Wheaton College - Tower Yearbook (Wheaton, IL)

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- ' 041. f-74 r-'Q IL' FIG f-'A r'4 v-'Q 1-'fs W gi ! 4 I-I-s 4-'Q 1-'fs 1-'Q 0-'Q JJ4 x,1'x+J'xv1'u.f'x-Y,'X-1' 'X,,'dZ AZ gz'N...--'x.f'x.z'XZ'x.f X-f'x,1 '-v,tr-sf,iYf,w,ir-ff,ir-:f,t.Yf.f,iw-:f,t-7 L . , J r1f,m,i,-:f,tv-:f,v-.1,ir4f,i:-:f,i:-ff,v-' THE DEMISE GF BLANCHARD HALL The news came to me one morning many months ago now, as I opened the mail at my desk. It was there, spread in big letters, heading the last two columns on the front page of the Record. The letters swam in a black pool before my eyes, and I was forced to hold it away and read again, slowly and deliberately. And then it sank in, imperceptibly at first, but then suddenly, as a dagger in my breast. The old dormitory had been slain. It was to be dismembered, as in a post-mortem examination, and laid to rest among the fondest memo- ries of its loved ones. I immediately likened the closing of the Fourth Floor of Blanchard Hall as a dormitory for men to the pass- ing of an intimate friend, one with whom I had spent many unforgettable hours. It was not as though I had been at the bedside watching this one slowly shed his earthly mantleg I was far removed from the scene, in a strange land, and I was gripped by the knowledge that upon my return this one would have been gone long, and his memory held by but a few. After sustaining the initial shock that morning, I made another comparison, even more regrettable than the first, for I could not then rid myself of the illu- sion. The remodeling of the dormitory into a suite of busy offices seemed similar to waking in the morning in the usual manner and going down to breakfast to find a host of strangers awaiting your arrival. True, it is the same house fthe campus is little changedj, but these strange faces throw you into excruciating bewil- derment. Your first impulse is to run from the house in terror. I fully expected that when I were to see the new arrangement in Blanchard Hall, I, too, should ask some understanding person to lead me away, for I pictured myself in a great state of perplexity. I hope someone, sometime, will record the history of that old place. I am capable of setting down only a bit of the trivia that has come to me in recent years, either by experience or by word of mouth. I believe Miss Julia Blanchard - if she were spared the years to write down all the things that have transpired during her lifetime - I believe she could write the opening chapters with a profound truth and with a light heart. It was from her that I learned as a Freshman reporter that the dormito- ry which was long known as the habitat of the mascu- line got its beginning as a rooming house for young ladies. They slept there, made their morning toilets in the tiny boudoirs, and trouped downstairs to breakfast in their long dresses. But the young ladies were moved from this domicile to the newly-built Williston Hall around the turn of the century. The men took over shortly thereafter, and though I was unable to carry on research at the time the news reached me, I was certain that the Fourth Floor contin- ued to hold the spotlight in campus activity down to the modern age. This age, the Glorious Age, began when I moved to The-Floor Kas all Floorites used to sayj at the beginning of my junior year. We alighted from the train that Sep- tember just as full of hope and expectations as were our bags and suitcases full of socks, shirts, and hand- kerchiefs. Though our personal clothing may have been borrowed, re-borrowed, and sometimes lost, our enthusiasm never disappeared. We had a good crowd that year: campus leaders all, or at least excellent followers. Floor men directed activ- ities of the newspaper, the yearbook, the Student Council, and had a hand in everything, small or large, important or mere routine. I guess that is why the tele- phone in the hall rang so much. It would jingle in the daytime, scarcely audible above the confusion that abounded. It would ring at three in the morning, like the gong of the volunteer fire department downtown. People called all the time. Girls called to confirm dates or break them. Publishers and printers called to get a weary editor out of bed to correct a proof sheet. Chica- go, Dallas, St. Louis were often on the wire. A haloo would ring out for one to take his call. And some would make love in the booth by the hour. A We studied. We were proud of our scholars. And unless it was extraordinary, no disturbance in the cor- ridor brought the dutiful student bounding to his door. However, come ten o'clock, or it might be an hour either way, a congregation soon gathered in our little parlor. There we discussed topics of the day, read the daily papers, or exchanged extemporaneous cri- tiques on that evening's concert or 'athletic fray. One night in the week was sure to find the little hall room crowded out. That was our night for prayer meeting. A bit of Scripture, a song, a personal word or two, and a genuine pouring out of the soul to God. Those who have worked on college publications know how it is to stumble home in the early hours, J. -2- -Te 'T' -M JA A.. xv- ,vs -2- fi' cf- 'K' rf' 'fa ff' 41, W-5315? f'4,iT'ff,tVf,iVf,LVJ,1F'4f,vF-if,tV Nr-?f.iF-6151?-?f,U7.f,1F?fpFff,LW.r,iF1f.F7,ir' VAR

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CSN ,LQ 'Jag 'Ja fi 1 f-'A 9-'fi ,Ja 0- S ,ZA A34 'Ls 'L' ,iq ,Ja 'IQ 'Jn xz.x.s.f'gf'x-1fLf. .x.X'x,x'-f' X! X . N-f'X ',.x- 1 IIs--5 T'ff41T'5' ,PUR ,t?1pF'f,iY.f,1F1f.i.'QL . 1bsfl.17f.L'fV.15'fJ.1?'5.P1.l?1.1T'f!.N? ' eyes burning from continual scrutiny, and the whole body numbed by relentless strain. Many are the times that we came in like this, utterly exhausted. If you have ever seen the front stepsf' of the Floor, you will understand that to us it often seemed like the last mile, and even beyond. There were four flights of an outside iron staircase, which some condescendingly would have labeled a fire-escape. The stairs were old, and rat- tled. Though we had a lenient and understanding proc- tor that year, a hold-over from earlier times bade us walk up the center bar of the treads, which feat en- abled us to ascend without a sound. And then, once safely in the corridor, the door would bang shut, and some irritated sleeper would demand an explanation for the celebration. Our annual winter party was something to behold. It had no match on the campus. Though the boys of Barlett Hall may think me biased, I insist there was not a single woman on the campus who would not have foregone a dinner party at the Palmer House itself for an invitation to that affair - if only to get a glimpse inside our notorious Sanctum. We had famous personages who were Floorites. They are now numbered among our illustrious alumni. We had a record of which to be proud. I was about to say that such a record would go on and on, added to yearly, but in the pursuit of my memories I had well- nigh forgotten the glorious days of the Fourth Floor Dorm are ended. These memories are all the more precious now. All hope for recurrence is gone. A man who once lived on the Floor was always welcomed home, a bed was al- ways waiting. He could relive for a night his under- graduate days. But no more. Do not expect, I pray you, the naked truth when a Floorite tells you of his experi- ences there. With the telling and retelling, embellish- ments will be inevitable. Legends will grow up about the place, and fathers will tell them to their sons as they send them off to school. Now we can live again those days only in our innermost selves. Such reliving brings, of necessity, a certain mellowness to the heart. Progress, brutal as it is, must come. We saw it rip out the old literary halls for a modern lounge. We now see it in the bright fluorescents and shiny floors of the offices on Blanchard's fourth floor. Other landmarks will fall, and I suppose we shall shed a tear. But not for long, for we ourselves shall be gone someday and shall leave the shedding of tears to others. Homer Dowdy'-17 from Kodon, 1940 I'll bet the spreads you have in Williston now cant begin to match the ones we had! Do you ever cook chicken in the closet? VVhy, you couldnt even find an And some would make love in the booth by the hour. old-fashioned high lamp like the one we cooked with . . . It was very simple, though, or would have been if we hadn't had to do it all in the dark. We just balanced a broomstick on two chairs, hung the lamp on the broomstick, and roasted our chicken. You'd have to do it by flashlight now. Mary Scoggins Freeman '97 from Kodon, 1951 0-'F 0-'Q 0,4 4 0-'G 0-'A r-'A I-'A AIN r-'A 1-'A f-In r-In r'-Q :JA r'4 1'-9 1-'N X.Z.x.Z' 'XZ' 'N-..J'XZ'X..J'g!'xf , 'X 1' 'xvf'-,v,'xvf'x-1'xvJ'xw1'X-X Up-C f-'sys .15-4f,'tVf,t,V.1,LYf,r-if.i.'bf JNYff.iHf LF'-?f,t'1f,i?Tfp.Yfi,i.'.fp1fp1,iP' I .469