Greetings from the columnist's little helper.
The duties of a secretary for a renowned newspaper-columnist can be both interesting and varied. This afternoon I learned that my job goes beyond the realm of merely tickling the typewriter keys; for this column I must be the brains (?), too. I was sprawled comfortably in an easy chair listening to the ball game, minding my own business, and feeling at peace with the world. In walked our columnist, looking rather harassed. She was bemoaning the fact that she didn't have time to do justice by her column because she was due at work in an hour. She had been very busy all day, and I felt sorry for her. I thought it would be a nice, polite, gesture if I offered to do the column for her. Darned if she didn't gobble up the suggestion. So here I am. I guess the easiest thing for me to write about is my home away from home - Terrace Lodge, a group of converted army barracks over-looking the beautiful Kent state University campus. These barracks are serving as a temporary men's dormitory while the new dorm is being constructed. Herein are housed 220 of some of the most interesting people I've ever met - future doctors, lawyers, journalists, teachers, engineers, salesmen, businessmen, politicians, scientists, artists, second lieutenants, dentists - most of whom are being given the chance to fulfill their secret ambitions simply because of the G.I. education program. Our ward in Terrace Lodge is a cauldron, made up of a large hunk of a public library, a generous portion of Madison Square Garden, a little altar (made by a prospective minister), several of the card tables from the back room of Joe's place, and an overall atmosphere of a rest home for the mentally unbalanced. Those who go home every week are missing half the joy of living in a dormitory. On Friday evenings bridge, pinochle, and wrestling is the usual menu; Saturdays it's usually baseball, tennis, laundry, ironing, pressing, and concerts (on records obtained from the library); Saturday evenings are usually given over to raising the morale (not to be confused with "morals") of the co-eds; Sunday morning it's church and the funnies, followed by afternoons of everything but books. Sunday evenings are usually spent in discussions about the events of the weekend or in hasty preparation for the miseries of Monday morning.
There are those who study all the time, and there are those who never study; there are those who drape themselves over the telephone and the coke bottle all the time; and there are those who seldom give the girls more than a glance; there are those who wear "Vote for Wallace" pins in their hats, and there are those who would cheerfully murder him at the first opportunity; there are those who might be presidents themselves; and there are those who go to classes merely to dust off the seats. We all gripe about the food, but we eat it. We have our little disagreements and petty jealousies, but no one to my knowledge has settled their differences with duelling pistols. Everyone thinks the studies are: write a book on "Why I Hate Professors." Everyone would like to sleep later in the morning. But if we were asked to trade this birthright, this chance to better ourselves, for a mess of any kind of pottage you might have to offer, we would turn you down.
Charles F. Taylor
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