JUNE 20, 2020 – As the professor in tweed lit his pipe in front of us 10 students that first day of “The History of Western Civilization,” no one could’ve foreseen the future (three-and-a-half-years later): me in disguise, shoving a gigantic whipped cream pie into the prof’s face. A still-shot of that scene would cap a slow news day in April 1976, as CBS Evening News anchor, Walter Cronkite, delivered his familiar close, “And that’s the way it is . . .” But pie-in-the-prof’s face is for another day. Back to class.
The professor was Roger Howell, Jr., also president of the college. His official residence was just off campus, but in our minds Howell resided in the pantheon of academia. At 36 he was the youngest president of a major American college, and legend held that he was the last alumnus of the college (class of ’58) to have achieved a perfect four-year academic record. His Oxfordian doctorate was in English History.
I’d heard that his course—co-taught with Paul Nyhus, college dean and renowned medievalist —was for “true scholars.” As a callow freshman I’d figured that to be a result, not a pre-requisite. My advisor failed to educate me on the difference.
On the Friday before classes started, book lists and syllabi were posted at the campus bookstore. Included were first-day assignments, which triggered a severe case of self-doubt. The easiest assignment was for Greek 101: “On Monday, all students will be expected to have memorized the alphabet.”
The books for “Western Civilization” amounted to a small library, including an encyclopedic textbook assembled by historians from Columbia University. Our first assignment—due the following Monday: read textbook pages 1 – 344. Despite all the social events planned for that first full weekend of the academic year, I spent nearly all waking time chewing through those 344 pages. I had almost no frame of reference. Content became pure gibberish. As of breakfast just before class, I’d barely reached page 200. Preparations for my other classes were just as blurry.
I worried. I’d been granted early decision admission to the college, but would I survive early assessment by any of my professors, let alone the college president?
Once President Howell’s pipe situation was underway at the opening of class, he introduced us to his signature idiosyncrasy—a nervous fluttering of his eyelids—and . . . spoke. He had our undivided attention.
“With my sincerest apology,” he began, “I’d like to commence by citing an unfortunate erratum regarding today’s reading assignment. It wasn’t 344 pages but only 34 pages. I regret any consternation that might have caused over the weekend.”
Our collective release of breath nearly blew out his pipe.
The course didn’t turn me into a “true scholar,” but I was able to hold my own. Two in the class were awarded “High Honors”—the equivalent of an “A.” Two not-so-true scholars were given a “Pass.” The rest of us received “Honors,” forming a perfect bell curve. Among the six atop that “overturned lifeboat,” I was a “true survivor.”
(Blogger’s note: stay tuned for a sequel featuring the textbook–48 years later.)
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
