Dr. Royal Humbert was the quintessential college professor and would not have looked out of place if he had worn his doctoral cap and gown as daily attire. He was known to everyone as “The Prof” and most of his students addressed him as “Prof.” The Prof loved music, philosophy, religion, and Buicks. He had loved Buicks ever since his youth and had driven only Buicks from the time he could afford one of his own. His son Paul (class of ‘72) also loved Buicks. While Prof preferred the full body sedans, Paul’s choice was a mid-size coupe befitting of the muscle car era of the sixties.
One morning, a group of us were about to cross Burgess Street on our way to class when we heard the sound of Paul’s hopped-up Buick coming our way. The exhaust was loud and the back end was what we called “jacked up,” to allow for oversize wheels and tires. Someone yelled, “It’s the Prof!” We just stood there and smiled as Prof rumbled by, looking completely at one with himself. I like to imagine that we heard the sound of classical music coming from the car radio.
George Vlahos taught Math 101 in Venuum Hall at 8 o’ clock in the morning. Freshmen sat at fixed desks on tiers rising to the back of the lecture hall. Mr. Vlahos was a very good teacher and made math as interesting as he could, but some of us were always in need of more sleep. The room was well supplied with chalk and erasers; those of us that dozed were often awakened by such a missile. Sitting in the back had offered some protection, but I was determined to stay awake and be a better student. I moved down a row and soon, down another. The chalk still came.
By the third week of class, I sat alone in the first row. One morning, I closed my eyes for a moment and my head fell back. I jerked awake to see Mr. Vlahos’ arm in motion, about to release an eraser from three feet away. Somehow, he held onto it. He wouldn’t usually let these incidents interrupt the flow of his teaching, but this time, he stopped for a moment, smiled, and said with his Greek accent, “Oh, Vince, you were sooo close.” Although I never took another math class, I often enjoyed coffee with George in the Student Union. We never discussed the incident, but I will always remember it. I wonder if he remembers the look I had on my face.
In the fall of 1968, Burgess Theater and the Eureka College Theater Department occupied the third floor of Burgess Hall. Freshmen were welcomed and many of us found parts in the year’s first play. Along with learning our roles, we helped construct the set and got to know the other players. Six weeks of rehearsals were followed by a successful opening night. The upperclassmen said that we were now eligible to sign our names alongside Ronald Reagan’s in the attic. We said, “Show us the way,” and they replied, “No, you’ll have to find it yourselves.”
Two days later, we found it and made plans to return after that night’s performance. A window in the costume shop was left unlocked and up the fire escape we went. The attic was wonderful; there was even a ladder to the roof and we enjoyed a midnight view of campus from its highest point. We finished our business and were getting ready to make our escape when there came a crash. One of us had stepped between the ceiling joists and put a hole through the ceiling of the theater. We went down to the theater and turned on the lights. “Maybe it won’t be as noticeable with just the stage lights on,” someone suggested. It was noticeable.
We spent the next three hours sawing, hammering, and painting in an effort to disguise the damage. The last two performances went smoothly, the patch held, and nothing was said about it. We eventually owned up to Terry Williams, our much beloved director, teacher, and friend. He was kind enough to complement our construction skills, if not our foot work. P.S., we did not find Ronald Reagan’s signature. But, in the tower, the initials R.R. are written high on the east wall.
Two of my most memorable friends at Eureka were Jeff Sachs and Avril Bass. They may have been the sharpest and funniest guys in the entire student body; they were also dangerous to the gullible amongst us. Jeff once told a story about a man who, try as he might to get warm, kept getting colder. Then came the punchline, “He froze to death in a 110 degree room.” My response was, “Really?” No, not really. I lived with that one until graduation.
They were also adventurous and spent the summer before their senior year backpacking through Europe. During their senior year, they were convinced to try theater. Avril’s first part was in a period play that required all male actors to wear leggings. A week before opening night, he complained to fellow cast member, Tom Felts, about having to shave their legs, to which he responded, “What are you talking about, Avril?”
He replied, “Haven’t you noticed how the hair pokes through our tights and the stage lights shine on them? In Burgess Theater, we’re so close to the audience that our leg hairs will be getting laughs.”
On the day before opening night, Avril went into their dorm’s community bathroom to find Tom having just finished shaving a leg. “Oh, no, Tom. I didn’t really think you’d fall for that one!” he commented. Avril made it back to his room before Tom could catch him. Tom had no choice but to shave the other leg, too.
The women of Gunzenhauser feared Ma Brown. She watched over them with dark eyes that missed nothing and she enforced the rules. For many years, women living on campus had to abide by “Hours.” That meant a curfew for every night of the week, including weekends. Each night before lock-up, couples would gather outside of Gunzenhauser for their final kisses and hugs of the day. When Ma appeared at the door, there was no more loitering. Any girl finding herself locked out without a key was in for more restrictions. Once inside, they were under watch. Ma Brown would walk the dorm each night before retiring and things had better be quiet and in order. Rules are rules, but youth will be youth and the stories of that conflict made Ma Brown a legend at Eureka College.
In the fall of 1970, things changed: Gunzenhauser became a men’s dorm. It was a nice place to live. The rooms were large with adjoining bathrooms and occupied mostly by upperclassmen from different fields of study. My roommate and I were theater people. We were loud people who stayed up late, had a TV, and had many visitors. Our room was the noisiest in the dorm. Unfortunately, our room was also directly above Ma Brown’s apartment. She tolerated the noise from above during Star Trek each afternoon, but the evening hours were supposed to be quiet hours.
To hear Ma’s distinctive knock on your door was a bad thing. To hear that knock on your door after midnight was the worst of the worst. However, we tried and she tried, and it didn’t really happen that often. When it did, we would come down the next morning to apologize and take our medicine. Even then, we always felt welcome to sit and spend time with Ma. She was an excellent conversationalist and genuinely interested in all of her boys. Her questions were pointed and she remembered details. We talked and she talked, sometimes about harder subjects. She told us of her love for her deceased husband and how she had acted as his nurse during his lengthy battle with cancer. She talked about the changes of Eureka College and of those living in Gunzenhauser before us. I once asked Ma if she wouldn’t prefer having quieter girls to noisier men. “Not at all,” she said. “I would rather have men. When I scolded the women, they wouldn’t talk to me for a week. Men are friendly again the next day.” I also wondered if it may have been harder for Ma to let the girls be girls than to let the boys be boys.
Ma Brown retired to a quieter life at the end of that year and the dorm was never the same. We had been privileged to be part of her legend. The men of Gunzenhauser loved her.
One morning during my senior year (1973), an older couple getting out of their car gave me big, friendly smiles. “Hi!” I said, smiling back at them. They started asking questions about me and the college, and then said that they had been Eureka College students and sweethearts before being married. Noticing their car’s license plate, I asked, “You drove all the way from California?”
Yes, it had been thirty-five years since their last visit to campus, so they had decided to treat their first post-retirement trip as a second honeymoon and make the college their destination. I did my best to welcome them back. They thanked me and started walking happily towards the chapel. Their day made my day. Things like that happened at Eureka College.
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