Bethel University - Spire Yearbook (St Paul, MN)

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Graduation. For me, the word has especially sweet connotations, because of innumerable experiences indicating that the day would never come. Following is a rough chronological list of some of my “stress points,” or the times when I really questioned whether I belonged in college or if I would be able to make it. (This could also be interpreted as a handbook on how not to go at college.) October, 1972: On this date I received the shock of my life as I was told that The World Book and the Encyclopedia Britannica were off limits as major sources for college research papers. The resulting C- did a lot to undermine my self-confidence in writing, and single-handedly convinced me to avoid sociology as a concentration. September, 1973: This was my exposure to dorm life. I was living in Edgrcn, second floor, old wing. I had heard troubling reports on “dorm life,” yet I always hoped that things would be different for me. But certain aspects of dorm behavior seem to transcend time; they hold true for all ages. To say the least, my experiences with greased toilet seats, shaving cream pranks, loud and obnoxious rock music and dorm raids did little to enhance my enjoyment of Edgren, and college life in general. One night, while scores of “funloving” Edgrcnites ran through the halls yelling, “Let’s cream Bodien, let’s cream Bodien,” 1 almost packed it in, but somehow I managed to make it through the year. January, 1974: We were on a basketball road trip, returning from Iowa (where we had lost our game by over thirty points, thanks in part to my five fouls and two technicals). Predictably, we were in the middle of a blizzard and the heater in our van did not work. We dared not to go to sleep, for fear of not waking up, so we had been playing some sickening word games, that help pass the time but are never fun. I had just lost three consecutive rounds of the Who, What or Where game on irritating technicalities. The radioman could not find any country music, opting instead for some sickening rock song. (I believe it was “Do the Funky Chicken.”) You cannot imagine my state of depression; the combined weight of all those negative experiences was nearly enough to break me, to make me give up college once and for all. March. 1975: I was in the frightful clutches of a disease which can only be termed, “junioritis.” 1 turned to heavy pinball playing. (Some friends even suggested that I had developed a pinball dependency.) Electronic games became my major pasttime while the books collected dust and the work piled up. Luckily, a nearly total depletion of funds, and a severe case of pinball elbow saved me from forgetting school completely. October, 1976: Oddly enough, this experience took place on the golf course at scenic Como. To set the scene, I was taking a proficiency test for golf, to receive a phy. ed. component needed for graduation. You see, I made the ridiculous mistake of leaving a good number of my phy. ed. components until my senior year. There was no way I could take all the classes that I needed, so I was forced to try and test out of several of them. To pass the skills aspect of golf, I needed to score a 94 at Como. After a so-so start on the first couple of holes, highlighted by a near disasterous flirtation with the water on number Five, I suddenly found myself lying six and par five eighth hole. I was still a good distance from the green. Looking at a possible nine for the hole, I also saw the possibility of totally blowing up and blossoming to a disasterous 96. My whole college life flashed before my eyes as I approached the ball; the fear of total academic ruin stared me in the face. That single eight-iron shot seemed to stand between me and the Bachelor of Arts degree. Although 1 did hit a good shot and eventually managed an 88 for the day, I often wonder what would have become of me if I had topped that chip shot and wound up with a quadruple bogey 9. PAUL MEALY