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Thursday
March 18, 2010 Since 1922 |
‘Walk’ & university dialogue
By Jim Finley
Contributor Published October 13, 2009 This was about the time a couple of weeks ago that Nancy Mann, president of the Baytown Pilot Club, contacted me regarding the Baytown Alzheimer’s Memory Walk.
It was during this period that Nancy sent me an unrelated e-mail that involved a Pilot Club training session, plus a mention of my former university, Wharton County Junior College (go, Pioneers!), where the training would take place.
This may sound confusing, but it’s not really. If I can understand it, it can’t be too difficult to pickup on.
I wrote tantalizing column on the Walk, which takes place from 8 to 10 a.m. Saturday at Bayland Park and benefits the huge, huge battle against Alzheimer’s. Put it this way: If Alzheimer’s were a human, it would look like Barney Frank. That’s how bad this stuff is.
Nancy wanted all Baytown humanoids to know they were invited to “Walk the Walk” – no entry fee, just a donation – to help the Pilots hit their goal of $40,000. Go, Pilots!
Anyway, her next e-mail (I accidently deleted the original) said something like this: “Will be on the campus of Wharton County Junior College Saturday for a Pilot Club training session. Where did college officials locate the statue erected in your honor?”
That Nancy is some funny.
I immediately e-mailed her back (I accidently deleted my original response) and said something like this: “No statue. Officials wanted me out of there as quickly as possible.”
Nancy, I’m sure, was shocked. She remembered the times over the years that I’ve lovingly mentioned my university days at what we called WCJC. Surely, she figured, I led the way academically.
As hard as it is to admit publicly, I must confess that Academia and I never got along. You’re probably as taken aback at that acknowledgement as Nancy was.
Still, the mere mention of WCJC brings back some wonderful memories. None of them academic.
It began everyday with a school bus ride, believe it or not. The university was 40 miles from the old homeplace and not many of us had a car. So we rode the bus, as though we were still high school punks.
WCJC handled this by finding an older, mature person (none of my immediate friends, that’s for sure) and offering him or her a scholarship to drive the bus. As best I recall, we all met in front of the picture show to depart for Wharton.
My initial taste of the Real University World came on my first day as a student. One of my professors – I can’t remember which class – began by announcing: “I’m going to teach this class in a professional manner. If you don’t show up, if you don’t do your homework, if you don’t pass, I couldn’t care less.”
Wow! They mean business, don’t they?
Then another shock.
Even with God-given talent, I knew I needed some college journalism classes to reach my goals. I’d start those J-classes at WCJC and finish off at, say, Yale.
But on the first day, my journalism professor told us we had a week to memorize a booklet containing the names of all college officials and professors. Say what?
What does getting names correct in the paper have to do with journalism? Give me a break!
So I dropped that class. (You can tell, can’t you?)
It wasn’t all bad news, though. There were the Pioneers football and basketball games. (I never thought academics should stand in the way of athletics.)
It was also fun meeting new people from places like Danevang and Iago. Diversity training at its finest.
Where I really excelled, however, was in the Student Union Building. It was there that I learned to play “Moon,” a form of “42,” with dominoes. It was my shining collegiate moment.
Thusly, no statue, Nancy.
Jim Finley is a retired managing editor for The Baytown Sun.
Contributor Published October 13, 2009 This was about the time a couple of weeks ago that Nancy Mann, president of the Baytown Pilot Club, contacted me regarding the Baytown Alzheimer’s Memory Walk.
It was during this period that Nancy sent me an unrelated e-mail that involved a Pilot Club training session, plus a mention of my former university, Wharton County Junior College (go, Pioneers!), where the training would take place.
This may sound confusing, but it’s not really. If I can understand it, it can’t be too difficult to pickup on.
I wrote tantalizing column on the Walk, which takes place from 8 to 10 a.m. Saturday at Bayland Park and benefits the huge, huge battle against Alzheimer’s. Put it this way: If Alzheimer’s were a human, it would look like Barney Frank. That’s how bad this stuff is.
Nancy wanted all Baytown humanoids to know they were invited to “Walk the Walk” – no entry fee, just a donation – to help the Pilots hit their goal of $40,000. Go, Pilots!
Anyway, her next e-mail (I accidently deleted the original) said something like this: “Will be on the campus of Wharton County Junior College Saturday for a Pilot Club training session. Where did college officials locate the statue erected in your honor?”
That Nancy is some funny.
I immediately e-mailed her back (I accidently deleted my original response) and said something like this: “No statue. Officials wanted me out of there as quickly as possible.”
Nancy, I’m sure, was shocked. She remembered the times over the years that I’ve lovingly mentioned my university days at what we called WCJC. Surely, she figured, I led the way academically.
As hard as it is to admit publicly, I must confess that Academia and I never got along. You’re probably as taken aback at that acknowledgement as Nancy was.
Still, the mere mention of WCJC brings back some wonderful memories. None of them academic.
It began everyday with a school bus ride, believe it or not. The university was 40 miles from the old homeplace and not many of us had a car. So we rode the bus, as though we were still high school punks.
WCJC handled this by finding an older, mature person (none of my immediate friends, that’s for sure) and offering him or her a scholarship to drive the bus. As best I recall, we all met in front of the picture show to depart for Wharton.
My initial taste of the Real University World came on my first day as a student. One of my professors – I can’t remember which class – began by announcing: “I’m going to teach this class in a professional manner. If you don’t show up, if you don’t do your homework, if you don’t pass, I couldn’t care less.”
Wow! They mean business, don’t they?
Then another shock.
Even with God-given talent, I knew I needed some college journalism classes to reach my goals. I’d start those J-classes at WCJC and finish off at, say, Yale.
But on the first day, my journalism professor told us we had a week to memorize a booklet containing the names of all college officials and professors. Say what?
What does getting names correct in the paper have to do with journalism? Give me a break!
So I dropped that class. (You can tell, can’t you?)
It wasn’t all bad news, though. There were the Pioneers football and basketball games. (I never thought academics should stand in the way of athletics.)
It was also fun meeting new people from places like Danevang and Iago. Diversity training at its finest.
Where I really excelled, however, was in the Student Union Building. It was there that I learned to play “Moon,” a form of “42,” with dominoes. It was my shining collegiate moment.
Thusly, no statue, Nancy.
Jim Finley is a retired managing editor for The Baytown Sun.