I think back about going to college in the fall of 1969 after I graduated from Valley High in Lucasville, and I realize that decision was both planned and circumstantial. Neither my plans nor my circumstances alone can adequately describe the movement of my life as a young adult set loose in a new and confusing world.
My parents wanted me and expected me to pursue a college education, and I had tracked what was then known as “college-preparatory” classes in school – that part was planned. I also came from a military family – my dad, brother, and uncles had all served – and, I was pulled number 210 in the first draft lottery since 1942 on December 1, 1969. I had a college deferment, but the highest lottery number drafted that year was 195 – that part was circumstantial.
So, I entered Ohio University Portsmouth, affectionately known as Floodwall Tech, with little conception of a precise direction. I knew absolutely nothing about the real nuts-and-bolts of getting a college education. I did know I liked to write – not fiction but nonfiction – and after one meeting with a so-called counselor, I choose classes that seemed to fit me without even understanding that a degree had definite requirements. My fault all the way – yep, it's the old “I should have listened.”
I took 20 quarter hours of journalism classes my first year. Then, I thought I might find a career in print media. These classes included Reporting, Advertising and more. I also joined the OUP newspaper staff under longtime instructor Mary Elizabeth Schwartz, a stickler for correct usage and writing by the rules. My distant cousin, Rich Ralstin, was on the staff and we gave each other lots of moral support. We got a kick out of making the presses roll.
Still, I matriculated through the curriculum like some ignorant, naive greenhorn, and I found so much free time – only 15-16 hours in class a week? – conducive to goofing off and taking life as it came. This strategy echoed much of the attitude I had held during my high school days, sans the daily greatly enriching contact of friends and role models.
Little did I believe that every hour in college class meant hours spent preparing out of the classroom. After all, a young man has certain “demanding” social pursuits and this “college thing” seemed like a pretty good deal. Ramble on.
Oh yeah, I also found out I could work and go to college, so I was employed part-time by Keebler Cookies and later by other available jobs. I earned my own spending and surviving money, and since I still lived with my parents, I always had enough coin to goof off and date and do whatever. I really miss those days when my biggest economic problem was figuring out a social agenda – college offered many distractions.
I can't forget how stupid I was about finding a major. Early on, I took classes that simply appealed to me. I distinctly remember taking a 6-hour Art class out of interest and doing little more than producing a Rolling Stones tongue-themed ash tray. Guess what, I deservedly got a “D” in that class which dropped my GPA to the “problem” range. It took me years to make up that mistake. I did learn my lesson, I guess. I learned that just flying by the seat of your pants usually ends in a fiery crash.
Being a rather slow learner and a dedicated free spirit, I found journalism deadlines to be troubling. So after my first year, I steered toward open waters; however, I continued to plow forward, picking my way through a life largely consisting of class, work, and a steady girlfriend. Thus, I was determined to remain in Portsmouth and take classes rather than go to Athens – the party school of the time, by the way – and stay in a dorm on campus. Now, I see the error of that grand plan. I should have taken the opportunity to experience life on campus – at least, in hindsight, that's the way it seems. And steady? I was much, much too immature to maintain a relationship with a girl in her last years of high school. I still view some of this behavior as my “lost time” due to indecision.
I had already declined to consider small college football. Coach Gullion was very helpful in recommending me to different schools – he had been a standout running back for Ashland College several years before. But after talking more with my parents and an uncle who had played for Auburn, we all reached an agreement to scrap that direction. I think that was a good move, yet I can attest to the “you never know unless you try” theory of living. Anyhow, further sports were out of the question.
So it came about that near the end of my second year at OUP that I reached another fork in the already confusing direction of my life. I had decided to work a little more and I dropped my college load to 12 hours. Right or wrong, I planned this move (strongly resisted by both Mom and Dad – the latter a WWII medic who found this conflict to be questionable at best).
Not taking a full load quickly ended my deferment and had me boarding a Greyhound for my military physicals – first in Ashland, then to a specialist in Huntington to check the knee I had destroyed playing football. I passed both inspections, and I received my induction letter from President Nixon posthaste. You know the wording: “Welcome from the President of the United States … blah, blah, blah” … And, in the background, the strains of “You're in the Army now and not behind a plow. You're digging a ditch, you son-of-a-bitch. You're in the Army now.” Boy, did they have plans for me.
Actually, having seen many of my classmates go to Vietnam, I was rather relieved. Besides, I didn't want to be drafted at a later age. I was still in pretty good shape … and pretty dumb to boot. I considered myself gone and property of good old Uncle Sam.
But then, circumstance intervened once more …
The Vietnamization strategy – the Nixon Administration’s dramatic reduction in the number of ground troops in Southeast Asia in 1969 and 1970 – accompanied an expanded use of bombing of enemy territories. This reduced the need for soldiers. In 1971 the policy caused only those with numbers of 125 or lower to be drafted.
I was now 1-A classification, but remained un-drafted. Can you believe, Tricky Dick Nixon kept me out of Vietnam? I am not proud of this nor am I a Nixon fan, yet the reality is a part of my existence. What did happen often clashed with with might have happened.
But, then, even more intensive “everything depends” immediacy hit me squarely in the face.
Seemingly from left field, I realized I would not graduate with a college degree in four years. Of course, that was far more than predictable considering my recent meanderings.
Don't ask me what I was thinking: I was not. I just know the shock of what I had done and who I may become shook my soul.
Hey, folks, I had read Henley's poem and I know full well I was “master of my fate” and “captain of my soul,” but to a sheltered hard-head like me, that sagacious realization had never fully sunk into my thick skull. Maybe copious amounts of beer and good times had dulled my senses. At any rate, worry set in with a vengeance.
With the worry, something else entered my life completely without warning. Its appearance became the beginning of something that would eventually define and partially debilitate my future. I didn't know what was happening at the time, but I fell into deep depression, both feeling guilt since my folks were basically financing my education and feeling acute anxiety since I was now pretty much of a failure and generational washout.
Clinical depression at first made me doubt myself, and later in life it would reveal itself as a chronic mental illness that would nearly end my life. All I remember about treating this first episode was feeling extreme sadness, seeking shelter in bed, taking hot baths and long rides, and having long talks with my parents about “what's wrong with me” and trying to get me to “think more positive thoughts.” I'm sure they didn't recognize the big problem and neither did I realize its march of domination until years later – 1984 to be exact. Crazy? You decide – what in the hell does a young college student have to worry about?
It took me lots of time to regain control of my collapsing nervous system, but I began a new and tougher plan at that point. I began to execute. I researched exactly what I needed to complete a degree in Secondary English Education (with a minor in Journalism). I had already taken many English classes, and now, I began to get serious about something I knew I possessed by native intelligence and acquired skills.
I planned my future coursework with that college degree in mind and started a rigid study habit that would help me accomplish my goal. I decided to spend hours in the afternoon usually unproductive time – say 1:00 to 4:00 P.M. – every day studying, reading, and trying to excel.
By the way, I would recommend this plan later to so many of my high school students – “Study and read every day, whether you have an urgent deadline or not. Make it a habit. At first, it will be very difficult, but trust the process. Just do it.” I'm not lying, for a guy like me, it hurt like hell. Funny thing – I could see almost immediate results, and gradually studying became natural. I still had plenty of time for other things.
In the long run, it took me a couple of extra quarters, lots of driving back and forth to Athens and other branch campuses, and some brotherly love, but I finally got my degree in Secondary Education. At one point, I remember timing the various routes from Portsmouth to Athens and racing against myself to break records on each course. I still hate that long stretch of Route 32 through ugly surface mining country. And, Athens always seemed so cold – the long walk from the Convo parking lot to McCracken was brutal at times.
However, all in all, me, the product of this messy and twisted path, turned out to be a rather unique commodity. I became a male English teacher (an ex-athlete, and a proud representative of Southern Ohio Appalachian roots) with a specialty in writing. Who knew? This brier liked poetry? In high school, I had no intention of teaching, yet I soon found this career to be both exciting and rewarding. Was the path of least resistance really the guiding principle? No. It might seem that way, and to an extent that is true, but finding my path was full of stops, goes, and remapping. Good thing I was young.
I got hired by Mr. Young, my old high school principal and then superintendent at Valley. He believed in me, and that confidence meant so much to a young teacher going back to his old high school to instruct seniors he had known as classmates. I was … and this is accurate alliteration for my first couple of years … “scared shitless” my first couple of years. I studied lesson plans like some demented demon. In addition, I had extracurricular duties too – I was sponsor of the annual staff and assistant football coach.
Believe me, some college instructor doubters who gave their “well-meaning constructive criticism” greatly motivated me. One particularly offensive prof – whom most students avoided by the appropriate name of “Thorne” – had gave me an “F” on a paper in an English Methods class. It was the very first failing grade on a written paper I can remember ever having received. It happened late – toward the end of my fourth year. So, I was bounced once more toward depression and uncertainty.
Before the paper was due, we had a discussion in class about how to motivate students or some similar topic. It led to a minor disagreement. The paper? Thorne made my efforts bleed in addition to dealing out a big dose of public humiliation when I silently hung my head upon receipt of the grade and work. He wanted and received his pound of flesh as he demanded, in front of the class, I immediately read his comments that justified my failing grade. I learned to shut up the rest of the quarter and received a “C” in the class, my first grade of average or below in college English.
I also remember Ms. Schwartz telling me in front of our Shakespeare class that I needed much improvement on oral presentation. She conceded I could write well, but my speaking skills needed some serious work. I never forgot that – it drove me to concentrate on delivering lessons with more precision and a hell of lot more explanation of theory. For Jesus's sake, I think she awakened my pursuit of the little intricacies of usage and helped make me the grammar policeman I am today. So, class, you can blame her for my obsession with case, verbals, modifiers, and other ACT usage concerns.
Let me enter into the explanation of planning yet again …
I should have recognized my own plan early on. English classes and writing were my favorite educational pursuits always. My Valley High School English teachers were outstanding creative individuals. Mrs. Peebles, Mrs. Romanello, Mrs. Distel – all of them were tremendously encouraging, first-class instructors. I could not have asked for better teachers. How they helped me become an English instructor. And, sadly, I didn't realize their great influence at the time. I owe them so much for their love and dedication.
Also, my supervising teacher for Student Teaching at Clay High School was equally excellent and helpful. Mrs. Miller took a special interest in my education as did her students that I taught during that time. She gave me great guidance while allowing me to use my own skills to teach her classes. I will be eternally grateful for her timely supervision.
Can you stand the description of a little more circumstance?
That very first year of teaching Valley seniors I would see a hand go up in class, which signaled a question for me, the frightened and inexperienced teacher. That hand often came from great students like Mary Dobbins – an intellect who was talented at everything she did from the range of maintaining valedictorian honors, typing out teachers' graduate class papers, cheerleading, and playing classical piano.
Mary became such a motivation to me: I believed if I stayed one page ahead of her, I might become a good teacher. She wanted the best, and I recognized that. Her raised hand and pertinent question gave rise to something I learned to employ over and over – if I didn't know the answer to Mary's question, I told her I would research it and report the next day.
The truth – how important to students. God bless Mary: she made me such a better teacher. She graduated at the top of her class and finished pre-law in three years. Then, she went on to a distinguished career. Later in life, I told Mary about my “one page” plan, and I think she knew exactly what I meant. We both chuckled and hugged.
Another memorable “hand
up” made a great difference to me. Dave Turner, brother of Mark and
Ed – classmates and fellow athletes of mine in high school. Dave was
a rough-and-ready guy like his brothers, but I had no clue that he
was such a determined scholar. That's not to say it shocked me, but
his unrivaled desire gave me great pause. He was the real thing.
Dave would ask important questions – things he really wanted to know – he would even pick my mind and stay after class to pursue answers. He became a great friend, and he was a role model for others with his absolute dedication in the classroom. He became a highly educated minister and a scholar of biblical history who wrote books on his pursuits. We continue a mutual affection grounded in Dave's caring for knowledge.
I am the product of both circumstance and plan in that I was very fortunate to employ both of these factors towards a fortunate end, even though the journey was largely full of change and even doubt. Becoming a teacher turned out to be a never-ending pursuit of methods and strategies in addition to a career of class after class – further education for a guy who probably would have gone to Vietnam and later sought employment in some government sector. Who knows? Maybe that was my true calling – to become a worker at the A-plant, a mailman, or even a small-town journalist. I still think of what led to teaching, and I admit some of the drive is full of mystery.
If I can give any advice … and take it with your proverbial “grain of salt” … it would be this: Keep on keeping on. Set a course but do not be overly upset if you have to make drastic adjustments. Just keep on going – take your time, but work while you do. Do not take a lot of timeout in motionless evaluation and dallying in frivolous pursuits although they are extremely fun. The pleasure never changes. Beware – many folks I know dropped into that pleasure groove and never got off the destructive merry-go-round.
Maybe some day I'll write a blog entry on them – fictional names, of course. They all started as good people, just like you and me. But, each of them has an excuse, and all of those excuses involve lack of direction and initiative. This led to that … on down the line.
In closing, I hope my generalities can assist someone else like me who graduated high school and thought the path would automatically lead to Camelot just because you were acting well and believed in Walt Disney productions.
Here's a thought for you: most of those old adages are based on truth. The wise advice is there, available for immediate consumption, but maybe you don't realize how difficult it is to employ that advice to find the proper relation to truth. Following the black-and-white is easy. It's that damned gray area that fogs your perception.
You need good navigation skills to advance and that means acquiring knowledge to make both plans and circumstance pay off. The knowledge is there too, but like anything worth acquiring, it takes hard work to get it. Both plans and and circumstance will affect you in major ways. I am confident of that. So, my last word is get it while you can. Learn to love it. For most of us, it is an acquired taste.
By Circumstances Fed
Which divide attention
Among the living and the dead,
Under the blooms of the blossoming sun,
The gaze which is a tower towers
Day and night, hour by hour,
Critical of all and of one,
Dissatisfied with every flower
With all that's been done or undone,
Converting every feature
Into its own and unknown nature;
So, once in the drugstore,
Amid all the poppy, salve and ointment,
I suddenly saw, estranged there,
Beyond all disappointment,
My own face in the mirror.
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