Ferrum, Krakens, and Caches

Beware the Ferrum College Kraken!

It's fair to say that my college days, in the late 1970s, found me at the pinnacle of experimentation with anything and everything that wasn't part of my prescribed conservative, middle-class, sometimes overly protected upbringing. I spent the first two years of college at Ferrum, a relatively small, Methodist-sponsored, at-the-time junior college set in the mountains of Franklin County, VA, about 30 miles from Martinsville, my hometown. Since I lived on campus, free of the shackles of small-town conservatism, for me, drinking, drugs, and debauchery became the order of the day. To this day, I wonder how the hell I survived it—and how I still managed to do so well academically (Dean's list each semester). Still, I can't say I don't hold onto some regret for having been a true jerk and adhering to that kind of craptastic lifestyle. Well, it was part of the learning process, and I suppose I'm a better person for it today.

You're laughing, aren't you?

Back then, Ferrum was an attractive campus, though perpetually in a state of "improvement" (read disrepair). At that time, the distinctly rural life—which could be appealing in moderation—grew old quickly, so on weekends, I often went to Roanoke or Richmond or DC with friends to seek more urban-based pleasures. Still, the picturesque setting, not far from Philpott Lake, held considerable allure for me then, and even more for me now. The campus has grown, which I suppose is an okay thing, but what strikes me is how beautifully refurbished and well-maintained the place is now. It's one of the prettiest campuses I've ever seen, and... there are geocaches.

Since the weather could not have been better for geocaching, I had intended to drive up to Smith Mountain Lake this morning to hunt a few, but as soon as I woke up, I found that several new caches had been published at Ferrum. Abrupt change of plans! And it couldn't been better timed because I'd really been wanting to head back up to Ferrum for a visit.

Looky that shitty geocache!

Three new ones lurked out on the very lovely nature trail in the woods along the campus's western border. Back in college, I'd spent a lot of time in those woods, inevitably partaking of substances and activities that would have landed me in a heap of trouble had I been apprehended. Still, hiking back there brings back some very pleasant memories (at least, what I can actually remember), and on this spring day, it really couldn't have been more pleasant out there. I managed to sign the coveted if actually meaningless First-to-Find space on the logsheet of all three hides, which were very well done, courtesy of Varunner7, a very nice young lady whom friend Scott and I had met on a caching outing to Boones Mill, VA, a couple of months ago. Then, there was an Adventure Lab cache with five stages that led me to some of the most distinctive locations on campus, none of which existed when I was a student (notice the Kraken in the photo above).

Although school is in session, at the time I was there (between 9 a.m. and 11 a.m.), scarcely any students or faculty were out and about. I imagine just about everyone was in classes at the time I was skulking about from landmark to landmark.

After a lovely morning of it, I drove the backroads down to Bassett, VA (which proved very slow, thanks to a lengthy train creeping along at about five miles per hour), where I found a delicious lunch (steakburger) at the Railway Cafe, which I'd never visited before. I recommend it.

So, another special outing to Ferrum, and a bunch more caches under my belt. And many thanks to Varunner7 for drawing me back there yet again.

Schoolfield Hall. Back in my college days, they used to run "drive-in" movies out on the lawn here.

Franklin Hall, the dining hall, now with far more dining options than back in my day

Riddick, Chapman, and Susannah Wesley Halls. I lived in Riddick as a freshman, in Chapman as a sophomore, and got kicked out of Susannah Wesley, the girls' dorm, semi-frequently throughout my career at the college.

All that remains of The House Restaurant, where I often found relief from the school's near-deadly cafeteria fare. Far less remains here than on one of my last trips up this way
("Water Under the Bridge," Saturday, June 1, 2019)

Into the Andeleas

Illustration for "Into the Andeleas" by Joe Sheridan

Having recently paid a visit to Ferrum College, my old alma mater (at least for my Associate of the Arts Degree), today on a whim, I paid a visit to Ferrum's website to look up some current info on the school. While I was browsing, I discovered a link to The Chrysalis, the college's literary magazine. Much to my surprise, the site features an online archive of past issues going back to the dark ages — even as far back as my interment in the late 1970s. The 1979 issue features my story, "Into the Andeleas," which, in its way, helped set me on this questionable course as a writer of fictions. It went like this:

From 1978 to 1979, I masqueraded as a studious sophomore, and at some point in the latter months of the former year, I came upon a flyer advertising The Chrysalis's annual literary contest, which offered a cash prize of $25 (not shabby for an all-but-destitute college student) as well as publication in the magazine. One had but to write a short story; submit it to the magazine's staff, which would evaluate the tale; and win the contest to claim the cash and revel in the fame that comes with publication in a college lit mag.

In those days, I was pursuing a degree in fine art (which I eventually earned), but I did have a strong predilection for writing (if not necessarily good writing). So one evening while I and several friends were partaking in substances best not described, I declared I was going to win this literary contest. Mind you, I had supportive friends, who on this night drank heartily to my success; in retrospect, I rather wish there been some wagering on said proposition, that I might have increased my potential take-home rewards. Alas, not. Suffice it to say, I spent a couple of evenings working on a story. I submitted it to the literary magazine and won the contest.

And so, in Spring 1979, "Into the Andeleas" appeared in that year's issue of The Chrysalis, and at an award ceremony just prior to the Class of 1979's graduation, I received a check for $25, dutifully lobbed at me by my favorite English professor and unknowing mentor, Dr. Daniel Gribbin. Upon reading the tale, one can rightly infer I was an avid reader of sword & sorcery fiction back in the day. While the story may have been a pale imitation, I can at least say that it was sincere. Kind of like Linus's pumpkin patch.

The illo pictured above was by one Joe Sheridan, one of those supportive friends who drank to my success. In those day, Joe was more commonly known as "Radical" because, well, Joe was radical. Who knows, maybe he still is. I do recall I regarded him as an awesome fellow.

Somewhere deep in the vault, I still have a copy of that issue of The Chrysalis, but I cannot begin to calculate how long it has been since I have so much as seen it, much less opened it. I had completely forgotten, until discovering it today, that I had also contributed a pen & ink illustration to accompany the tale. As with so much of my creative output from the day, the drawing had potential, but I do rather rue the fact that, in so many instances, I tended to rush things in favor of procuring my next bag of weed, and it showed. Still, the critter pictured in the — unfortunately — rather poor reproduction of the art is the precursor to the Fugue Devil, which sprang from a night horror I experienced in my early teens. The novelette, "The Fugue Devil," at least, captured what I felt needed to be captured from that experience. It is currently available in the Dark Regions Press edition of Other Gods.

Still, that a number of impartial readers saw fit to honor this tale with a cash prize, not to mention publishing it in the magazine, to this day fills me with even measures of gratitude and resentment, since, truly, had I not won this contest, I probably would not have set forth on this rollercoaster life as a writer of fictions, which has brought no end of satisfaction, frustration, pure joy, and something like despair.

I've often wished I had been better at numbers.

Anyhoo, should any of you devoted readers care to have a look at the verbiage that constitutes one of this writers' earliest paid publications, go forth to the 1979 Edition of The Chrysalis and flip to page 23. I suspect you will survive, if not altogether unscathed.

So F'ing Suave!

C'mon, you gonna tell me you wouldn't
fall immediately in love with this guy?

I have a confession to make. Back in my college days, I was a suave, refined gentleman, yet, over the years, I somehow seem to have gone off the rails.

It was like so:

I was a freshman, only recently arrived at college, and there was this lovely young lady named Lisa I often saw around campus. I was desperate to meet her and introduce myself, but being a total stranger and all, I couldn't figure out a good way to say "Hi" to her. One afternoon, my roommate Charlie and I were sitting on the brick wall outside the cafeteria, and Lisa came walking by along with a couple of friends. Charlie nudged me and said, "Well, here's your chance."

God awmighty, you should've seen me—I was so damned suave you would never believe it. Getting a flash of inspiration, I picked up my spiral notebook and chucked it at her. Without missing a beat, I hopped off the wall, went to her, picked up my notebook, which had hit her in the back, smiled my suavest smile, and said, "Hi, I'm Mark."

I found myself facing the coldest of cold stares. "Yeah?"

"I'm... Mark."

"Okay."

Lisa turned around with her friends, heads all shaking, walked off, and from then on, they all knew Mark. For reasons I have never quite fathomed, she did not fall immediately in love with me.

But hey, I was so, so suave. I just don't know if I can be that suave ever again.

Why I Don't Drink White Wine

If you've ever read an entry in this blog or followed me on Facebook, you're surely aware I have some affinity for wine. Red wine, mind you. White wine has not set well with me since my college days. And since my previous entry was pretty gross, I think I'll stick to that theme here.

Fall 1977: I was a freshman at college, and a very fresh freshman at that. It was only a few days into the school year, and I had just joined the college newspaper staff. The professor who sponsored the paper decided to open the year with a nice wine and cheese party at his apartment.

I'm sure you can guess where this one's going.

Prior to the party, the sports editor for the paper and I went to the student cinema to see the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It was the first time I had seen it — in fact, it was one of the earliest movies of its ilk that I experienced, and I have to admit, on that first viewing, Texas Chainsaw Massacre disturbed me a bit. It was quite the send-off to a hoity-toity wine party, I can tell you.

As I mentioned, I was a freshman.

I didn't drink much at all in those days, and when I did, it was usually beer. No one had informed me that, at a rather classy little soirée, one should not get into a race with the sports editor to see who could chug the most wine the fastest. For a little while, at least, I was convinced Sauvignon Blanc was nectar of the gods. I was a feeling great, and there was a lovely young woman who appeared to be taking interest in me. College life was going to be awesome! For some time, I sat comfortably at the dining room table with the young lady pressed close to me, the wine flowing, the almost-adult world looking finer than I might have anticipated.

Next thing I knew, a fellow named Gary was shaking me, telling me it was time to leave. I looked up, and the young lady was gone. In fact, most everyone was gone. Really? Seriously? Dismayed, I started to stand up, and as I did, I felt something moving about in the inner regions that really ought not move about. Yeah... up it came. All that wine, flooding the professor's dining room table, and sending people scurrying in panic. My buddy took me by the arm and dragged me out to the balcony, where I leaned  over the railing and urped onto the downstairs neighbor's terrace for quite some time. When I finally managed to take a breather, I drew my car keys from my pocket, handed them to Gary, and said, "You drive."

I have vague recollections of arriving back at my dorm, though I don't remember Gary recruiting another helper, which he apparently did, because when I hit the bed, I realized it had taken two people to drag me from the car to my room. Gary put some aspirin on my nightstand and said, "Take those now. You're not going to want to wait till morning."

Sound advice, I discovered in later days, but on this night, I was too far gone to get those pills down. I was out like a light and didn't stir again until sometime late the next morning. Upon sitting up, I swore then and there I would never, ever, ever drink again, and I realized that, just then, my life depended on getting some fluid into my dehydrated young body. I guzzled a bunch of water, but every move, every breath, every sound was a vivid sample of hell on Earth. Despite this agony, which was unlike any I had ever experienced, I was starving. I made my way to the cafeteria, a quarter mile across campus, every footstep sending blazing steel daggers into my brain, only to find that breakfast had just ended. No food for me! The cafeteria lady took one look at me and said I could have some orange juice.

Have you ever drank orange juice after a prolonged, violent urp?

If I'd had any voice left, I would have screamed. As it was, all that came out was a hiss and a ragged moan, and I staggered back to my dorm, sans orange juice, swearing again that my drinking days were done forever.

Much to my surprise, the professor whose table I had surely destroyed never mentioned the incident to me or in any way indicated that he considered me a damned young fool. Now, I don't know whether this is true because it's only hearsay, but I was later told that, during the fateful urp episode, he had already gone and passed out in his bedroom. He didn't know the culprit was I, and no one snitched. I sort of have my doubts, but, then again, that night was far from the last time I saw the good professor in his cups.

Since then, my fondness for wine has been limited to dry reds. Now, I had plenty of bad drinking experiences in my college days (though I did uphold my temperance pledge for three whole days, when I might have overdone it a bit with Miller High Life), but this being the first and most extreme example, I guess it had the most notable impact on me. Live and learn, you know? I certainly came to understand that white wine was not my drink of choice. I'll drink a little every now and then, mostly at wine tastings, and though I no longer have flareups of physical revulsion, as I did for many years afterward, the stuff just doesn't do it for me. So if you see me drinking red wine with fish, or some other vittles for which white wine should be the preferred accompaniment, It's not simply because my habits are gauche.

I don't drink Miller High Life anymore either — not due to any lingering aftereffects but because it's an affront to decent beer.

A Random Tornado Story

I just heard there's a tornado watch in our area. I don't see one out there, though, so it seems a waste of time to sit here and try to watch it. Now, back in my college days, at University of Georgia, we had this one tornado warning — a twister had reportedly touched down very close to campus. In Georgia, tornadoes are something to take seriously. Gainesville, where my mom grew up, was utterly destroyed by a tornado in 1936, when she was very young. One of my relatives, William M. Brice, wrote a book about the tragedy, called A City Laid Waste. In the instance at hand here — 1980, I believe it was — because this tornado was in view of the UGA campus, the powers that be paraded the residents of my dorm down into the basement of the building, where it was supposed to be safer. Well, if you were on one side of the wall down there, it might have been safer, but in the common area, where I and several friends were sent, there was a bank of plate-glass windows that faced the lower parking lot. When my roommate, Steve, and I realized we were being set up to become shredded southern-style barbecue should that tornado come through, we decided we weren't going to stay there. I shall not right here admit to having done certain mind-altering substances in college, but I will say that I did have a rather different mindset then than I do now. Rather than seek a more suitable place of shelter, Steve and I hit the street and went looking for the offending windstorm.

The sky was black, pink, and green, and there was a prodigious wind pummeling us, but I think we walked a mile or so around campus, searching, searching, searching. Never did find that tornado. I don't know that I was disappointed, necessarily, though I might not have complained too much had the thing come through and taken down my dorm building. The bathroom kind of sucked.