Kent State University - Chestnut Burr Yearbook (Kent, OH)

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waay ! ., $ . tf» In the long run (whether it ' s four years long or worse), the best way to get away from the crowd is to carve yourself a niche and hang on for dear life. Niches can be physical, as concrete as Merrill Hall (above) or as claustrophobic as your dorm room. They can also be personal. Good friends, like Dave Sexton, a graduate student in rehabilitation counseling, and Constance Craig, a sociology graduate (opposite), are an almost guaranteed escape from the crowd . . . they usually don ' t even know your student number, so how can they treat you like it? And once you can stand back a little and laugh at its mistakes. Kent State isn ' t such a bad experience. Some students are even willing to give the old University something m return for all its time and trouble, like the Recreation Club ' s Homecoming facelift (next page). After all. you probably won ' t be here forever, and in a year or ten. you might even miss those 19.614 others who were your fellow students in 1982-83.

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r % ■ -. t ' ■ HZ p — - « • - ... - Bob Brindley

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Herb Detrick Yearbook titles are almost always odd, almost never arbitrary. Realistically, how many names could Kent State ' s annual have? The Suitcase? The Radical? Heaven forbid, the Black Squirrel? It ' s a good game, but this is serious business . . . really. The squirrels may be Kent State, but in forty years, the grandchildren won ' t believe it. Tell them this: in 1914, when the first Chestnut Burr was published, front campus was covered with chestnut trees. A blight in the 1920s destroyed most of those trees, but not the tradition that is preserved in the title of the annual. Today, chestnut burrs are basically squirrel bait; they look like buckeyes to a generation raised on the glory that was Ohio State. But the Chestnut Burr never forgets . . . once upon a time those spiney little seeds were h of a hazard to have a yearbook named after them.