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NOTE: The first part of this story is found below, at http://byronderrick.blogspot.com/2010/11/reminiscence-off-to-grad-school.html
I had told this story up to the time I arrived at my first graduate school, but my arrival there had been timed so that I'd have about a week to get settled before our first staff meeting the day before classes began.
My strategy to find a place to live was to start walking from the department office, getting to know the street names before I studied the For Rent columns in the local newspaper. It didn't take long to find a busy street only a few blocks from the campus that had some buildings that looked like apartments, so I looked in the paper to see if there were any ads about places on G------- Street for rent. I noticed that among the apartments there were "housekeeping rooms," a term I didn't recognize but which seemed as though that would be okay for me, and... they were much cheaper.
I walked up a slight rise to one of the addresses on G--------- Street with a housekeeping room available. I can't remember what the notice said about rates, but it was probably something vague like "low rent." It turned out to be an older Victorian house that had been divided into separate rentals. I found a public telephone and made an appointment to meet someone at the house in just a few minutes. No, I don't remember looking at any other alternative.
It was a rather young (30-something) black man who was waiting for me when I arrived. He didn't say much, but he seemed happy enough to show me the room. On the phone he had seemed surprised when I'd had to ask if his place was furnished. The apartment I had rented with two other students my senior college year in the Midwest had been furnished, so I don't think I thought anywhere I looked would not be.
It was indeed one single room, right in the front of the old house, in what had been the living-room (or "front parlour"). It seemed large enough; I'd guess it was about 18 x 15. I had a fireplace that didn't work, the mantle of which I thought of as a bookshelf. A single chair and a vinyl table were set in front of the big window looking out at G------ Street. On the left of the table was a small kitchen unit containing a place for a little two-burner hot plate, a small preparation area, and a sink with a full-size refrigerator standing next to it.
In my previous apartment we'd had a full stove with an oven, but I figured this arrangement would be all right. On the other side of the hallway door was a small book case whee there was a telephone, and against the wall was a twin bed. My host said it had a new mattress, and it seemed firm enough and level enough to me. The bathroom down the hall, next to the staircase, which I would share with the residents of two other housekeeping rooms, was large, clean, and well-lit. The big tub looked just like the one from last year, with a shower mounted at one end, which seemed normal.
So I asked the guy about the rent. He said two weeks' rent was needed up front, and from then on it would be... in 1966 ...$11 per week! So I took it on the spot. I took out my checkbook to pay the $22, but he interrupted me. Cash only. Every Friday night between 5:30 and 6, someone would be by to pick up $11, in cash.
Fortunately, I had $22 in my wallet. I had probably left my bags at the bus station, and I probably brought them to my new home by cab.
I was all set!
3
I subscribed to the local newspaper, found a small grocery store a few blocks down G------ Street and picked up a skillet, a plate and cup and glass, a few utensils and dish-washing materials. I started a local bank account between campus and my room, found a couple of local stations that I thought I would like to listen to on my little portable radio... but no classical music station. I thought I had pretty much everything I would need.
The day before our first staff meeting was scheduled, a Sunday, I thought I should have a special lunch. That would mean fried chicken, boiled corn, bread and butter. As the chicken simmered away in a half-inch or so of cooking oil in my new skillet, I turned away for a minute - maybe to fill up a glass of water - and when I turned back, I realized the oil had gotten too hot. It was starting to smoke. I lifted the skillet off the hot burner but didn't have a good place to set it to cool off while I turned off the burner.
So I slid the skillet up on top of the refrigerator next to the sink. It was slightly rounded. As I reached to turn off the burner, I heard the skillet begin to slip. I reached my left hand out to grab it, but it fell, with that hot oil splashing down over the back of my hand. That hurt, a lot. The floor was wood, so I dumped a good handful of flour to soak up the grease and scraped the two pieces of chicken (perfectly cooked) back into the skillet which I left on the cooling hot plate.
I don't remember if I was smart enough to plunge my poor burnt hand in cold water, but I remember wrapping it in my new dish-towel. The skin was kind of hanging in shreds off the back of my hand, so it was clear I needed help.
The telephone book did list a university clinic across the street from my new bank. I called, they were open and said to come right in, so I skedaddled. As I walked, the shock began to hit but I managed to keep going up the hill. At the clinic they were waiting for me.
Anyway, I got to the staff meeting the next morning to meet my new professional associates, and my new boss, with a honking huge white bandage on my non-writing hand. Everyone was appropriately supportive, but I was damned embarrassed, I can tell you.
The doctors at the clinic were great, and when I came in every day, they trimmed the dead skin away and re-bandaged my hand. The pain killers worked well enough. But I started my new career as that new guy with that big white bandage on his hand. I didn't get it all off for three or four weeks.
But I was - now - on my way.
In my field, in my time the average time between the B. A. and the PhD. was 9.5 years, but it was common to earn both degrees at the same university. I had taken more of my course work thus far from the man who at my Eastern graduate program would have been my Dissertation advisor. I had seen a lot of him - and had learned a lot - and of course he had seen a lot of me. I had no reason that he liked me and admired by abilities.
I made an appointment with him "to discuss my future." I mainly wanted to know his feelings about being my dissertation advisor. He said right away that, although he would be glad to continue working with me, I might learn more by moving somewhere I could benefit from others' perspectives.
"Well, how would I do that?" I asked. Dr. D--- said he usually students in my position to select some critics I admired the most and contact them about my beginning work with them. This was quite a challenge. I hadn't picked out "professor hero," but that seemed a reasonable approach. Based on a single article and articles about one particular guy, I decided to contact him. He replied right away and said it seemed it would be valuable for both of us for me to come be his student... but he would be moving to a different university in a month or so and would not feel comfortable setting up such an arrangement at that time. He apologized, but that was that.
Then, I wrote to two or three other scholars who did not themselves do the kind of work I wanted to do but had done and could be presumed to have underway works to which I could contribute and which were relevant to what I would be working on. It happened that these men were both Department chairs. While I waited for replies, I looked over what the other faculty in these two, West-Coast Universities had been studying. In one of them, sure enough, there was another fellow whose works had been new to me but looked interesting too.
A day or so after the first reply came, the other arrived too. Both of them offered my full graduate scholarships, one for two years and the other for three. The first university was the larger and more prestigious, but there was only the only faculty member whose name I recognized and they were offering only two years of full scholarship. I knew I would be able to teach half-time after the scholarship, but the second place had the several people whose names I recognized, plus the three-year scholarship they were holding for me. (The annual terms of the scholarships were exactly the same, by the way.)
So I called the second university and accepted their offer and turned down the other offer. My future was all set again.
It was a longer bus trip from Texas to the California university than it had been from Texas to my Eastern university. But after the summer at home was almost over, there I was pulling into the small university city out west about noon of the second day of my journey. There was only one small hotel in town, and it was upstairs in the bus station. So that was easy.
After hauling my luggage upstairs to me room, I was too excited to rest, so I walked on over to campus, found the department office, and announced my arrival. The staff had been expecting me and said Dr. O...... was looking forward to meeting me but, it still being summer, he was not present at that time.
At just about that very moment, an older fellow wearing something like bedroom slippers, wrinkled jeans, and an older sport shirt shuffled in, looking down at some paper in his hand. He didn't notice me, but the two secretaries scurried over to him and asked how he was. He just nodded in reply, and they directed his attention to me. "Oh," he said. "Oh, yes. It's nice to meet you and to have you joining us." And we had a brief cordial conversation, he said the secretaries would help me get settled, and I think with a sigh, shuffled on to what must have been his inner office.
I got office keys, a campus map, and a brief tour of the building - making sure the key to the doctoral student's joint office worked, and that there was a desk and typewriter I could take over. Only one or two of the six or seven appeared to be already taken, so I staked my claim.
They advised me on how to look for an apartment and reminded me of the schedule of start-up activities for the new students in a week or so. They didn't say anything about making an appointment with Dr. O......, and I didn't ask.
I found an awfully nice, furnished one-bedroom apartment a fifteen-minute walk away from my office that I could afford, so I took it and made arrangements to move in the next afternoon. The next two or three days were spent getting settled. I bought Wearever kitchenware in a local Ben Franklin store, a Raleigh English bike at a store about five minutes from the apartment, and - a big deal for me - my first TV set: 15 inches with a rabbit-ears antenna for VHF reception and a round antenna for UHF reception. (I didn't know what there were, by the way.) That Sunday's paper brought an ad from a local jewelry store for a whole set of dishes, serving bowls, and glasses for about $20. They arrived a couple of days later.
That second week, when I checked in at the department office, everyone looked really down. They told me that Dr. O...... had died over the weekend!
Apparently, Dr. O...... had been ill for some time, and it wasn't too much of a surprise. When I told my folks, they asked what impact this all had on me. It didn't really have any. I wouldn't really be able to work with him, of course, but several others in the department had national reputations, and one professor had credentials and taught courses on several of those same topics I had studied with Dr. D--- in my Master's years. For myself I was feeling pretty good about things.
I wasn't even surprised when that other professor, whose books had looked good to me before I made the change, would in fact be on Sabbatical that year.
The day before our first staff meeting was scheduled, a Sunday, I thought I should have a special lunch. That would mean fried chicken, boiled corn, bread and butter. As the chicken simmered away in a half-inch or so of cooking oil in my new skillet, I turned away for a minute - maybe to fill up a glass of water - and when I turned back, I realized the oil had gotten too hot. It was starting to smoke. I lifted the skillet off the hot burner but didn't have a good place to set it to cool off while I turned off the burner.
So I slid the skillet up on top of the refrigerator next to the sink. It was slightly rounded. As I reached to turn off the burner, I heard the skillet begin to slip. I reached my left hand out to grab it, but it fell, with that hot oil splashing down over the back of my hand. That hurt, a lot. The floor was wood, so I dumped a good handful of flour to soak up the grease and scraped the two pieces of chicken (perfectly cooked) back into the skillet which I left on the cooling hot plate.
I don't remember if I was smart enough to plunge my poor burnt hand in cold water, but I remember wrapping it in my new dish-towel. The skin was kind of hanging in shreds off the back of my hand, so it was clear I needed help.
The telephone book did list a university clinic across the street from my new bank. I called, they were open and said to come right in, so I skedaddled. As I walked, the shock began to hit but I managed to keep going up the hill. At the clinic they were waiting for me.
4
Anyway, I got to the staff meeting the next morning to meet my new professional associates, and my new boss, with a honking huge white bandage on my non-writing hand. Everyone was appropriately supportive, but I was damned embarrassed, I can tell you.
The doctors at the clinic were great, and when I came in every day, they trimmed the dead skin away and re-bandaged my hand. The pain killers worked well enough. But I started my new career as that new guy with that big white bandage on his hand. I didn't get it all off for three or four weeks.
But I was - now - on my way.
5
In my field, in my time the average time between the B. A. and the PhD. was 9.5 years, but it was common to earn both degrees at the same university. I had taken more of my course work thus far from the man who at my Eastern graduate program would have been my Dissertation advisor. I had seen a lot of him - and had learned a lot - and of course he had seen a lot of me. I had no reason that he liked me and admired by abilities.
I made an appointment with him "to discuss my future." I mainly wanted to know his feelings about being my dissertation advisor. He said right away that, although he would be glad to continue working with me, I might learn more by moving somewhere I could benefit from others' perspectives.
"Well, how would I do that?" I asked. Dr. D--- said he usually students in my position to select some critics I admired the most and contact them about my beginning work with them. This was quite a challenge. I hadn't picked out "professor hero," but that seemed a reasonable approach. Based on a single article and articles about one particular guy, I decided to contact him. He replied right away and said it seemed it would be valuable for both of us for me to come be his student... but he would be moving to a different university in a month or so and would not feel comfortable setting up such an arrangement at that time. He apologized, but that was that.
Then, I wrote to two or three other scholars who did not themselves do the kind of work I wanted to do but had done and could be presumed to have underway works to which I could contribute and which were relevant to what I would be working on. It happened that these men were both Department chairs. While I waited for replies, I looked over what the other faculty in these two, West-Coast Universities had been studying. In one of them, sure enough, there was another fellow whose works had been new to me but looked interesting too.
A day or so after the first reply came, the other arrived too. Both of them offered my full graduate scholarships, one for two years and the other for three. The first university was the larger and more prestigious, but there was only the only faculty member whose name I recognized and they were offering only two years of full scholarship. I knew I would be able to teach half-time after the scholarship, but the second place had the several people whose names I recognized, plus the three-year scholarship they were holding for me. (The annual terms of the scholarships were exactly the same, by the way.)
So I called the second university and accepted their offer and turned down the other offer. My future was all set again.
6
It was a longer bus trip from Texas to the California university than it had been from Texas to my Eastern university. But after the summer at home was almost over, there I was pulling into the small university city out west about noon of the second day of my journey. There was only one small hotel in town, and it was upstairs in the bus station. So that was easy.
After hauling my luggage upstairs to me room, I was too excited to rest, so I walked on over to campus, found the department office, and announced my arrival. The staff had been expecting me and said Dr. O...... was looking forward to meeting me but, it still being summer, he was not present at that time.
At just about that very moment, an older fellow wearing something like bedroom slippers, wrinkled jeans, and an older sport shirt shuffled in, looking down at some paper in his hand. He didn't notice me, but the two secretaries scurried over to him and asked how he was. He just nodded in reply, and they directed his attention to me. "Oh," he said. "Oh, yes. It's nice to meet you and to have you joining us." And we had a brief cordial conversation, he said the secretaries would help me get settled, and I think with a sigh, shuffled on to what must have been his inner office.
I got office keys, a campus map, and a brief tour of the building - making sure the key to the doctoral student's joint office worked, and that there was a desk and typewriter I could take over. Only one or two of the six or seven appeared to be already taken, so I staked my claim.
They advised me on how to look for an apartment and reminded me of the schedule of start-up activities for the new students in a week or so. They didn't say anything about making an appointment with Dr. O......, and I didn't ask.
7
I found an awfully nice, furnished one-bedroom apartment a fifteen-minute walk away from my office that I could afford, so I took it and made arrangements to move in the next afternoon. The next two or three days were spent getting settled. I bought Wearever kitchenware in a local Ben Franklin store, a Raleigh English bike at a store about five minutes from the apartment, and - a big deal for me - my first TV set: 15 inches with a rabbit-ears antenna for VHF reception and a round antenna for UHF reception. (I didn't know what there were, by the way.) That Sunday's paper brought an ad from a local jewelry store for a whole set of dishes, serving bowls, and glasses for about $20. They arrived a couple of days later.
That second week, when I checked in at the department office, everyone looked really down. They told me that Dr. O...... had died over the weekend!
8
Apparently, Dr. O...... had been ill for some time, and it wasn't too much of a surprise. When I told my folks, they asked what impact this all had on me. It didn't really have any. I wouldn't really be able to work with him, of course, but several others in the department had national reputations, and one professor had credentials and taught courses on several of those same topics I had studied with Dr. D--- in my Master's years. For myself I was feeling pretty good about things.
I wasn't even surprised when that other professor, whose books had looked good to me before I made the change, would in fact be on Sabbatical that year.
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