Here are four short episodes of things about LeTourneau. I have enjoyed reminiscing about those activities and conditions of “long ago.” These four are from the first year, if not from the first semester in Longview. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did living them and now recalling them.
1. Humidity
I grew up in southwestern Nebraska, as noted before, and the (relative) humidity there rarely got into double digits. It was dry. And even when a muggy evening did occur, it all disappeared over night. As we ventured out into the day to begin with chores, including milking 30 to 40 cows, we were met with cool, brisk air. Clean, breathable air that infused a new sense of life and ability.
So when I made the transition to Longview, Texas, to what I deemed to be the humidity capital of the country, I was surprised. First, the dorm, Tyler Hall (second floor, thank you) was air conditioned. Our farm was not air conditioned. Later Dad did install a window unit, Fedders, I believe, that took the edge off the heat, but to sleep in a cool room was foreign to me.
Not that I did not appreciate it. It is easier to add a sheet or cover than it is to shed more when you are sweating like a hog. (PS: Did you know that this saying is bogus? Pigs do not sweat. That is why they have to wallow in a mud puddle. That keeps them cool. And it did get hot in Nebraska. But I digress.)
Heat in Nebraska was nothing like heat in Longview. The heat was combined with high humidity and every moring for the first year I would descend the stairs to the first floor, (the stair well was not air conditioned, as I remember), look out the glass door at a fresh new day, push open the door–and nearly gag. The hot, humid air was oppressive and seemed like a ton of bricks hitting my lungs. It had a peculiarly noxious odor that I attributed to the red dirt surrounding Longview. I was informed that the red color was from iron in the soil and it formed iron oxide, rust.
Dirt was and still is, light brown in Nebraska. When I moved to Illinois and Iowa I saw some black dirt, that was really black. It did not smell. Years later, I visited campus on a job and noticed that the Eastman Kodak company had a plant just south of the campus. All of the years I lived in Longview, I attributed the bad smell to red dirt, when it was the chemical facility. This is particularly poignant, because my major was–wait for it–chemistry.
I am still amused that I did not recognize that simple fact. The EPA probably made them clean up their emissions, which, ironically, I was involved with in my second career of hazardous waste remediation.
2. Cafeteria
The campus was, and still is, situated on Mobberly Avenue in Longview. (I checked a map.) I lived in a new dorm, Tyler Hall (second floor) that was 40 or 50 yards inside the campus on the main drag that went from west to east through the campus. Mobberly Avenue and a Gibsons Store were on the west terminus of the road and the campus cafeteria was maybe 100 to 150 yards to the east. (Memories and perceptions of distances may have varied over the years.) From Tyler Hall we walked past the main administration buildings and on to the also new “Women’s Residence Hall.”
WRH was an early example of “If you build it, they will come.” There were probably less than 50 females on campus and each wing, of which there were four, would hold 32 (memory glitch?) students. So two full wings were “empty” of women, and inhabited by men for the time that I was there. The entrance to the lounge, which opened to all four wings was blocked at the door of the men’s wings.
The campus was a former army base and every original building was a barracks. They were all connected by covered walk ways. So from the Admin building one could get to just about every other building on campus under cover–except the new ones. That does not enter the story, but I just remembered that detail. The “new” WRH was actually four refurbished barracks, connected by the common lounge. They had brick siding to make them look new. They were okay, and I resided there for three years. (In the men's side, of course. Our designation was WRH Southwest.)
So the trip from dorm to the cafeteria was a good little walk. One day, probably during the first week we were on campus, and most likely one of the first days, I was outside, just looking around. I noticed that a guy from my floor was heading toward the cafeteria.
I had nothing to do, and did not have a watch, so I assumed that he was heading to supper. Does anyone remember Saga? I guess that is a pretty big campus food supplier now. They usually had “enough” so that we didn’t starve, but no one considered it a culinary delight to eat there.
I dropped into step with the student and asked, “Are you heading for the cafeteria?”
“Yep,” he replied and we walked on together. We probably just made small talk about where we were from, or what our majors were, or stuff like that. It was a long hot walk. As we ascended the steps to the cafeteria, I noticed that there was no line. We got inside, to the waiting hall that led to the dining room proper and not only was no one there, we did not even see the cashier.
I commented that this was strange to be so deserted. “Why?” he asked. “It is only 4:00. We don’t begin to serve until 5.”
“We? Do you work here? Why didn’t you say that you were coming to work instead of letting me walk all the way here?”
His name was Ed, and we became very good friends, and even lived together for two years in WRH. But he was exasperating. “You just asked if I was going to the cafeteria. You didn’t ask if I was going to eat. I answered your question.”
Oh well, I needed the exercise and diversion anyway. Years later, Ed even remembered our first encounter and marveled that we had become friends. He was worth it. I was even in his wedding.
End of tale.
3. Pronunciation
The pronunciation of words has always fascinated me. I was particularly entertained by Mr. Moser, the first year chemistry teacher. He had a heavy German accent and had learned to speak English in England, I believe. He had several British pronunciations for elements and other chemical terms. One I recall, and still hear a lot when a British speaker is involved. He called aluminum, Al-U-`Min-E-Um. Say it fast.
“A-`luuu-min-num,” student after student corrected him. He didn’t change.
What was even more entertaining was the Japanese student that we had in our class. Mr. Moser constantly, and, we thought, deliberately mispronounced his name. (Spelling is approximate.) When Mr. Moser saw it on the roll, he “sounded it out.” “Nisshy-`mora,” he called out.
“Ni-`She-Mor-ah,” came the reply. I do not remember his first name. We all called him Nishemorah, as he said it. Mr. Moser refused to change. That was brought to my memory on August 6 when we noted the day that the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Japan.
One day in class, we got to talking about that, and someone mentioned `Hero-shima. Nishemorah corrected, “Hir-`RO-shama.”
Like Mr. Moser, we had that wrong too. Nagasaki seems to be pretty straight forward. Recall that this was about two decades after the attack, so the Japanese were still, and probably still are, pretty sensitive about it. At least pronounce it correctly.
That was likewise triggered in my memory as I talked to my doctor this week. I said that I was taking magnesium sal-a-`cyl-ate. He repeated that sa-`lys-ilate does reduce inflammation. His pronunciation is evidently the medical way of saying it. My way is the chemistry way. I will recall the bombing of Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima every time I hear salycilate from now on.
4. Kid on a Car
This might require some more campus geography. We were freshmen in 1965 and were the fortunate beneficiaries of two new campus buildings. We had a new library and about 30 to 40 yards north, was a new science building. There was another 40 or 50 yards on to the main campus road which ran east and west to the aforementioned Mobberly Avenue. The intervening space was just open grass.
One night, as I was returning from the library to the dorm, Tyler Hall, second floor, I was passing the science building which was separated from the road by about 40 yards or so. I noticed that a car had stopped right in front of Tyler hall and some kids had gotten out. I recognized one of the guys. He was another freshman.
A little history is in order here. We were told wild tales of former students, whom the town boys called “Techies.” In turn the college “men” called the high school students, “Townies.” Older students recounted pitched battles between the Techies and Townies, who were defending their territory, and incidentally, women, against the aggressive Techies. (Did I mention that there were about 50 women on campus when I was there? When LeTourneau Technical Institute began it was a male only school. It wasn’t until about 1961 that it became coed.)
Many of the Techies were verterans, as the GI Bill paid for education, and they took advantage of it. These battles, as I noted, were quite intense, with the older verterans having a lot of experience and training compared to the townies. The townies retaliated with ball bats, clubs, and bicycle chains. These were serious altercations.
So when I saw the “techie” talking to town girls, I quickened my step just in case this was the portent of trouble. Maybe her town boy was involved. The noise turned out to be laughing and “horsing around.” The student, I do not recall his name, exuberantly leapt onto the hood of the car, reared himself up on his knees which were on the bumper, and raised his arms in what would now be called a reverse “Titanic salute.” His back was to the road, as he precariously knelt on the bumper.
Laughing, she revved the car’s engine, but he remained in place. Then she started to roll forward accelerating a little, then slammed on the brakes. I saw the brake lights flash. He did a backwards “plank” onto the road with a sickening thud. She backed up, and accelerated around the body and raced off campus.
I was running, with my books, toward the scene when several guys from the dorm poured out of both ends. The dorm probably had 15 or so rooms on a side with three floors, three guys per room. So 30 to 40 or more witnesses could have been looking out. Several were, and they, like I, were horrified.
I was not the first one there, and would have been worthless anyway. Someone shouted to call an ambulance. We left him alone on the pavement. (No 911 or cell phones then, so someone ran back inside to one of the pay phones at either end of the hall.) Soon the police and ambulance were there to deal with the situation.
Not too long after that, the car returned, and several of us pointed it out to the officer or officers. But the girl and someone else, probably her parents, got out and visited with the authorities. End of story...for three years.
During my senior year, someone commented offhand at the cafeteria that he had been in an interesting trial that morning. Curious, I listened as he described a trial about a LeTourneau student suing a town family for injuries that occurred when he was run over on campus. It had happened when I was a freshman.
I asked some more questions and realized that this was the same “accident” or rather incident that I had witnessed. “I saw that,” I exclaimed.
He was shocked. There had been no witnesses at the trial. It was the plaintiff, the student, claiming that she had run over him in front of the dorm. She denied it, saying that he had been on the hood of her car and jumped off. “He said–she said,” with a twist.
I told him what had happened and he said that he would call the attorney. I waited and he came back and asked if I would go to court and tell what I remembered. I did. This was an interesting episode. No Perry Mason or anything like that.
The judge asked me what happened. Both attorneys just sat there, not knowing what in the world I would say. Now, I know that neither was particularly happy, because the worst thing to happen in court is for a witness to say something that you do not already know. And neither knew what I would say.
I recounted the story as recorded about, without the Titanic reference, and the judge thanked me for my civic service. He did comment that this made things look a lot different–for both sides. I saw the same guy at supper/dinner and he said that the two attorneys had agreed to negotiate a settlement. Neither party was without blame and a settlement would reflect that.
Why is this story important? I remember my Dad asking me, “Is that what this is for?” It was after I had broken or somehow damaged a tool or other object trying to use it for something outside of its intended purpose. I deliberately asked my kids that from the time they were toddlers in hopes to instill that thinking into their active operational practice.
You cannot tell them every dumb thing that they, or someone else will think of to try, but if they have “Is that what this is for?” ingrained in their thinking, they are more likely than not to avoid their own dumb mistakes. That event indelibly impressed this concept into my thinking. I was running, shouting for him to stop. He was definitely using something the wrong way. So was his erstwhile date. Both regretted it.
Thanks Dad.
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