Harpur College 1966 Yearbook (Binghamton, NY) - Full Access

November, 1962 College so far: for the first weeks I was lonely. Mostly I wandered around, afraid to go into the snack bar be· cause I didn't have anyplace to sit. Wrote letters and prayed for mail, made up a routine. Socially out of it, thanks to about a million grease ball cool guys who moved in immediately during orientation. A freshman boy is the lowest social animal. I'll hang on and wait out the greaseballs: let them ooze and drip dry. (note to my– self: be more honest. You just don't want to get "shot down" as they say. Haven't really spoken to one girl yet.) The kid next door has gotten the Ack-Ack so many times he wears a parachute to the phone. Flies too low, I guess. December, 1962 Went out with the guys to the local hangout, Sharkies. Noticed the entire basketball team drunk there. Feel less guilty. Had my first beer and did not get sick. The guys were great - what was nicest was that they knew my name. "Kress," they called me. I like that. January, 1963 Xmas is over. I feel like NOW I could use a vacation. never thought I would fight so much with my own fami· ly. I figured I'd just come liome and go to a few movies, see my friends and have a generally good time. That's what I thought. I seemed to have forgotten that "a lot of people love me and want to see me (not really people; relatives). Also I .forgot about picking up my socks and drinking every last drop of milk in my glass. Finally, and worst of all, I apparently had forgotten how to be a lov· ing son and brother. I did everything wrong. But wait, I'm supposed to be independent now, right? I should come and go as I please. I shouldn't be afraid to do what I want. Still, there must be a better way to be hap· py on vacations and keep the home crowd happy. I must find it. Now, time to squeeze out the rest of the semes– ter. February, 1963 There is definitely a benevolent God. I have just gotten my final marks and have set the freshman record for the most "urched out" grades. All that after having writ· ten an essay on Vidich and Bensman instead of Upset and Bendix on the soc. sci. exam. I still don't know which wrote which. Second Semester - February, 1963 Ah, there is no end to the devotion and sacrifice of the freshman roommate; in this case, me. One of my dear buddies has been sick, and for the last two nights has treated me to a concert of variations on the tubercular 161 cough. It's no fun trying to sleep in the same room as a dying person, no matter how much you hate him. So I just sat up, spooning medicine into his ugly mouth, waiting for the death rattle; or morning - whichever came first. Somehow I think he'll survive, and, as a mat· ter of fact, I am more than slightly suspicious that he's recovered already. Probably he keeps the coughing and groaning up for my benefit; which is really sweet. To· morrow morning I shall make certain to flick on the ra– dio as I leave for my eight o'clock. His first class is at two. March, 1963 "The Snack Bar" The snack bar has all the charm and elegance of the geriatrics ward of a 19th century mental hospital. It is a big, high ceilinged room, dirty to epidemic proportions, noisy and overcrowded. The lighting is dim, the air is heavy and grey with cigarette smoke. Here is a place where the suicidal plunge even further into depression. The four walls enclose misery, complaint, frustration. The odor is of decay (epitomized by a rotting hamburg– er, invariably atop the food counter); the tenor of voices is a low, keyless moan. Flies do not thrive in the snackbar. The fetid air, poisoned by countless un– washed feet, repels even the lowest insects. Straws wither and die against their glasses. Occasionally, there is the sound of a body thudding to the floor. Here in this place, I spend half my college days. The snack bar has become for me, as for others, life, meaning, essence. I ask: What was childhood without the snack bar? My head grows dizzy from the thought. What will I do without this sacred place when I leave? Is there really, as I have heard, a "snackbar of life"? I pray for it. April, 1963 If there was a course in self-discipline, I must have been closed out. This afternoon I absolutely had to write my Aeneid paper. Unfortunately, however, I happen to have an excellent ear for the sound of a frisbee on the wing - and there was most definitely one on the wing out– side my window. The intense inner struggle lasted a full 4 seconds. I will write the paper tonight (and at home they want to know if I'm really buckling down). As the saying goes: "I might ever" work in this weather. Ah, spring! mid-April, 1963 Meanwhile, I'm definitely transferring out of this hole. Today is the eleventh straight day of rain. The kid next door is already looking for the different animals he's going to save from the flood. I hope one of them is me. My mother was right: Queens is a better school.