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University Daily Kansan Monday. Nov. 25.1957
—(Journal-World Photo)
Be Sure You Do Get Home
Tomorrow we are going home. After nine weeks of lectures and staying up late studying, (and various other activities) we are going to get a break from the routine. And will it be welcome.
Home, to Mom and Dad; to brat brothers and sisters, whom we really sort of missed; to get together with our friends who go to other colleges, and to Grandma's wonderful Thanksgiving dinner.
As soon as our last class is over tomorrow (and maybe before) we are going to throw a few clothes in the car and be on our way. We are going to drive from less than 100 to more than a 1,000 miles to reach our homes. We will all have one thought in mind: to get home, the sooner the better.
Most of us will be in a happy and carefree mood at the thought of home and a vacation. But some of us will be tired from staying up late the night before to finish a paper, or to cram for a test. Some of us will be driving at night because of late afternoon classes. Some of us will have consumed a little holiday joy before leaving.
And we will all have one thought in mind: to get home, and the sooner the better.
We are going to be driving all kinds of cars, from an old Ford to the latest model spots car. Some of us will be driving alone. Others will have a carload of friends, or that Special One.
But we will all have one thought in mind: to get home, and the sooner the better.
We are going to all of the 48 states. We are going to all kinds of cities and towns, large and small. We are going to all kinds of homes, elaborate and simple, but they will all contain those essential elements to our happiness, Mom and Dad.
And we will have one thought in mind: to get home, and the sooner the better.
The pitiful part of it is, some of us aren't going to get home for Thanksgiving. That drive that started out so happily is going to end in tragedy. Because we were tired, sleepy, careless or for some other reason, some of us will end up on a slab in a morgue or in a hospital bed. Some of us will end up as a statistic, one of the hundreds who died in holiday traffic accidents.
Don't you be a statistic. Don't take chances that might ruin the holiday for your family as well as send you to eternity. You want to get home as soon as possible. But more than that, you want to make sure that you get home.
When that speedometer creeps up around 80, keep this thought in mind: thousands of people die horrible deaths on the highway every year, and your chances of being one of these is doubled during a holiday.
Please be careful.
—Del Haley
It's Happened Before
The Daily Kansan, Nov. 28, 1950—
Three University students are in Watkins hospital because of injuries suffered in automobile accidents over the Thanksgiving holidays.
The Daily Kansan, Nov. 29,1948-
Two students were killed and two others were injured as the result of an automobile accident November 23. The students were on their way home for the Thanksgiving vacation.
We would like to strike a blow for freedom. It is high time that the faculty be freed from the categorizing and stereotyping that students seem to feel obligated to infer upon them. The majority of students seem to think that their various instructors and professors know only one thing, namely, that which they lecture.
They just happen to know that one thing well, that is why they lecture on it. At the same time they know a lot about "things" that students like to think only they know about and are experts on. Students like to think that after delivering a lecture for 50 minutes, the instructor disappears back into a shadowy void of musty books and ungraded exams to emerge again at the next class meeting.
Well, it is our great pleasure to destroy this ivy-covered myth. Your instructor goes home to a wife and family. He watches the fights on TV. He knows what Playboy is. He lets his wife persuade him to take her dancing.
Which brings me to a second fantasy. Students like to feel that they are the only ones who burn the midnight oil. Have you ever wondered, as you drive down Jayhawk Blvd, at night, just who it is that is burning the lights in all the buildings? Students, you say? Ask the night watchman making his rounds. He'll tell you differently.
Just because a professor is all wrapped up in the research of chiggers, or lives, breathes, eats, and sleeps the civilization of a primitive people, don't underestimate him as to his awareness of what is going on around him. Look at it this way, a brilliant faculty attracts able students.
In short, don't sell them short. They live their lives to the fullest the same as we students.
KU's professors are hired on the basis of their lecturing and their research. We students see them only in the daytime when the lecturer is lecturing. At night we can go to any
building and see them as researchers searching.
Contrary to what a certain man in Topeka might think, our faculty is not underworked. Contrary to what a lot of students might think, our faculty members are human.
-Gene Nuss
Daily Transan UNIVERSITY
University of Kansas student newspaper
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EUROPE
We'll see the visa, plus North Africa, Yugoslavia, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Benin, Denmark, and Ireland. A low-policed, dike will be built to prevent people from wanting to be held around. Write his name.
EUROPE SUMMER TOURS
255 Sequoia trees (c),
Pasadena, Calif.
Once upon a time at the University of Virginia there was a coed named, oddly enough, Virginia University who was handsome and kindly and intelligent and ingeniously constructed and majoring in psychology. Virginia went steady with a young man on campus named, oddly enough, Oddly Enough who was supple and fair and lithe and animated and majoring in phys ed.
Virginia and Oddly enjoyed a romance that was as idyllic as a summer day, as placid at a millpond. Never did they fight—never, never, never!—because Virginia, who was majoring in psychology, did not believe in fighting. "Fighting," she often said, "settles nothing. The scientific way is to look calmly for the cause of the friction."
So whenever she and Oddly were on the verge of a quarrel, she used to whip out a series of ink blot tests and they would discover the true underlying cause of their dispute and deal with it in an enlightened, dispassionate manner. Then, the irritant removed, their romance would resume its tranquil, serene, unruffled course.
After six months of this sedate liaison, Oddly was so bored he could spit. He loved Virginia well enough, but he also believed that people in love ought to fight now and then. "It opens the pores," he said. "And besides, it's so much fun making up afterwards."
But Virginia would not be provoked into a quarrel. One night Oddly tried very hard. "Hey," he said to her, "your hair looks like a bat's nest and your ears look like last year's turnips and your face looks like a pan of worms and as for your head, I've seen better heads on newel posts."
"My goodness, we're hostile tonight!" said Virginia cheerfully and whipped 120 Rorschach cards out of her retieule. "Come," she said, "let us examine your psychic apparatus."
"Who Makes your Clothes-Bethlehem Steel?"
Oddly tried again. "Who makes your clothes?" he sneered, "Bethlehem Steel?"
"Hmm," said Virginia thoughtfully and lit a cigarette "This sounds like an anxiety neurosis with totemism, anagogic trauma, and a belt in the back."
By "this" Virginia meant a series of combinations to the head and liver, which she now delivered to Oddly and turned on her heel and stormed away.
"I hate you," said Oddly. "I hate your looks and your clothes and your toenails and your relatives and the cigarettes you smoke."
Oddly brought her down with a flying tackle. "I love you." he said.
"Now, hold on, buster!"ried Virginia, her eyes crackling, her color mounting, her nostrils aflame. "Just keep a civil tongue in your stupid head when you talk about Marlboro! Nobody's knocking that filter, that flavor, that flip-top box while there's breath in my body! It's a great cigarette, it's a doozy, it's a dilly, it's a bear—and anybody who says a word against it gets this."
"And Marlboro?" said she.
"And Marlboro," said he.
And they kissed and plaited love knots in one another's hair and were married at Whitsun and smoked happily ever after. © 1957, Max Studman
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And you too, gentle readers, will smoke happily ever after, once you try Marlboro, the cigarette that gives you such a lot to like—including, we earnestly hope, this column.