College II
Ruston is some 280 miles north of New Orleans. For generations our family has oscillated between these two locations: N.O. and North LA. LA Tech was much more of a place than it had been when Dad went there early in the 20th Century, and also much less than it is today. It was a middle sized school, and I was more comfortable there than I had been at Duke, among the kind of people I was raised with. (A second cousin from Clayton was also going there at the time, but I didn't learn this until many years later.)
The course work was very easy. I had some of the same professors Mother and Dad had told me things about years before: Whiskers! Windbag! They weren't very respectful of their teachers at Tech. I took violin and played in the student orchestra: we played Meistersinger as I recall.
I often went home on weekends. One weekend I started out with a modest amount of money. I proposed to hitchhike until dark and hopefully have enough money for a bus ticket the rest of the way. But I didn't; night came, a bus came, I got on it, the driver asked me where I was going. I said I guess I'll get off at Baton Rouge. He said, where are you going. I explained my quandary. He said, give me your money. I gave it to him; he gave me a ticket to N.O.
A greyhound driver. I told him I would leave the change in his name at the bus station, but of course I never saw him again. People were like that in N.O., and in LA in those days. I'm afraid times have changed, not in a good direction.
One other weekend Dad had come to pick me up. We started for N.O. I was driving. We came into Concordia Parish. It was a gravel rode, very twisty; I took a curve too fast, lost control and wound up upside down in a ditch. Dad said, glad you missed the telephone pole. I said, what pole?
We extricated ourselves from that wreck and climbed up beside the road. Standing there a truck came along, three men got out and looked at us, and one said Lawrence Clayton. Dad had not lived in that area for 20 years, but he was still recognizable (that was his name, too).
We turned the car back into the road. The top was all caved in, but we got in and drove on to N.O. (ca 150 miles). God takes care of fools and preachers.
I was back in N.O. for Christmas at the beginning of the second semester. My 18th birthday was coming up in a couple of months. I didn't want to go into the Army, but I seemed fated to.
However Mother and Dad played rook several times a week with Mr. and Mrs. Mandlebaum. She was a pillar of the church. He was a Jew of course, but gave liberally to the church. In their conversation one night he mentioned a nephew who had gotten his radio operator's license and joined the Merchant Marine to avoid the Army.
Dad told me about it; I liked the idea and managed to get qualified in time to get my 2B draft card, excusing me from military service. It was a close call.
Ruston is some 280 miles north of New Orleans. For generations our family has oscillated between these two locations: N.O. and North LA. LA Tech was much more of a place than it had been when Dad went there early in the 20th Century, and also much less than it is today. It was a middle sized school, and I was more comfortable there than I had been at Duke, among the kind of people I was raised with. (A second cousin from Clayton was also going there at the time, but I didn't learn this until many years later.)
The course work was very easy. I had some of the same professors Mother and Dad had told me things about years before: Whiskers! Windbag! They weren't very respectful of their teachers at Tech. I took violin and played in the student orchestra: we played Meistersinger as I recall.
I often went home on weekends. One weekend I started out with a modest amount of money. I proposed to hitchhike until dark and hopefully have enough money for a bus ticket the rest of the way. But I didn't; night came, a bus came, I got on it, the driver asked me where I was going. I said I guess I'll get off at Baton Rouge. He said, where are you going. I explained my quandary. He said, give me your money. I gave it to him; he gave me a ticket to N.O.
A greyhound driver. I told him I would leave the change in his name at the bus station, but of course I never saw him again. People were like that in N.O., and in LA in those days. I'm afraid times have changed, not in a good direction.
One other weekend Dad had come to pick me up. We started for N.O. I was driving. We came into Concordia Parish. It was a gravel rode, very twisty; I took a curve too fast, lost control and wound up upside down in a ditch. Dad said, glad you missed the telephone pole. I said, what pole?
We extricated ourselves from that wreck and climbed up beside the road. Standing there a truck came along, three men got out and looked at us, and one said Lawrence Clayton. Dad had not lived in that area for 20 years, but he was still recognizable (that was his name, too).
We turned the car back into the road. The top was all caved in, but we got in and drove on to N.O. (ca 150 miles). God takes care of fools and preachers.
I was back in N.O. for Christmas at the beginning of the second semester. My 18th birthday was coming up in a couple of months. I didn't want to go into the Army, but I seemed fated to.
However Mother and Dad played rook several times a week with Mr. and Mrs. Mandlebaum. She was a pillar of the church. He was a Jew of course, but gave liberally to the church. In their conversation one night he mentioned a nephew who had gotten his radio operator's license and joined the Merchant Marine to avoid the Army.
Dad told me about it; I liked the idea and managed to get qualified in time to get my 2B draft card, excusing me from military service. It was a close call.
posted by Larry Clayton at 1:22 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home