.

It was, according to my journal, Friday, April 29; my pledging of DU had now been completed. I could go into the Chapter Room without anyone’s permission. I had, however, not yet stepped on the seal in the entrance hall. Thinking back, at the time, the previous twelve weeks had been the happiest ones of my life. Yet, the best were still to come. I now had 50 brothers – 50 terrific guys whom I wished were really my brothers.

I dated more and had more “adventures” that quarter than I ever had before. That was important to me, having lacked a real social life in the past. However, more important, I felt I actually belonged somewhere, for the first time.

A later event, for instance, was a vivid example of this for me. I had been looking for transportation into Akron to rent a tux for an upcoming formal. I had no way to get there, so Dick Laird, who had no personal reason to go, drove me into the city. That meant a lot to me; it was my omen for a good future. On the drive, he said that all the brothers liked me, and I had nothing to worry about. I hoped so. I wanted two, happy years in Delta U. And I did.

This memory, however, has now become a bittersweet one. Laird and I had gotten to know each other very well during the following summer when we lived in the House, together, while taking additional classes. However, shortly after we graduated, he died suddenly; he was the first of my closest friends to die, since the days of Jimmy Rossi when I was five years old.

On Saturday after the pledge period had ended, my plan had been to go to the House that morning to work without any need being required for my action. But when I had the opportunity to sleep, I slept. I went down late. No one was around except for Ken Kalish; we had an opportunity for a long conversation.

I had found that Ken was a difficult person to understand. He was subject to moodiness, even more so than I was at the time. Maybe this was one of the reasons I liked him and wanted to get to know him better; he seemed a lot like me. With most people whom I met, I usually accepted or rejected them immediately. However, with Ken it was entirely neutral. But while pledging with him, I found someone whom I would like to have as my best friend, perhaps a replacement for George Davies or Bob Wick from my high school days. Whether he felt the same, I didn’t know. He appeared to be sufficient unto himself. Except for Mike McNally and Dave Imrie, I don’t think he had any close friends. Perhaps even Mike and Dave weren’t all that close. Anyway, at the time, I wrote in my journal that I would keep looking for my “fidus Aecates.” As it turned out, I did find him in Ken.

A couple of years later, when I was about to be married, I asked him to be my best-man. He quickly accepted, even if it could have been a difficult choice for him. Karen and I were to be married in the Congregational church in Sandusky, Ohio. Our wedding would result in my “excommunication” from the Catholic church, the church in which I had been a member all of my life, even though at the time, I considered myself to be a “lapsed Catholic.” Kalish, too, was Roman Catholic and probably should not have been my witness for a non-Catholic marriage. Yet, he agreed and was the only friend to attend the wedding.

He, himself, never married and over the years we have not seen one another, except at a DU reunion or two. Christmas cards, with a short note from him, have been the only confirmation our friendship has continued to exist for the past sixty-some years. My son was named Kenneth Andrew, in acknowledgment of that friendship.

Sunday, May 1 marked the formal beginning of my new life as a fraternity man. I was activated into Delta Upsilon Fraternity at 2:00 p.m. in the Trinity Lutheran Church. The vows were dim, even shortly after their original recitation, but the feeling has persisted. The moment was climatic when Dick Owen, my big brother, dropped the blue and gold ribbon with the ΔΥ pin over my shoulders. And then the welcome by the brothers. My hand ached from the handshakes, but it was a pleasant ache. Big sister, Lucy Fell, congratulated me with a kiss. A reception was held at the House; then a dinner at Rocky’s.

When I wrote these lines in my journal, the time seemed appropriate for me to comment on why I wanted so much to join a fraternity, and, in particular, Delta U. For the past years, I had been searching for something – for what, I did not exactly know. In general, it was, I believed, a feeling of belonging, of being an integrated part of a special community. I believed that joining a fraternity, a specific brotherhood, would be the solution, but even then, I was not sure this could ever really become true. I had been a loner for so long, for all of my life, really.

When I had my first chance over a year ago, why did I not join a group who accepted me immediately? Why wait a year for DU? It was the guys in it. I had considered them outstanding in personality and talent. I wanted to be with those who would challenge me as well as accept me, to be among the “best.” At activation, I believed I had gained what I had wanted during all of the missed years.

On Monday night, I attended my first meeting of the active chapter and was immediately exposed to the alternative. The main discussion centered around one of the active brothers who had submitted a letter saying he wanted to dissolve his membership in DU. He claimed he had gotten nothing but beer from the fraternity. And he didn’t like beer. He maintained the brothers were not friendly enough to him. He was not a brother to them. At the moment, I hoped this would not be prophetic for me; that the event would not be an ominous one.

In the circle of the brothers which always completed the meeting, we joined hands, right hand over left; with the lights out and with strong, warm voices we sang: “Hail Delta Upsilon.” The words included the phrase: “brotherhood glorious.” At the time I felt this was most certainly true. I still believe that it is.

In high school a friendly rivalry had existed between Scott Garrett and me. In college, Alexander (Al) Kennedy replaced Scott. He and I were chemistry majors who shared many of our classes. For a while we were actually roommates living together in Stopher Hall with Carl Oglesby in a triple-room. However, our relationship, unlike the one I had with Scott, went beyond a mere rivalry for grades. Our interactions were, at times, more physical. In a way, we enjoyed them as “social” interactions outside of a mere battle of chemistry majors.

One significant battle occurred on a Saturday evening in my Freshman year. I was studying in my room when I heard someone calling, “Camerinooooo.” I couldn’t locate it in the corridor. Then I realized the sound was coming from the roof. It must have been just after Homecoming, because it was then that I had learned about the trapdoor to the roof we had decorated for Homecoming.

I ran down to the utility room. Sure enough, the trapdoor was open. I turned off the light and waited. The guys were annoyed because they couldn’t see to get down. Having some compassion for them, I turned on the light and went back to my room. A few minutes later I answered a knock on my door. It was Al Kennedy, Ray Tabello, and Tom Timmings. They pulled me into the hallway and tried to pants me. Tom was working on my shoe. It came off and he tossed it behind him. It arced up and broke a light-globe in the ceiling. And who should be watching from the lounge? Bill Douglas and Mark Anthony, the head resident and his assistant. They approached us. While the other three cleaned up the glass, I went to the second-floor lounge. A short time later Carl Olgesby came down. He wanted me to listen to a speech of his. I said we could go to the first-floor lounge, but he said my room would be better.

I compromised by going to his room. He had moved from my corridor to another to get away from his original roommate, Ray Tabello, an Arab student who argued politics with him 24/7. Safe in Carl’s room, I told him of the incident. When I had finished, he opened the door. In rushed Al, Ray and Tom. They left with my pants.

I borrowed Carl’s bathrobe and went to the office to get a duplicate key for my room. When I returned to it, I found its contents completely turned around. The gentlemen then decided I needed a bath and tossed me into the shower. Later when I was dry, and all had been forgiven; we straightened up the room. We then smelled popcorn and traced it up and down the halls to the first floor. We raided the room and got popcorn. With its occupant, whom none of us knew, we talked about hunting guns. We then returned to my room.

Al was taking a shower. We swiped his clothes, and I got my flash camera. He came out clad in a shower curtain which Ray and Tom removed. I got some photos. We thought everything had quieted down. But Al, waiting his moment, jumped me for the camera. There was a free-for-all in which he managed to expose the film, making it useless for future blackmail.

It had been an interesting evening. I enjoyed, it for it meant I had arrived. No one in Niles would have dared to pants me and toss me in a shower. I was very happy.

Another event began, once more, when I was studying in my room. I smelled a strong, sweet odor. A few minutes later I heard a hiss at the ventilator in my door to the hallway. Putting two and two together, I investigated. I went into Al’s room across the hall. He attacked with a spray room-deodorant. I made a hasty retreat to my room and locked the door, after stepping on Al’s foot to force him to withdraw it from the doorway. Then armed with a spray-type shaving lather, I attacked Al. A battle ensued in the corridor. Another resident in our hall opened his own door. Al and I rolled into his room. As Al sprayed deodorant into my face, I covered him with lather. The resident living where our battle was occurring separated us, but not before I had broken the rims to my glasses. And so ended another incident in the Camerino-Kennedy struggle. Looking like a latter-day Harry Potter was acceptable – another indication that I had now become a regular guy and not merely an academic wizard.

Student Council Election: In the beginning of May of my Sophomore year, I was elected to the Kent State Student Council as a Junior class representative for the next academic year. I’d been so involved in pledging and fraternity events I almost forgot about this campus-wide activity. In my freshman year I had run as an Independent with the expectation of some backing from Stopher and Johnson halls, the men’s dormitories. I had not been elected.

It was debatable just how much interest KSU students really took in the elections or actions of their Student Council. The majority of voters came from the members of fraternities and sororities who actively participated in the social life of the campus. The other students, the commuters, were more involved, for good reason, with the jobs they held in order to get the funds to attend the university. Student government in the Fifties focused on the somewhat trivial concerns of student lives; student “activism” had to wait for the next decade.

This spring quarter I ran on the “New K” ticket. There was another ticket comprised of candidates from a different set of campus organizations, as well as the “Independents” of which I had once been a part. But this race was different. I even had a conventional poster. Thirty-three percent of the Student Body voted – the largest ever. And somehow, I managed to get the third highest number of votes of anyone seated. Joe Franco, a DU Active, was elected President of this governmental body for the forthcoming year.

There was little time for anything to be accomplished in the few remaining weeks of the current year. There was a picnic-workshop at Hudson Springs, a private watering site near Kent. My journal says there was a wiener roast and that I was glad that I went. It was both fun and instructive.

Campus Day: The major social event of the spring quarter was Campus Day. On Saturday there would be the usual parade of floats constructed by fraternities, sororities and other student organizations. Each float consisted of chicken-wire frames with colored crape paper stuffed in the holes. The results would never rival the flower-endowed efforts of the Rose Parade, but this method was the best you could expect for a state university. The floats were towed by convertibles carrying waving coeds.

At two o’clock on Friday, I had gone to the DU House to work on its float. For the next several hours I had the pleasure of poking crape paper into chicken wire or hauling trash to the dump, until Mark Anthony, the assistant head resident from Stopher Hall telephoned to say I was an hour late for my work at the front desk at the dorm. I rushed home for my scheduled employment but was able to return to the House that evening to listen to the songfest practice led by Jack Gordon, my roommate and now DU brother, for their group-rendition of “Climbing up the Mountain.”

By three in the morning, we were back stuffing crape paper. Some of us were assigned the task of inserting real flowers into the structure. By six o’clock, with the morning sun coming up, the float looked quite attractive. However, I was about frozen and wondered how a night in May could be quite that cold. One of the brothers drove me back to the dorm for a hot shower. I had to change into tux pants and shirt for the “K-Ceremony” later in the morning.

The K-Ceremony had been introduced many years ago by Kappa Mu Kappa, the local fraternity which later became affiliated with Delta Upsilon. The DU’s continued to repaint the large “K” located on the front campus of the university. A ceremonial last brush of white paint was added by the K-Girl, who was “pinned” or “engaged” to one of the brothers and had been actively involved in our events. At ten in the morning, the entire brotherhood marched from the House to the K; they, of course, sung along the way and serenaded the K-girl at the ceremony, itself.

After the K-Ceremony, I went to the staging area to take colored photos of the floats. When I got around to ours, it was terrible. The sun had wilted most of the flowers. Without the mini-vases of the Rose Parade, it made sense for us to use crape paper! The theme for this year’s parade had been an International one. Our float consisted of a large globe and three brothers representing the three major racial groups as “One Brotherhood.” One of the DU brothers, a swimmer, was the Caucasian; two others had been covered with brown or yellow body-paint, since, at the time, we had no actual nonwhite members. (But then, again, no other fraternity did either.) The body-paint had protected the skin for two of the brothers; the swimmer, was developing a beautiful sunburn.

Finally, about 12:30 p.m. the judges came to do their job. I went to the House to eat and to watch the Parade from our front porch – an excellent view. Afterwards, I returned to the dorm for a well-deserved nap before Songfest. But I slept right through it. It’s a good thing I didn’t have a date for the evening dance. ΑΤO took first place in the floats; DU was third in Songfest. Fortunately, the brotherhood did not need to come in first in order to have fun.

Rowboat Regatta: The following Saturday, at the end of May, was “Rowboat Regatta” – the day when Kent migrated to Hudson Springs and imitated the Ivy League Schools. The races in rowboats were primarily run by “Greeks,” i.e. members of fraternities and sororities. Since I now knew a lot of the participants, I enjoyed watching the events more this year than last.

However, the pleasure of a day in the sun, was marred somewhat. Arch McDonnell and Jerry Lange, two of our basketball players, rowed for DU. Because of a break in his arm, Arch had been wearing a cast and should not have been rowing. Of course, he hurt himself. Not only had he gashed the thumb of his good hand and broken the skin of the other, he also had twisted his muscle under the cast. The pain was great, and he had to lie down. I sat with the darn fool and tried to convince him his losing the race didn’t matter. He was an intelligent young man, but awfully stubborn, as any other athlete tended to be.

Sigma Nu won the race for two-manned rowboats (only the Ivies used sculls). Alpha Tau Omega won the tug-of-war (held with a huge mud-puddle separating the opposing sides.) It was easy to identify the losers for the rest of the Regatta.

Fraternity Formal: On a personal basis, the major social event of the spring quarter was my first fraternity formal. I previously mentioned driving with Dick Laird into Akron to rent a tux for the event. Several days later we had to repeat the trip. Our tuxedos were to have been delivered to a local site but never arrived. So we went into Akron to the source. While I was there, I bought a fancy cummerbund set, something I would never have thought about buying in my earlier life.

Another surprise had also occurred that spring of my new life in college. I had asked Diane Lapolla, whom I’d known since the seventh grade, to be my date for the formal. There were years when I would never have considered such a request and that a positive response could be possible.

We arrived at Sleepy Hollow Country Club a little late, but it really didn’t matter. After the dinner two of the brothers received fraternity rings for their outstanding contributions to the brotherhood. Diane and I didn’t do badly on the dance floor, even in our jitterbug. And we talked on the side porches, which every country club has. I had fun. I think she did too. On the other hand, I knew Dee too well to make out with her on the drive back to Kent. I don’t think we dated again during our years at KSU. She later married Bob Billig, her high-school sweetheart, who had attended another university. All four of us met at several McKinley Reunions in the decades afterwards.

KSU Quiz Bowl: The last college event for the quarter was the WKSU Quiz, a local “college bowl” competition on the university radio station. Joe Fanko, Earl McNeilly and I had been on the team representing DU for the entire quarter. We had won each match and came up against the Vet’s Club for the final three meets of the year. We won the first, lost the second and decisively (210 to 55) won the third and the trophy for the year. The second and third rounds had been taped on the same evening, but the third, or final, contest would not be aired until a later date. Originally, Joe didn’t want us to tell the brothers, but finally decided to, since our next meeting, the last one for the year, would be held before WKSU broadcasted the quiz.

Being part of this contest had been an exciting effort for the three of us. Joe was a political science major and held his own on current events, Earl was our historian (US and world) and I had been expected to cover the sciences. We were on the team for the next two years, as well, and, having won each of the three years, “retired” the trophy before we graduated. The year after I graduated, Karen was on the team for Alpha Chi Omega; they won that year!

Year-end Fraternity Meeting: The final fraternity meeting for the academic year was an ordinary one, other than the announcement that we had won the WKS quiz trophy. “Truth Session,” which ended each meeting as usual (and was the time for each brother to speak his mind without any retort being returned) had many fond well-wishes, especially for all who were graduating. And so for the last time, for three months, we formed the Circle. “Hail Delta Upsilon” never sounded better. I was, indeed, looking forward to two great years.

End of My Sophomore Year: Thursday, June 9, was the last day of classes for the school year 1954-55, the end of my second year of college life at KS. It was indeed a day to remember – in that it was ordinary, well almost ordinary. The year of which it marked the end was far from ordinary. I had never enjoyed life so much as I had this quarter.

As I entered into my journal the lines for the last hours of the day, I speculated that the grades for this quarter might be the lowest in my time at Kent and that I might even lose my scholarship. Yet, I felt strangely content and complacent. At the time, I thought, perhaps, it just hasn’t hit me yet. Or perhaps, the 7-7’s I had consumed earlier in the evening had mellowed me. I was sure I had failed my calculus final that morning and would probably get a C in the course. It was by far the roughest exam I’ve ever had! As it turned out, my first C had to wait until the third quarter of my senior year.

My fraternity pin came in the mail that morning. I thought it looked mighty good. I had stopped at the House in the afternoon for a party and had gone downtown for the evening. Now, in those final lines I wrote: “I’ll miss all this these next three months, but the memories will keep me. I doubt if I’ll ever have a blue mood this summer. I say that now. But that bridge on Robbins Avenue will probably look as tempting as always for a suicide when walking back from the Grill and my contemporaries in Niles.”

On the evening before my 20th birthday, I went to the Studio Theater on campus to see Carl Oglesby’s “None Can Tell a Man.” It was a one-act play he had written, directed and starred in. It was highly dramatic. I enjoyed it. Since I’m no critic, I shouldn’t say, but, for me, the play was somewhat repetitious in parts and the change in character was too rapid, but perhaps that was necessary in a one act. Anyway, Carl’s atheism stuck out all over it.

This morning I had received a birthday package from my mom. It contained a cigarette lighter, a lavender shirt, striped tie, matching socks, a pink, knit tee-shirt, a yellow one, and a yellow, blue and white bathrobe. I liked all of them very much. But I had to admit I was most surprised by the cigarette lighter. On my rare trips to Niles, I had avoided smoking around the house, not realizing at the time that exhaled smoke is never really hidden.

On Wednesday, May 25, my journal had the following entry: “Once again I wish myself a happy birthday. For once I do it without any sarcasm. This has been a good year – the best year. In fact this nineteenth year has been worth the previous eighteen. There is not one thing I would change. I would be willing to relive it, exactly the same. For once I consider myself lucky and happy. This doesn’t sound at all like me, I know. But what more can I want? I’ve found the happiness I desired for so long. I believe I am well-known and well-liked. I am a member of Delta Upsilon at last. I’ve had dates. I’ve lost some weight. I don’t look half bad; perhaps I’ve developed the possibilities of real friendships with Ken Kalish, Mike McNally, and Dave Imrie. I have decent grades and a political position. True, I don’t have a car, but that is purely a physical want that can be remedied in the future. Yes, I’m happy. My hope was rewarded. Suicide is far from my mind now. I have greater hopes for the twentieth year. I think they too will be fulfilled. I say truly: This is a Happy Birthday!”

Yes, I once believed I would never have been able to pen such positive thoughts. And I’m pleased that I did write them down. There are times I have had thoughts of a hopeless life. In retrospect, with this legacy of words, I’ve come to realize there were elements from my childhood and teen years that are worth recalling within a positive light. Those days at Kent State were well beyond what I could have envisioned previously. There were times, in the first seventeen years, when I would walk over the bridge from where I lived on Seneca Street to downtown Niles (a bridge that later was across the street from where my parents lived!) and felt depressed enough to wonder what it would be like to lean over the metal railing and jump. I had not. Even in days of deep depression I had hopes that the future would, indeed, be different. At Kent State I had found that my life really could be different.

Although I cannot recall anything about Carl’s play that I had seen on the eve of my birthday, I am fascinated by the possibilities held in that title: “None Can Tell a Man.” What are the characteristics by which one can tell, recognize, who or what a “man” really is – or will become? Can anyone tell, inform, a man about his future? Is it true no one can indicate to any other what life has been or will be? We are told by gamblers and con-artists that each man has individual “tells” – behaviors which give us away to those who are gifted to interpret these tells, these actions. I also recall words that Carl once addressed to me directly, when we were college friends and roommates. He said: “With very little difficulty I could take your behavior and write a story in which you are the main villain.” I’m pleased he never wrote it; I hope that I have not, either.

The original entry, given below, was manually written in the journal I kept, from time to time, while I was in college, in the late fifties. The “endnotes” were added in 2018 when I began to write my “legacy in words.” A few additions have been made in January 2023 as I revised my biog: CameosAndCarousels.

I have covered just about all of my memories of the earliest years (2) until 1955. And now it is July 3. School has been out for three weeks, yet it seems as if I have been home an eternity.

I sit here now writing, since there is nothing else to do. I am at my desk in my room. It is an interesting desk (3), scratched and dusty. It is quite littered. In the upper left corner is a box of change, but the change is scattered on the desk. On the box is a copy of Wylie’s Generation of Vipers (4) with the dust cover marking chapter thirteen. On the book is a list of offerings of the Modern Library (5). On it is an empty case for my electric razor.

Next on the desk is a white plastic comb, a ruler with English and metric units, an opened package of Clorets (6), a brochure for King’s Men toiletries, a paper with telephone numbers, a handkerchief, a copy of Fantasy and Science Fiction (7) and on it my Bond wristwatch reading 7:22.

There is a wine-covered photograph album (8) with the DU crest, my tee-shirt from WOP-Harp (9) on it and on that, a memo book. The center of the desk has a green blotter-holder. Tucked into one corner is a postcard from Mrs. Zingler declining my room (10) for next fall and a paper critique of The Main Stream of Mathematics.

There is also a scarred, dull-green box index of my books, a bottle of Skrip blue-black ink (11), a listing of the summer addresses of members of Student Council, the cover to my razor (12), twenty-eight cents in change, a movie ticket stub, my wallet, an ashtray (13), a half pack of Pall Mall cigarettes (14), a tarnished gold lighter with my initials (15), two packs of color photographs, a letter from Marilyn Dodge (16), the front of a pocket to a tee-shirt (17), the dust cover to W. Somerset Maugham, Himself (18), a beginning German text, a hanger for pants, a goose-neck lamp, a box of pictures, a pair of old glasses, a pair of scissors, a German edition of Anderson’s Fairy Tales (19) and a pack of keys.

I am not an orderly housekeeper. The interior of the desk would be even more revealing to say nothing of the bookcases and cupboards (20). I think I had best stop now (21). Perhaps, I will go watch television.

(1).  With annotations made 63 years later, almost to the day! The lines of the original journal were written on July 3, 1955; the entries for the footnotes are made on July 11, 2018. They have been modified, again, on January 5, 2023.

(2)   The actual date was July 3, but the entry was made on the page for June 17. I couldn’t sleep and, in the middle of the night, in a hot, humid bedroom, several weeks after I had completed my Sophomore year at KSU, I wrote about my childhood and high school memories. The recollections became, in significant part, the memoirs I’ve written over the period 2018 - 2023.

(3)   The desk in my bedroom was not all that old; I’m not sure how it had become so scratched. I received it as an unusual birthday gift when I was in high school; it remained as part of the family furniture until my parents died and it was given away to someone, unknown.

(4)   This was one of my favorite nonfiction books at the time. It was a critique of American culture and authority in the forties; it was part of my library for many years. It may still be worth a re-reading.

(5)   I once hoped to read most, if not all, of the books published by the “Library.” I never did, but I made a good start.

(6)   This was a breath freshener I used to counteract the smoking-foul-month remains.

(7)   This was one of the magazines I read, dating back to my early days of sci-fi in junior high.

(8)   The cover was “wine colored.” It was not stained with wine, itself. For many years this album held all of the photos I took while at Kent. They are now saved as jpegs on my computer!

(9)   The shirt was a left over from the DU annual picnic described elsewhere. It bore the inscription Round WOP and the imprint of a black hand, both of which lake-water had blurred when I was dunked by willing fraternity brothers. 

(10)   I had planned to live off-campus during my junior year. For some forgotten reason, the rooming house I had chosen became unavailable. I went back to Kent that summer to find another place.  Most vacancies had already been taken, except for a room in the basement of a local funeral parlor! I accepted it, but quickly recognized, when I had returned to Niles, that, at night, I could never walk through the rooms where the caskets were stored, even if my own room was better furnished than any other I had found in Kent. I decided to reside in the DU House for the Fall quarter.

(11)  Real fountain pens were commonly used for writing. The ink was sucked into the barrel of the pen. It was later that ink-filled cartridges were used as being less messy. Meanwhile, a tissue was used to blot the leftover ink on the nib.  Blotters were used to absorb excess ink left on the written page; blowing on the work or waving the paper also helped. Ballpoint pens were a great (much later) invention.

(12)  I have no idea why there was a razor box and a razor “cover” on my desk! The electric razor, itself, must have been in the bathroom! I, also, have no idea why the twenty-eight cents on the desk along with an unused change box were separate. I was, indeed, messy (unorganized) when it came to desk maintenance.  Apparently, I, also, like to stack items on top of one another!

(13)   Evidently, I had started smoking in my room, itself. When I first started smoking in the house, I sat next to the opened window in my room and tried to exhale “outdoors.” Having finally quit smoking, some twenty-plus years ago, I now realize how terrible a room smells with leftover smoke which cannot be eliminated, easily.  

(14)  I began smoking Pall Mall and later switched to filtered Kent cigarettes, not because of the name but rather because the Kents were milder. Somehow, I managed to smoke without deeply inhaling.  I began smoking my freshman year in college (1953-54) and stopped the habit in 2000! By then, I was up to three packs a day.

(15)  This was the lighter I received from my mother on my 20th birthday. I’m surprised it was already so tarnished. I have no idea whatever became of it.

(16)  I dated Marilyn several times during the spring quarter; she went with me to Rowboat Regatta. It appears she wanted to continue our dating, given the letter sent in July, but I don’t associate her with my dates during my junior year.

(17)   I have absolutely no idea of where this came from or why I would have the front pocket of a T-shirt as a souvenir.

(18)  W. Somerset Maugham was never one of my favorite authors. I have no idea why I had the dust cover without having the book, itself!

(19)  I must have been interested in improving my proficiency in German during the summer.

(20)  This is still true. The surface of my desk, desk-drawers, and bookcases continue to house miscellaneous collections. My separate computer desk, with accessories for multimedia productions, is no better; it may be even worse. I do little actual work sitting at my current writing desk purchased in the mid-seventies when we lived in Amherst, Massachusetts. On the other hand, I really do know where “everything” is – or should be. Sometimes, the search takes a little bit longer now than it once did.  I’m not sure if this comes from memory changes or from having the same study for more than a decade and being reluctant to throw too much away.

(21)  This was true in 1955 when the words were originally penned. It is equally true at 5:30 a.m. in 2018.  By the way, for clarity I should add that sometime in the eighties I transcribed my original ink-written journals to an electronic form and discarded the actual books. The only changes made at the time resulted from the spell-check of the WordPerfect program; I never could spell effectively.