Worth resharing–Wofford College Women (before we were cool)

Main Building

Old Main, Wofford campus.

Wofford College.  All you Yankees, heathen and sportscasters need to learn to pronounce it  correctly.  It’s WAWH-ferd.  Not Woof-ferd.

I matriculated there in the fall of 1977 and graduated in May of 1981, having been recruited by my father’s cousin-by-marriage, Dr. Elton Hendricks, then Director of Admissions. Elton is a physicist and a Methodist minister and he went on to a long career as president of Methodist University.

Wofford had been a men’s school since its inception in 1854.  The first class of women living on campus entered in the fall of 1976, so I was in an early wave of the invasion of the women.  To look at the college now you would never know that it was not always coeducational.

We XX’s were a true minority; truthfully, not welcomed by everyone.  That first week all fell uncomfortably silent when “we” walked into the dining hall. You cringed inwardly while walking proudly.  Yes, you were afraid the frat boys and jocks would begin to hiss and boo.  And yes, fraternities openly discouraged brothers and pledges from dating Wofford women.

Thankfully it didn’t take long before I felt like I was one of the guys.  Yes, I was a member of the Association of Wofford Women.  We really didn’t, you know, do anything.  It seemed the association was mostly for show.  We existed.  We joined.  ‘Cause we could.  Solidarity and all.

Spartanburg General Nursing School photo

Shirley Senn’s nursing school photo

My son is a sophomore at the University of South Carolina.  He had looked at Wofford as early as between his freshman and sophomore year of high school.  He knew it wasn’t for him, but we filled out an application to Wofford and an ivy-league school more or less for grins (but never hit the final “submit” button to either school).  He also considered Presbyterian College, where he would have been a legacy to his grandfather, Jack P. Holmes.

Little did he know that if he had chosen Wofford, he would have been a legacy to me and to his maternal grandmother Shirley Senn Holmes.

Yes, Shirley and her sister Marietta “Mary” Senn Harper attended classes on campus at Wofford during their years as R.N. students at Spartanburg General Hospital’s School of Nursing.

Spartanburg General School of Nursing photo

Mary Senn’s nursing school photo

This is not one of my witty, insightful or funny blogs.  It is pure history for my son’s benefit and that of my Holmes and Harper cousins who might not know that Shirley and Mary attended classes at Wofford way before it was cool to do so.

I’m re-sharing Wofford historian Phillip Stone’s blog From the Archives for their benefit.  It deals with women at Wofford before women really “arrived.”  Click on the link and it will open in a new window, so don’t freak.

The Women Before There Were Women

Also, I’ll tell you that I’ve recently been interviewed for an article in Wofford Today magazine about the early years of co-eds at Wofford.  I’ll let you know when it comes out.

Meanwhile intaminatus fulget honoribus.  I think.

Wofford College logo

Post to Twitter Tweet This Post

  • Share/Bookmark

That Old School Bell’s Gonna Ring Loud and Long…

The other day I ran into an old friend.  We were in school together from the 6th grade until high school graduation and started to reminisce.  I teased him about a pretty unpopular teacher that we shared for 7th grade English who unfortunately followed us to the high school.  We had her again for 9th grade English.  Some poor folks even had her three years in a row.

She berated him constantly–whether he was doing anything bad or not, and I can still hear her calling him out in class,  “Mark Burke, you so mannish!”  My husband suffered a similar fate in her classes:  “Tommy Burns, you are grinning and that means you are up to no good!”

At any rate, I asked my friend who his favorite teacher was.  His answer came as a complete surprise to me.  I had in mind all of the great teachers we had in high school, whether physics or chemistry or 12th grade English lit.  But he shocked me by again reaching back into the 7th grade at old Ford School in Watts Mill and saying, “Well, Jackie, I guess it was your daddy.”

Another shared teacher, my daddy Jack Holmes taught us 7th grade science. I had almost forgotten that.

Surprised and humbled, the best I could do was blurt out “Why?”

“See, it’s funny what I can remember about school and what I can’t,” he said, “but I can remember specific questions on tests he gave us.”

Yeah, right, I thought.  “Name one.”

But he did.  “True or False.  Astronauts cannot eat in space because they can’t swallow.”

I had to think for a second, because it seemed so obvious that it sounded like a trick question.  My friend went on to explain the answer, that yes, they swallow because the muscles do the work of pushing ingesta down into the stomach.  The question made him think and made an impression on him, so I began to think of teachers who had made an impression on me.

My favorite teacher was 10th grade English teacher Mrs. Anna T. Mims, an exquisite lady who somehow took Silas Marner and inspired in me a love of literature that shapes who I am today.  I also adored the almost bashful and halting delivery of algebra-trig and physics teacher Mr. Ben Miller, the precise and demanding Chemistry teacher Mr. Harold Ligon, the irascible U.S. History teacher Mr. Tommy “Sub” Sublett,  strict government teacher Mrs. Rosemary Johnson and Mrs. Keith Oakes, who prepared us well for college with senior English lit.

I spent so many years in school, from Ford to the high school to Wofford College to the University of Georgia.  It would never have occurred to me that anybody could remember specific questions on specific tests.  Later on, I searched  my brain to see if I could recall any test questions.

They were all in college or vet school.  There was the infamous social ethics test at WoCo given by Professor Walt Hudgens, who passed out blue books and then said, “There is no test.  But I want you all to sit here and write in your blue book for at least an hour.  You can doodle, draw, write love letters, whatever…just pretend that you are taking a test.”  The class was flummoxed.  I chewed on the end of my pen for a few minutes staring off into space, then furiously started to write.

Of course it was a test, and on one of the ethical dilemmas we had studied.  Not as good of a test as the previous year when he came in the room, threw a rubber chicken on the desk and said, “Prove that this isn’t God,” but a test nonetheless.  He graded our blue books. I made an A+.

Another Wofford test I remembered was in the second day of class in Dr. H. Donald Dobbs’ freshman zoology.  Each fall he’d start with about 150 would-be doctors filling the lecture hall and rather quickly weed out those who weren’t cut out for medicine By the end of the four years, roughly a 12 to 14 of us actually made it into medical, dental or veterinary school.

Dobbs did it starting on the second day of class with a pop quiz on Latin and Greek prefixes, suffixes and root words.  Most of us, myself included, bombed the quiz.  Why would we think to study our dead languages for zoology class?  In fact, we probably represented the first generation of students who didn’t have the opportunity to take Latin in high school.  Tenacious, I hung in there and made it to the end.  In fact, on the biology class senior comprehensive exit exam, I scored  #1 of 19 graduating bio majors, edging out top rivals who went on to become orthopedic surgeons and gynecologists and dentists.

Another test that sticks in my mind was in vet school’s Public Health class, Dr. Brown’s infamous Caribou Test.  Most of my eighty-odd classmates bombed this test, which could have been on something important like tuberculosis in cow’s milk affecting everyday milk consumers.  Instead, 100% of the test was on the obscure cycle of brucellosis in caribou, wolves and native peoples in Alaska.  I aced the test, mainly because I enjoyed thinking about going up to the last frontier and hunting some of those pretty little caribou with my deer rifle.

I barely remember dragging myself out of bed, driving to the vet school and taking Dr. Clay Calvert’s cardiology final.  I had the flu so I called him and he would not let me out of taking the test.  I was out of my head with fever, but did about as well on the test as anybody else, as none of us could fathom Dr. Calvert or what he wanted from us come test time.

Small Animal Anatomy’s final lab practical was a doozy.  Dr. Peter Purinton took dogs and cats that we had dissected in the traditional longitudinal fashion and sawed them in cross-section, sticking pins in nerves and muscles and veins that we had never seen from that angle.

But the most interesting single test question I recall is from the practical exam in large animal anatomy.   Our only classroom blurb in poultry anatomy had come on the last day of class, “Chicken Day.”  On Chicken Day, Professor “Arvle the Marvel” Marshall divided us into groups and each group was assigned an organ system.  We had to make up a skit about our organ system and it was a big joke.  Nobody gave a rip about a chicken unless it was barbecued at a fraternity party.

The question was posted at the base of an articulated chicken skeleton.  “What gender is this bird?”  Hurt yourself thinking if you wish.  I got it right, but then I was the only student who could identify the bacculum of a raccoon when a dairy farmer hosting us for herd health lay it on the table and asked us what it was.

Next week, school starts again.  For better or worse, teachers are leaders who shape our lives even as they struggle to get through their workdays and their own lives.   Their classroom time is only part of their job.  There is lesson prep and there are forms to be filled out, bus duty and other hoops to be jumped through for the school system.  There are tests to be graded.  They give to their schools with pride, show up for ball games and open houses, encourage and inspire.  I feel that a single simple act of kindness and caring from a teacher may make the difference in a child’s life.

As Jack Holmes would teasingly say to us before the first day of school every year, “That old school bell’s gonna ring loud and long in the morning.”  I still run into people he inspired, from 6th grade at Enoree School to Laurens Primary to Ford or Sanders or Gray Court to the ball fields or boy scout camp.

What an amazing gift.

 

 

 

Post to Twitter Tweet This Post

  • Share/Bookmark