Houghton College
(“HO-tin;” as in “hoe,” not “how” or “who”)
Despite graduating as a ne’er-do-well, that is, they didn’t kick me out, although they nearly kicked me out twice, I don’t regret my attending Houghton College.
And I have friends that tell me Houghton was worst experience they ever endured.
Once I was nearly kicked-out for wearing tight pants, a-la-Rolling Stones — the dreaded “tight-pants” rap.
The second time I was nearly kicked out for scrawling “Cheap American Trash” in the salt-encrusted flanks of the Dean’s son’s Pontiac G-T-O.
There may have been other contretemps; I forget. It seemed I was always riding the ragged-edge.
Such was the life of a free-thinker who dared mock conventional-wisdom.
With me it’s because Houghton was the first place that took me seriously.
That is, adult authority-figures there valued my opinions. I wasn’t automatically declared “Of-the-Devil,” as I had been before Houghton.
Houghton was a compromise with my father, who wanted me to attend Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, like he did. And become a Bible-beating zealot, loudly preaching at and passing judgment on vagrants.
At that time Moody wasn’t a college; I think now it is.
My father wanted me to attend Moody first, then transfer to a college.
But I wanted to attend a four-year college.
Such a college was Houghton, which like Moody was evangelical.
I also wanted no part of Chicago. We stayed there once to visit Moody, and it was frightening.
During my high-school summers I worked at an evangelical boys camp on Chesapeake Bay in northeastern MD. I taught horsemanship and worked in the stables.
During the summer of ’61, that boys camp had many on its staff that were Houghton students.
One was David Droppa (“DROH-puh;” as in “owe”), Houghton Class of ’64.
He was enthusiastic about Houghton, and made it sound interesting.
I also visited Houghton, perhaps in my senior-year of high-school.
Houghton is extremely rural, yet it’s an extension of the east-coast megalopolis, where it got many of its students.
It was an island of suburban values in a vast sea of rurality.
Years ago a canal passed through the town, at that time named “Jockey-Street,” since renamed after the college. The college was part of an effort to clean up Jockey-Street, a bawdy canal-town. The clean-up man was zealous Willard J. Houghton.
I also applied at Wheaton College near Chicago. It’s the alma-mater of Billy Graham, and also the premier evangelical college.
Houghton was number-two.
Wheaton turned me down — I wasn’t very interested anyway — but Houghton would only admit me if I proved I could do college-level work at their summer-school.
So much for boys-camp, I would do six weeks of Houghton’s summer-school.
Which makes me part of the vaunted Summer-School gang; about 10-15 people who got into Houghton by attending summer-school to prove they could do college-level work.
My six-week summer-school course would be Bible-Introduction. I had no idea how I’d ever pass that, since my Bible background was nil.
But it was either that or ‘Nam. At that time our nation had a military-draft for the Vietnam War, but college-students were deferred.
I did pretty good in that Bible-Intro course; I almost aced it.
I would matriculate into Houghton College.
And so began my Freshman year, through 1963. Various members of our Summer-School gang flunked out, or were tossed out, but I did okay.
I chose Physics as my major, although my college-advisor, who also happened to be my Physics professor, counseled against it.
I almost aced Physics; I was the only one in our class who got the hang of it, mainly the math (algebra). The math was essentially a tool. I used it like a socket-set; I’d drive it every-which-way, which I could.
Others, trying to memorize Physics formulas, were utterly lost; and that was despite their megadollar slide-rules slapping their thighs. (Remember slide-rules?)
Mine was only a cheesy appliance held together with Scotch-tape, plus its hairline was missing.
The answers it gave me were only close, but it was clear I knew what I was doing. The others didn’t.
I could have aced college-Physics if I’d known I had an A-average going into the final.
My study for that final was scattershot, which lowered my final grade to “B.”
By then I had also lost interest in Physics. The Physics labs were in “the Dungeons,” musty basement laboratories in an ancient building, since torn down.
I had also been doing a History-requirement, and came across a professor I thought the world of.
His name was “Troutman” (same as the fish); and he valued my opinions.
He was always in trouble with his cohorts, since -a) his wife wore jewelry (gasp!), -b) he was a Democrat (double gasp!), and worse yet he was a liberal-Democrat (“Get thee behind me Satan!”).
I had run into such tolerance in Summer-School when my Bible-Intro professor said he was sorry I couldn’t have faith.
What to me was the faith that reversed all the tenets that worked against religion; like so-called scientific fact.
But he wasn’t loudly passing judgment on me telling me I was “Of-the-Devil.”
He just wasn’t as inspiring as Troutman.
I changed my major to History; I was majoring in the good professors.
During my sophomore or junior year (’64 or ’65), a second professor came to the History Department named Katherine Lindley.
She was also as good as Troutman. Now I had two excellent professors in my major, so I stayed a History-major.
Usually a department had only one good professor; the History-Department had two.
By then I was wondering what I’d do after college, so I decided to train for Secondary-Education.
The Sec-Ed minor was stupid, gut-courses. I used to say “If you can’t do it, teach it. If you can’t teach, teach others how to teach.”
I eventually did trial student-teaching as a junior in a nearby high-school, but it was awful. My mentor teacher was a droll politician. I remember a girl-student I wanted to take under my wing, and try to inspire, but he claimed all she needed was a spanking. In other words, he cut me off; and in so doing he cut off my efforts to become a teacher.
My “under my wing” bit was an extension of my successes at that boys camp.
But it was obvious the educational establishment had no room for such altruism.
What it wanted, apparently, was military order, that is, independent thinking was stomped.
The official student-teaching I was supposed to do at the beginning of my senior-year went by-the-boards —I didn’t do it.
Toward the end of my junior year I befriended a philosophy-professor named Miller.
He was a good argument, always poking holes in any assertion, just like Troutman.
Which is what I was doing.
He convinced me I should do an extra year at Houghton so I could major in both History and Philosophy.
I began various Philosophy courses in my senior year, one of which was logic. I was utterly buffaloed. I could have probably done well in logic if that was the only course I was taking. I had to drop it.
Earlier a math-professor wanted me to take Calculus, aware I had nearly aced Physics. I deferred. I decided the only way to make sense of Calculus was to only do Calculus.
But I also had a full course-load. How could I make sense of Calculus when I also had to memorize the beginning of Canterbury Tales in Olde English? Also the name of Napoleon’s horse. (“It’s on page 1024 of the text, class, as a caption.”)
I was also tired by then, tired of studying so hard. Professors were telling me I should be scholar; the bane of a questioner.
But I had had enough — I was just cruising anyway. It seems all a liberal-arts college teaches you is the history of western civilization. Master it, and you can ace just about anything.
I felt like I wanted to move on, and live my life.
So that proposed Philosophy-major became a minor, and I only did four years.
I also had to do summer-school again, because I did poorly in two previous courses. In the end all that stood between me and a degree was passing second-year French.
They graduated me; an August graduate.
They also refused to issue transcripts, since I owed them money — which I soon paid.
So my college-education ended a whimper.
But I’ve never regretted it. They were the first ones to not tell me I was “Of-the-Devil.”
I have since decided college is mainly your mastering time-management; being able to crank out a gigantic amount of work, or at least what appeared to be gigantic, in not enough time.
I cranked out a gigantic annotated-bibliography for Troutman; I was the only one that did. His grading it took years; even he was time-challenged.
He gave me an “A,” but I doubt he actually read it. If he had, he would have seen what a cheap-shot it was — mainly a display of superb time-management.
To do an annotated-bibliography you’re supposed to read all 89 bazilyun books on a topic; for reviewing. Uh, all I read were the first few paragraphs of each. 15-20 minutes per day for weeks.
I figured out the time-allotments needed.
People also tell me the whole point of a college-education is getting a good wife, which I did.
But I think Houghton was more than that.
• RE: “His wife wore jewelry (gasp!).” —At that time, Houghton was run by Wesleyan-Methodists, who were against wearing jewelry. Later Troutman’s house burned out, and the Wesleyan-Methodists who ran the college loudly declared that a sign from above. —I don’t know as Houghton is Wesleyan-Methodist any more.
Despite graduating as a ne’er-do-well, that is, they didn’t kick me out, although they nearly kicked me out twice, I don’t regret my attending Houghton College.
And I have friends that tell me Houghton was worst experience they ever endured.
Once I was nearly kicked-out for wearing tight pants, a-la-Rolling Stones — the dreaded “tight-pants” rap.
The second time I was nearly kicked out for scrawling “Cheap American Trash” in the salt-encrusted flanks of the Dean’s son’s Pontiac G-T-O.
There may have been other contretemps; I forget. It seemed I was always riding the ragged-edge.
Such was the life of a free-thinker who dared mock conventional-wisdom.
With me it’s because Houghton was the first place that took me seriously.
That is, adult authority-figures there valued my opinions. I wasn’t automatically declared “Of-the-Devil,” as I had been before Houghton.
Houghton was a compromise with my father, who wanted me to attend Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, like he did. And become a Bible-beating zealot, loudly preaching at and passing judgment on vagrants.
At that time Moody wasn’t a college; I think now it is.
My father wanted me to attend Moody first, then transfer to a college.
But I wanted to attend a four-year college.
Such a college was Houghton, which like Moody was evangelical.
I also wanted no part of Chicago. We stayed there once to visit Moody, and it was frightening.
During my high-school summers I worked at an evangelical boys camp on Chesapeake Bay in northeastern MD. I taught horsemanship and worked in the stables.
During the summer of ’61, that boys camp had many on its staff that were Houghton students.
One was David Droppa (“DROH-puh;” as in “owe”), Houghton Class of ’64.
He was enthusiastic about Houghton, and made it sound interesting.
I also visited Houghton, perhaps in my senior-year of high-school.
Houghton is extremely rural, yet it’s an extension of the east-coast megalopolis, where it got many of its students.
It was an island of suburban values in a vast sea of rurality.
Years ago a canal passed through the town, at that time named “Jockey-Street,” since renamed after the college. The college was part of an effort to clean up Jockey-Street, a bawdy canal-town. The clean-up man was zealous Willard J. Houghton.
I also applied at Wheaton College near Chicago. It’s the alma-mater of Billy Graham, and also the premier evangelical college.
Houghton was number-two.
Wheaton turned me down — I wasn’t very interested anyway — but Houghton would only admit me if I proved I could do college-level work at their summer-school.
So much for boys-camp, I would do six weeks of Houghton’s summer-school.
Which makes me part of the vaunted Summer-School gang; about 10-15 people who got into Houghton by attending summer-school to prove they could do college-level work.
My six-week summer-school course would be Bible-Introduction. I had no idea how I’d ever pass that, since my Bible background was nil.
But it was either that or ‘Nam. At that time our nation had a military-draft for the Vietnam War, but college-students were deferred.
I did pretty good in that Bible-Intro course; I almost aced it.
I would matriculate into Houghton College.
And so began my Freshman year, through 1963. Various members of our Summer-School gang flunked out, or were tossed out, but I did okay.
I chose Physics as my major, although my college-advisor, who also happened to be my Physics professor, counseled against it.
I almost aced Physics; I was the only one in our class who got the hang of it, mainly the math (algebra). The math was essentially a tool. I used it like a socket-set; I’d drive it every-which-way, which I could.
Others, trying to memorize Physics formulas, were utterly lost; and that was despite their megadollar slide-rules slapping their thighs. (Remember slide-rules?)
Mine was only a cheesy appliance held together with Scotch-tape, plus its hairline was missing.
The answers it gave me were only close, but it was clear I knew what I was doing. The others didn’t.
I could have aced college-Physics if I’d known I had an A-average going into the final.
My study for that final was scattershot, which lowered my final grade to “B.”
By then I had also lost interest in Physics. The Physics labs were in “the Dungeons,” musty basement laboratories in an ancient building, since torn down.
I had also been doing a History-requirement, and came across a professor I thought the world of.
His name was “Troutman” (same as the fish); and he valued my opinions.
He was always in trouble with his cohorts, since -a) his wife wore jewelry (gasp!), -b) he was a Democrat (double gasp!), and worse yet he was a liberal-Democrat (“Get thee behind me Satan!”).
I had run into such tolerance in Summer-School when my Bible-Intro professor said he was sorry I couldn’t have faith.
What to me was the faith that reversed all the tenets that worked against religion; like so-called scientific fact.
But he wasn’t loudly passing judgment on me telling me I was “Of-the-Devil.”
He just wasn’t as inspiring as Troutman.
I changed my major to History; I was majoring in the good professors.
During my sophomore or junior year (’64 or ’65), a second professor came to the History Department named Katherine Lindley.
She was also as good as Troutman. Now I had two excellent professors in my major, so I stayed a History-major.
Usually a department had only one good professor; the History-Department had two.
By then I was wondering what I’d do after college, so I decided to train for Secondary-Education.
The Sec-Ed minor was stupid, gut-courses. I used to say “If you can’t do it, teach it. If you can’t teach, teach others how to teach.”
I eventually did trial student-teaching as a junior in a nearby high-school, but it was awful. My mentor teacher was a droll politician. I remember a girl-student I wanted to take under my wing, and try to inspire, but he claimed all she needed was a spanking. In other words, he cut me off; and in so doing he cut off my efforts to become a teacher.
My “under my wing” bit was an extension of my successes at that boys camp.
But it was obvious the educational establishment had no room for such altruism.
What it wanted, apparently, was military order, that is, independent thinking was stomped.
The official student-teaching I was supposed to do at the beginning of my senior-year went by-the-boards —I didn’t do it.
Toward the end of my junior year I befriended a philosophy-professor named Miller.
He was a good argument, always poking holes in any assertion, just like Troutman.
Which is what I was doing.
He convinced me I should do an extra year at Houghton so I could major in both History and Philosophy.
I began various Philosophy courses in my senior year, one of which was logic. I was utterly buffaloed. I could have probably done well in logic if that was the only course I was taking. I had to drop it.
Earlier a math-professor wanted me to take Calculus, aware I had nearly aced Physics. I deferred. I decided the only way to make sense of Calculus was to only do Calculus.
But I also had a full course-load. How could I make sense of Calculus when I also had to memorize the beginning of Canterbury Tales in Olde English? Also the name of Napoleon’s horse. (“It’s on page 1024 of the text, class, as a caption.”)
I was also tired by then, tired of studying so hard. Professors were telling me I should be scholar; the bane of a questioner.
But I had had enough — I was just cruising anyway. It seems all a liberal-arts college teaches you is the history of western civilization. Master it, and you can ace just about anything.
I felt like I wanted to move on, and live my life.
So that proposed Philosophy-major became a minor, and I only did four years.
I also had to do summer-school again, because I did poorly in two previous courses. In the end all that stood between me and a degree was passing second-year French.
They graduated me; an August graduate.
They also refused to issue transcripts, since I owed them money — which I soon paid.
So my college-education ended a whimper.
But I’ve never regretted it. They were the first ones to not tell me I was “Of-the-Devil.”
I have since decided college is mainly your mastering time-management; being able to crank out a gigantic amount of work, or at least what appeared to be gigantic, in not enough time.
I cranked out a gigantic annotated-bibliography for Troutman; I was the only one that did. His grading it took years; even he was time-challenged.
He gave me an “A,” but I doubt he actually read it. If he had, he would have seen what a cheap-shot it was — mainly a display of superb time-management.
To do an annotated-bibliography you’re supposed to read all 89 bazilyun books on a topic; for reviewing. Uh, all I read were the first few paragraphs of each. 15-20 minutes per day for weeks.
I figured out the time-allotments needed.
People also tell me the whole point of a college-education is getting a good wife, which I did.
But I think Houghton was more than that.
• RE: “His wife wore jewelry (gasp!).” —At that time, Houghton was run by Wesleyan-Methodists, who were against wearing jewelry. Later Troutman’s house burned out, and the Wesleyan-Methodists who ran the college loudly declared that a sign from above. —I don’t know as Houghton is Wesleyan-Methodist any more.
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