The long, journal entry about my mid-March tour of New York City was the last actual notation appearing in my journal for 1956, my Junior year at Kent State. I have no recollection of why I stopped writing in my diary. I may have devoted my time and energy directly toward what I was actually doing, rather than toward merely writing about what I was not doing. Throughout my life, my journal notes often occurred during periods when the days were routine – or when a specific event happened that I thought was worth “preserving.” Some half-century later I’m disappointed I stopped when I did. I have greatly enjoyed re-reading all of those notes and using them, in many instances, as the basis for my reflections.
Although they have been deleted from my memory-bank, the remaining months of the spring quarter surely were eventful, no doubt, even pleasant. The usual Campus Day with its all-night devotion of efforts toward the construction of a float must have occurred. Photos of the effort reveal a hillbilly scene of a log cabin and a mechanical drunken bear consuming moonshine from a jug. Several real-life fraternity brothers with shotguns peeked around the structure and had an interest in recovering what the bear had not yet imbibed. There has been a vague recollection that, having once more worked all night on the float, I napped before the Campus Day prom and did not wake up until it was too late to take my date to the dance. Surely, I apologized profusely to her the next day.
The months between my Junior and Senior years left no indelible memories, except one about corn-on-the-cob. Once again, boredom and the lack of a summer job at a time when it was difficult to find temporary employment in the steel-dominated economy of northeastern Ohio, led me to return to Kent for classes to complete my two undergraduate degrees in four years. I stayed in the men’s dorm rather than in the House or off-campus. A number of Korean War vet friends stayed there as well. One day they decided they wanted corn-on-the-cob and invited me to tag along. We bought what must have been a bushel of Ohio sweet corn, of which there is nothing more delicious. The guys had scrubbed out a metal wastebasket as much possible to use as a container. A small fire was carefully built in a field near the campus and in some manner the water-filled wastebasket was suspended above it. The yield was better than any mythical ambrosia could have been; its memory has been a sensory delight for more than six decades.
Since the remainder of 1956 was not recorded, the beginning of my academic year for 1956-57 had no documentation, but only a mental and emotional imprint in my mind and heart. It was the time when I met Karen, my beloved. She and I began our life together due, in great part, to my lack of memory for names!
Although I have been able to recall events, along with details about places and people, I have never been able to remember the names of the people I’ve met casually. This partial-amnesia has existed all of my life: it began in high-school and may be why I started maintaining a diary in the first place, an aid to help me remember the names of friends in my life.
We were in the Capt Brady coffee-shop for the usual gathering of members of Greek-letter fraternities and sororities at the beginning of the academic year. Lillian, who at the time dated my fraternity brother, Dan, introduced me to her very attractive sorority sister. The two of us spent several wonderful hours in deep, yet light-hearted, conversation. I saw her the following night when I entered the campus handout.
Unfortunately, I did not remember her name. Across a room crowded with mutual friends I shouted: “Hi, Stupid!” With some reluctance, she accepted the greeting. Lillian was greatly disturbed and said Karen was far from being “stupid.” I immediately agreed; saying if I had thought otherwise, I would never have used the reference. Now, fully armed with her name, we had another great conversational evening, repeated for more than the next sixty-some years.