The Dark Room that Led to My Flunking Out

{If you are late to the series I’m writing during Lent 2024; I’ll fill you in on the theme this year: “room.”}

Yesterday, I wrote about a seminary professor’s office, a room I found unusually dark for such space. Today, a different kind of dark room, the kind where photos come through chemicals and rinses and special papers…and darkness. This one was in the TUB. The Titan Union Building, Westminster College, Pa. I spent many hours in that room, alone, in the dark.

Of course it wasn’t totally dark; there was a red light that illuminated one’s work space without ruining the processing of black and white film. The college newspaper and yearbook photographers not only documented campus events with school cameras or their own, but deveoped the film and printed the photos on site. That was especially helpful for the weekly “Holcad” newspaper. Film processing by mail would have delayed publication for a week or more in our small campus town. But working in that small basement space, we could take pictures at a Wednesday afternoon event and the photos would appear in the Friday paper. I know this sounds so primitive to generations used to the instant digital photography that even phones can accomplish, but back then (the early 1960s) the smelly, dark, and often dank space filled with film cannisters, trays, chemicals, an enlarger, and strings holding drying prints was both a necessity and a creative outlet.

I got my first camera for Christmas one year. I might have been 11 or 12. I graduated from one simple camera to others more sophisticated, but always very affordable for a kid with an after school job. By college time, I had a 35mm rangefinder camera, a Taron Unique. See? Not exactly a Nikon or Hasselblad. When I was signing up for extracurricular activities, I volunteered to take pictures for the “Holcad” and also for the yearbook, the “Argo.”

The darkroom was just off the Holcad office space and an upperclassman (we used male terminology back then) showed me the ropes. Well, the darkroom equipment. I had had some limited experience developing film back home, but the school darkroom was a revelation! We could print on different papers, blow up photos for detail, creatively crop our images, and then, the best part…the work would be published for all to see. And to ignore, for the most part. Most readers took the illustrations for granted, though on rare occasions someone might tell us, “Hey! Great shot of the game last week!”

My pictures appeared in all four yearbooks of my college career, as well as in countless weekly campus papers. I had a title: “Photo Editor.” Now, decades later, those of us who survive (!) may look at those photos with fondness, finding memories unlocked and re-lived: our college years, the games, the social events, academics, classmates.

One of my photos, taken from the Argo office:
stunned students gathered to listen to car radio accounts of the Kennedy assassination

In my junior year, I was named co-editor of the Argo. Senior Peggy Baird and I were responsible for the annual record of campus life, with Peggy doing print content and me providing photo illustrations. It was a proud moment. And very short-lived. I was in the process of flunking out. And leaving Peggy holding the bag. I mean, the book.

Two students gaze at the campus lake, with two spies on the right (from the Argo)

My studies suffered due to my poor stewardship of time. I was doing radio on the college station in addition to the hours spent shooting photos and developing and printing film. I’ve said that my desk, books, and classnotes were all in “upstairs” rooms and the radio station and darkroom were in the basements of college buildings. The twain didn’t meet. My studies hit bottom. During my first two years of college, I went on academic probation twice. And in my junior year, strike three came.

I certainly questioned my call to ministry when I had to leave my studies. Without my academic deferment, I was nearly drafted into the Army during the Viet Nam conflict, but escaped that situation, barely. I flunked again, this time my physical. Joan and I had been dating, and that semester away from school put a hold on our developing romance. I had begun a Greek class in my junior year, in preparation for seminary, so the prof kindly sent me assignments to do at home. That didn’t work. What worked was a temporary job my Dad got me at IBM for the months away from school. I didn’t see my future there, and was determined to mend my ways if given another chance.

I always share this predicament with youth groups. Yes, kids, I flunked out of college. I’m way past being embarrassed by it. It happened. It was a turning point in my life, and after a semester out of school, I was re-admitted and stayed clear of the darkroom. I may have done some more radio, but limited my extracurriculars to that one activity. The Argo got published without me, and the Holcad had other camera-toting students. And I studied. I’d love to say that I became a successful scholar that last semester. No. Just my average self. Missing that semester meant not graduating with Joan and my class. But after two courses in summer school, the college mailed me a diploma. (I took the equivalent of two semesters of German in those twelve weeks, plus an audio-visual course. Guess which came in handy later?)

Next would come three years of seminary. There was a darkroom there too. Someplace. I never asked where it was. Didn’t want to know.

And here I am.

 

My Place in an Amish Farm Town

{Another in the series of writings for Lent 2022, my words about my personal sense of place. Forty days, forty places.}

There I was standing alone in the parking lot of Jeffers Hall, the smallest men’s dorm at Westminster College, located in New Wilmington, Pa., a small town surrounded by Amish farms. I watched as the family station wagon, a “wood”-trimmed, 9 passenger 1960 Ford Country Squire, headed home with one less person than had made the trip south. I was an entering freshman, arriving at school a day early since Dad had to be at work the next day. It may have been the loneliest day of my life. I recall walking past the larger Hillside Dorm to the edge of the sidewalk that looked down on the rest of the campus. As I looked at the tower of Old Main in the distance, I thought, “So this is where I’ll spend the next four years.”

Old Main

Turned out, it was to be four and a half years. Academic problems. More on that later.

It was, of course, a very significant year. Beginning college classes, trying to come out of my introverted self to forge some friendships, trying out for extracurriculars like a theater production, the Vesper Choir, and the radio station. I was assigned a roommate with whom I had nothing in common. (My pre-enrollment mail had been mis-addressed to Endicott, NJ instead of NY, so I guess someone thought Craig Applefield and I would have New Jersey in common. Nope. And nothing else.)

I made all the auditions. I didn’t really think the play’s director would choose a freshman for a role in “The Curious Savage,” but he did. I was nervous singing alone for the choir audition, but it was simple enough and I got in. And the radio station? It didn’t take much. So, with a couple more campus organizations to eat up some additional schedule, I didn’t exactly have much time left over to study. So, academic probation. Right off the bat. (Pardon me for repeating myself in this post; I realize I’ve already mentioned this in a previous edition of “Peace, Grace, and Jazz.”)

Barry and his MG

One night after a play rehearsal I came back to Jeffers to find all my stuff in the hallway. Craig had made a deal with another student and I got traded for another roommate. My new roommate was another pre-ministerial student so at least we had that in common. But he was a little crazy, and the next year would find me with a guy with whom I am still in touch today. We had a great relationship for the next three years. The first year, Barry had a Vespa scooter. And by our senior year, he drove a red MG. Oh my! How cool. He let me borrow it once, but I was so nervous I never took it for another spin. Barry and I took some of the same pre-min classes, he the far better student. Two things about Barry: he smoked Kents and, totally unrelated, he covered our dorm room with Playboy centerfolds, but with modest bikinis he had cut out and placed over the interesting parts. He was a really good artist.

I can’t write a whole book about Westminster College here, but I’d have plenty of material. So, some quick mentions. My radio career started in college and contributed to my flunking out. I did photography for the college newspaper and yearbook. In fact, I was elected co-editor of the Argo Yearbook, but never got to edit anything because, yes, that was the year I left school involuntarily. But aside from that bad luck, I did learn darkroom skills. Thanks to the choir, I learned to sing and to read music (both rather “somewhat”). The 130-voice Vesper Choir tackled some heavy repertoire, and I experinced some wonderful classic musical literature singing alongside basses who became good friends.

Vesper and Concert Choirs at Christmas

But the best part of the Westminster College Vesper Choir was its association with the Concert Choir, the school’s best voices. Among them was Voice and Organ major Joan Maisch. We’ve been married almost 55 years now. Once we got to know each other a little, well, there again, I flunked out and we spent that semester writing letters. Oh, and sending tapes, small 3″ reels. She sang “If I Loved You” from “Carousel” on one the taped letters. That did it. I had to get back into school. I did return, dropped some extracurriculars, and majored in Joan. Keeping with our musical theme, we got engaged following a campus performance of “Carmen” by the Canadian Opera Company. The college had a curfew for women at that time, and just before we guys were kicked out of their dorm, I got Joan alone in a coat room and gave her a ring.

My parents had met Joan when the Concert Choir was on its southern tour and hit Raleigh, NC. They were so taken with her that my Mom soon wrote me a letter when I was back at school, offering a ring of my great-grandmother’s. When I popped the question, Joan’s response was a loving, “Oh, Jeff.” And then she said yes! Her sorority had a traditional candlelight ritual. Since I wasn’t in a fraternity, I simply went back to my apartment and told Barry, “I did it!” We broke open a $60 bottle of wine and got drunk. OK, that last part wasn’t true. Westminster and Lawrence County were both “dry” and besides, 1) I didn’t drink wine, and 2) if I did, it would have been a $4 bottle. The next day, my classes were abuzz with the exciting news of Joan and Jeff.

I did go to classes, by the way. My pastor had advised me to major in something besides Bible or religion since I’d be “getting plenty of that in seminary.” English lit, history, something along those lines would be better. But my college advisor convinced me that the school’s pre-ministerial course plan would be best. So, I elected to do the Religion-Philosophy-Psychology Tri-Major. Frankly, I got my best grades outside my major. By far.

The best advice I got in college came from a professor from whom I never took a course. And I rejected his advice at first. Richard Stevens was the faculty advisor to the campus radio station. Walking from chapel services one morning (and I can picture the very sidewalk and scenery right now), he suggested that with my interest in radio and my intention to go on to seminary, I might consider combining the two interests. That moment all I could think of was the crooked radio evangelists I had heard twisting the dial from one station to another. No thanks. But of course, I did eventually combine ministry and mass media, and quite successfully I might add. (I do add.) Oh, and I wasn’t crooked in doing so. I sincerely hope that I later wrote to thank Stevens for his advice and to tell him how well it worked out for me and the Presbyterian Church. I just can’t recall doing so.

Joan at graduation 6/6/66

There then is a touch of my college “place.” Joan graduated on 6/6/66. I got a diploma in the mail after finishing summer school that year. I was so disappointed my parents had no ceremony to attend, especially after Dad’s scrimping to find the money to send me. But I finished. And went on to seminary. That story is yet to come.

For you to consider: do you recall getting really good advice and not following it? Have you written a note to thank a mentor, teacher, or friend or family member for their counsel or support during a time of struggle or uncertainty? You ever actually spent $60 on a bottle of wine?