Daffodil Uprising

By Jnana Hodson

When Cassia delves into her father's tumultuous college years spanning the late Sixties, she's both amused and aghast. In four turbulent years, he and his dorm buddies go from uptight square to psychedelic cool against a backdrop of protests, the Pill, and pot. None of them quite fit the hippie stereotype, but there's no question of their shared identity as they advance radical actions and outlooks. So much that's now taken for granted has come about through their heated conflict and even tragedy.
Her father's collected photos, correspondence, and notes give her a rare insight into the free-wheelin' Revolution of Peace & Love and much more as it rises within the American heartland.
His rural college campus and his buddies in the dorm seem an unlikely outpost for radical upheaval, in the face of bumbling bureaucracy and its oppressive Establishment — including the omnipresent military draft and continuing 'Nam quagmire — these boyz move step by step from square to turned on, tuned in, and, well, there are more directions than simply dropping out. They're not alone.
As Cassia finds out, hippies come in many varieties and degrees, spurred on by many differing motivations. Their garb and experiences are both colorful and drab. Their lessons, both outrageous and down-to-the-basics of survival. Her father's an artist. His lover, a flower-child dreamer. There are political activists, magicians and wizards, prophets, mystics, wise elders, tricksters, pranksters, outlaws, partiers, druggies, travel agents, actors, burnouts, organizers, and operators, as well as their opponents. It's a volatile mix of self-discovery, youthful rebellion, erotic awakening, brotherhood, ambition, desire, testing, disillusionment, even heartbreak. Sometimes their actions are sophomoric, and sometimes, tragic. Looking back, it's hard to believe anyone can change as much as they did in such a short time. But for many, that's the legacy that lingers, along with so much unfinished business.
And then there's hitchhiking, as her father learns at the end — as well as whole new counterculture adventures just over the horizon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jnana Hodson
• Release date: Sep 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463462195

Jnana Hodson

It’s been a while since I’ve been known by my Hawaiian shirts and tennis shoes, at least in summer. Winters in New England are another matter.For four decades, my career in daily journalism paid the bills while I wrote poetry and fiction on the side. More than a thousand of those works have appeared in literary journals around the globe.My name, bestowed on me when I dwelled in a yoga ashram in the early ‘70s, is usually pronounced “Jah-nah,” a Sanskrit word that becomes “gnosis” in Greek and “knowing” in English. After two decades of residing in a small coastal city near both the Atlantic shoreline and the White Mountains northeast of Boston, the time's come to downsize. These days I'm centered in a remote fishing village with an active arts scene on an island in Maine. From our window we can even watch the occasional traffic in neighboring New Brunswick or lobster boats making their rounds.My wife and two daughters have prompted more of my novels than they’d ever imagine, mostly through their questions about my past and their translations of contemporary social culture and tech advances for a geezer like me. Rest assured, they’re not like any of my fictional characters, apart from being geniuses in the kitchen.Other than that, I'm hard to pigeonhole -- and so is my writing.

Book preview

DAFFODIL UPRISING

The Making of a Hippie

. . . . .

A novel by Jnana Hodson

. . . . .

Copyright 2018, 2016, and 2013 by the author

Dover, New Hampshire, USA

Cover image by MsMaya

Thank you for selecting this story. Please remember this ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please order an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

. . . . .

PART ONE: OUT OF THE DARK AGES

Preliminary light meter reading

Falling fatefully into select circles

Fog

As if by design

That unrequited loving

PART TWO: RENAISSANCE

Sophomore slurry

Trippin’ and whee!

All on their plate

Busting out

PART THREE: AGE OF ENLIGHTENMENT

Out of a summer of torrid letters

Junior jitterbug

Cranking up the beat

Far out fandango

PART FOUR: SI, SI, SENIOR

Expectations of the coming of arhants

Curtains, for certain

Springing, like a trap

Breakdown, breakup, and beyond

ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THIS BOOK

FOR MORE

PART ONE: OUT OF THE DARK AGES

. . . . .

Teak-wick? He insists it's the sound his camera makes. OK?

Teak-wick, rather than just Click.

Preliminary light meter reading

. . . . .

Got a second? I'd like to show you some photos. They're from the Sixties, clues to the life of my father long before I was ever on the scene. You might say this has become an obsession of mine. He took the shots, all of them. So here's what I've think they're saying. Let me know if I'm on track, OK?

This round is about him in the years before he met my mother. He starts out as a total nerd. A camera nut, even before he turns Buddhist a year after college.

You don’t know me, do you? I'm his daughter, the youngest of three kids. My name is Acacia, or more commonly, Cassia. But that's a long story. For now, let's look at his college years, back in ancient history.

As far as I'm concerned, his life begins when he leaves Iowa and unpacks in Indiana. At least the interesting stuff.

His favorite great-aunt had no clue this might be ahead back when she gave him an Olympus for his twelfth birthday. Rest assured, none of this would have unfolded if she hadn't. Fatefully, every Christmas and birthday after that added a new lens, stash of film, even an enlarger for his darkroom in the cellar.

The boy has a good eye, she shrugged when his scandalized parents chided her, saying they'd prefer he get something more practical, like a push lawn mower or Bible commentary. They objected that film and printing paper would be way beyond his budget — or theirs. And as for classes for such a young shooter?

His drawings and doodles impressed her, as did his budding interests in chemistry, geography, and even politics. Couldn't his parents understand that this emerging energy had to go somewhere?

Marillis felt a special kinship for her grandnephew, for sure. She herself was a black sheep in the family, one who had uprooted in her youth to Kansas City and then become a valued buyer for Harzfeld's department store back when there was stiff competition. Well, they feared she was spoiling him and that he'd get too big for his britches.

Maybe he was.

She welcomed his visits, his own version of running away from home when he could. She introduced him to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art and the philharmonic, and together they talked about literature and ventured out to dine, even when it was only the employee cafeteria on the twelfth floor. And, to keep his parents quiet, she even took him to church — the Unitarians — just in case they should ask. He knew, all the same, not to divulge too many details.

Good tools and honest work, I always say, she winked. For her, that would include sewing supplies and suitcases for travel. As for him, with the optical instruments? He could have never afforded such tools on his own; without them, the dream would have died early. With them, he could earn tokens to further his journey. She intuitively knew all this.

Perhaps it was one way of bringing together an early interest in science and an inherited burden of social responsibility. Perhaps it was a way of bringing him out of his shell. Who knows? In high school, it gave him a place of some small distinction — a photographer in the end zone. Working for his high school newspaper and yearbook provided film and a darkroom, planting one foot in journalism, as well. Working part-time in a photography store and then as a shutterbug's assistant helped, too. He got pretty good pretty fast.

He had early aptitudes for both science and fine arts — but which way would he go? Perhaps it was his early explorations around eastern Iowa, with its Mississippi paddle-wheelers and railroad yards, that hooked him. And then he had to decide — vocation or hobby? An opportunity to study in depth cinched it. He chose vocation.

By the way, he did take some lovely portraits of Marillis. The best sense I have of her, truly, since she passed long before I started this investigation.

To be sure, it’s amazing how far a bit of encouragement will travel. Yes, I know.

Luring him to Indiana was another matter. I doubt that he ever saw it as a deliberate choice — he didn't have much in the way of resources to bank on, and school somewhere in Iowa would have been cheaper. Was college even the best route to success? Or would an art school attached to a major museum be better? For that matter, why not just head to Gotham and plunge in? As if he had a clue where to start.

His childhood was nothing like mine.

As he weighed these misty dreams — could you even call them options? — he received a letter from the chairman of Daffodil's fine arts department. This was no rote mass-mailing but a personal invitation to apply for an exciting new program. An alert alumnus had been impressed by several of my father's photographs in a regional student art show, and then contacted the high school teacher and relayed the information to Daffodil.

Behind the scenes, with the dean's full support, the youthful chairman had embarked on a daring strategy to double the impact of the fine arts department without necessarily adding more faculty. The key would be in building interdisciplinary relationships. After all, why should the school of education have its own separate art classes while not recognizing the ones in the school of arts and sciences? Why should photojournalism be kept entirely apart from fine arts photography? What about the possibilities of art and music as part of psychological therapy? At the core, this vision promoted the possibilities of industrial design, textiles, graphic design, photography, and other skills having marketable, or quite frankly commercial, applications — while leaving unchanged the traditional painting, drawing, printmaking, and curatorial disciplines. Anxious to show quick results for these efforts, the chairman was now recruiting a band of talented undergraduate students, who would get fast-track attention that included a Wednesday evening honors seminar and, whenever possible, public attention through displays — not just in the campus gallery and student union, either.

Equally important was a recognition that fine arts students traditionally are trained in their craft but not in the financial skills they'll need to succeed. Here's where the business school could step in, with training in basic accounting, billing, marketing, the essentials of an entrepreneurial plan, the realities of nonprofits, and grant-writing. Could this even develop into a degree in arts administration?

It wasn't just visual arts, either. In the rapid growth of the decade, the university had decided that emphasizing all of the fine arts could greatly improve its image — especially among major potential donors. In addition, foundation grants were flowing, and by tapping into that source, for high culture, the school could enhance its overall status, with payoffs from corporations and government for other fields. As a consequence, a creative writing program was also launched, as well as an emphasis on public performance in both the music and theater departments.

My father, green as he is, clearly leaps at this big chance to get in on the ground floor of a promising venture, especially when a scholarship is offered.

And thus he comes east to college. Right here, to the town where I'm born and grow up.

At the time, his ambitions gravitate vaguely toward a hotshot career in advertising or high fashion, industrial illustration, maybe, or glossy magazines or celebrity portraiture. Something glamorous in Manhattan or Chicago or even LA. But as you’ll see, when he meets my aunt Nita, everything flies akimbo.

I think that’s when he starts turning hippie. Seriously.

By the way, she’s the source of much of what I’m telling you, prompted by his photos. Along with his notes and letters and a few of the people I’ve been able to track down and corner from those days.

His birth certificate and driver's license record him as Dwight Lachlan Mackenzie, but when he lands on campus, he feels that label’s feeling worn, as in threadbare, and insists on Kenzie, which his dorm comrades counter by dubbing him ‘Kenzie — not even the shorter ubiquitous Mac.

What happens to him here isn't what the university intended. He's supposed to become the next Dick Avedon or Irving Penn. You believe that? This hick, that famous? But that's the carrot they dangle in front of him in slotting him into a select cadre the school would groom and move forward quickly. Each candidate would emerge stylish, even slick, with a signature approach and revenue to match. The fast tracking promised benefits for each apprentice, as well as unvoiced obligations. For the university, the program held even greater potential — to be at the vanguard of lucrative commercial design attracting both corporate donors and prestige ranking.

First, though, Dwight Lachlan Mackenzie and his colleagues must survive their freshman year and all of its generic demands. Without that, there were no guarantees.

By the way, I never saw him in a suit or tie. Seriously.

But first a word from our sponsor.

Falling fatefully into select circles

. . . . .

Sponsor? Let's say it's the human spirit. Or luck. The indominable human spirit, yes. There's something heroic — and definitely fateful — in his willingness to journey east seeking knowledge. Or more accurately, the keys to fame and fortune. East to Indiana, where Daffodil University is commonly proclaimed the Athens of the Midwest, well, one of many, let's be honest. Maybe someone has waved a magic wand over him or incanted the right spell, but he sets forth in a new place where he knows no one. Is he lonely? Homesick? Disoriented? Lost?

He considers himself lucky when he's assigned to his first choice for housing, the oldest dormitory commons on campus. He likes its proximity to classrooms, the library, the student union, and downtown. Plus, he won't need to purchase a bus pass, unlike residents of the high-rise dorms out by the new football stadium and the mall.

This trip is a family affair, except for sister Lonita, bless her, who plies her job into an excuse to stay home, which allows him to pack a bit more for the coming year. (Who knows what else she's actually up to.) His parents ride in the front seat of the Rambler; he and sister Harper, who remembers all this vividly, are jammed between boxes and bedding in the back. They pull up to Mulberry Row, as directed. It's the size of a city block, framed by two long four-story stone houses set parallel to each other and an imposing six-story citadel at the end. Their eyes are drawn to the bulwark watchtower flanked by two four-story wings set perpendicular to a courtyard of mostly bare dirt, its grass already worn away by the returning mob.

Their instructions are to enter the citadel. Historically, this would require crossing a drawbridge over a slimy moat and passing under a toothy portcullis or two. Here, it's merely thick wooden doors with narrow windows and brass knobs, all thoroughly scratched. While his parents and sister wait, he follows posters to the dining hall, where he lines up at a sequence of tables and staff dispensing instructions and directions, along with folders of regulations and finally an exchange of signatures, keys, a cafeteria pass, and a mailbox combination. It's all a blur, really, even before finding his new quarters, unlocking the door, noticing one bed's already a heap of duffel bags and boxes — at least it's not a bunk. It's clear who gets the other. So much for discussion. New roomie is nowhere in sight. In the meantime, it's repeated runs to haul goods in from the car followed by the awkward goodbyes, not even going out for dinner.

Speak all you want of watershed moments, but this is clearly one. For him, there can be no turning back. Defeat is inadmissible. A long stream of change inevitably flows from this point. His wave of emotions must have hit like a wall. He needs to establish his bearings quickly — not just across the vast campus and adjoining town, but in his housing unit, too. This spans more than geography — no, customs, traditions, routines, lingo, everyday practices, expectations, and much more are stirred up in this new mix. He hasn't even wondered about fitting in, not until now.

He hears voices in the hallway. Should he pop his head out? What would he say? What should he do? He needs a clue. Maybe later.

His first task is to impose some sense of order — of ownership itself — on his half of this second-floor cubby, itself a corner cell facing the garrison. He slowly takes it in, the reality. The interior paint resembles bad food coloring, the kind you'd see on the third or fourth day of exposure to air. The flooring is mostly dark brown, cracking linoleum; the hallway and bathroom are harshly lighted by buzzing fluorescent tubes; the concrete stairs are permanently grimy. Who knows when the casement windows were last cleaned, and from the smell, there's no question that the place is eternally encrusted in a lusty band of frustrations. Well, what had he expected? A Holiday Inn?

So what is he escaping? Definitely not late summer heat and humidity. Why didn't he pack a window fan, anyway? A fly flits around the chamber, a split second ahead of the swat. Still, he vows to make the best he can of his portion of this nest. He's already been told that regulations forbid the use of tape on the walls, so that's strike one when it comes to personalizing this abode. Well, two and three, too. Humanizing this will be difficult.

He's interrupted by a knock on the door, as well as brief panic. He has to open it, right? He catches his breath, utters a tentative Come in, and is greeted by a very serious looking long countenance stuck between big ears. So you're Mackenzie. Hi, I'm Igor — officially the hall governor, at least for now. Looks like you're busy but haul yourself upstairs in a bit and we can start to get acquainted. You like popcorn? We'll have a bowl. We always do.

We meaning he and his roommate Donovan Miller, who's sitting on the far side of an overturned trash can that serves as the pedestal for an improvised card table for the seemingly nonstop rounds of games of hearts everyone seems to shuffle into sometime during the day or night.

Rounding out the cubbyhole at the moment are Lee Madbury and Tye Wyatt, both pokerfaced behind their fan of the deck. And, yes, there's a big bowl of popcorn. We'll show you the kitchen in the basement, Miller says. It's right next to the laundry room. But first things first. You play?

Not in a long while.

No problem. You will. It's a requirement of living in C-3. Meaning their third of Chouthonian House, one of the two long dwellings along the courtyard — each one divided into three vertical units open to the others only at the basement level, as he'll see when they give him the big tour.

Miller's about to impart additional wisdom but halts himself with a holy shit explicative as he and Madbury and Wyatt each realize Igor's trying to Shoot the Moon — sticking them with an ugly twenty-six points apiece if he succeeds. It's a risky strategy, and they're down to their final five cards. Four. Three. And then, two, when Wyatt breaks the run.

Like a blue jay, Igor cocks his head and shrugs. Win some, lose some. That was fun. Even though he just lost.

As the newcomer, this is an awkward position to be in. You've essentially been summoned to be in the presence of your elders — in this case, one senior, two juniors, and a sophomore — who are giving you the onceover. If you're invited to play a round, you do, no matter how you feel about it. Is somebody getting up to let you take his place? No, as you learn, they deal five and six players, too, or as few as three. This isn't anything like back home. You take a deep breath and listen. A requirement, huh? There are more? How much can you trust them, anyway? How much can they trust you? A card game really can reveal a lot. Instead, the gaze turns on you.

So, Kenzie, tell us about yourself.

It's not Kenzie, but …

Wyatt cuts him off. We Chouthonians go by last names.

Oh. What about Igor?

That is his last name. The one we gave him. To us, he's Prince Igor.

Oh. Kenzie makes a note to himself to follow up on this later. Prince can be a first name, apparently, and not just a title.

But back to basics. They begin grilling him about his plans for the upcoming week. He has a freshman orientation in the big auditorium tomorrow morning and then a meeting with an academic advisor in the afternoon before checking in with his department. His first introduction to the yearbook staff comes early the next day, with registration for classes the day after. And then?

What are you planning to take? Meaning registration.

Requirements, naturally. English; Italian as his foreign language; psychology as his science; philosophy as his humanity; and art history for his major.

With a tentative smile, Madbury interrupts. Don't take psych this term.

Why not?

It's the prof. He's a prick. You can't understand a word he says, either. Ever been in a box with three hundred people trying to watch TV screens of a lecture? Everybody will be talking over him anyway. That's what you're in for. Might as well wait and get somebody you can understand — somebody who grades fairly. Ditto with the teaching assistants in the weekly rat labs. The guy teaching next term, he's much better.

So what do you suggest for my science requirement now?

You could get it out with biology 101. One huge plus is the seats will be filled with future nurses. But you're a photographer, right? An intro to physics might serve you better, especially when you look at light. Understanding electricity can be pretty useful, too.

Or even hot and cold? Kenzie agrees to consider this counsel. Besides, the intro course Madbury steers him toward doesn't require calculus. Instead, it's filled with future public-school teachers.

Kenzie weighs his options. None of what they're giving him is in the course catalog.

Miller asks, Why Italian? Not the usual, is it?

Looks like more fun than French, the first language of artists. Meaning earlier than the  Parisians.

Fair enough. Besides, Italian has consonants and bright color and upbeat emotion. Kenzie prudently says nothing about opera. Not yet. His assignment at the moment is to fit in, best he can.

As Wyatt notes, Kenzie has no studio art this term. Gotta hurt, not being able to do what you came to town to take up.

It does, but that's the way things shake out in higher education like this. At least Kenzie has a work-study deal with the yearbook. He'll shoot and develop and get academic credit for what might otherwise be considered a club. It's a full schedule. Best of all, he'll have access to a professional-quality darkroom.

And then they scoot, via the basement, where Kenzie sees the kitchen's nothing more than an encrusted electric stove and a stinking sink and pockmarked drainboard. There isn't even a refrigerator. Making popcorn likely stretches its capabilities. As for the laundry facilities? Just two front-loader washers and dryers that gobble up quarters, plus an ironing board but no iron. Not that Kenzie had packed one.

Their destination is a hole-in-the-wall hot dog joint on the main drag to the courthouse square. You like chili? It's the best. Their raving about its hot sauce, meanwhile, occupies a full three blocks of walking.

It's a small place with a long line leading to the counter. Kenzie is razzed the whole time. Sure you're not trying the sauce? Come on, now! He's relieved when Igor exclaims that the boss is in tonight, that she's pretty much retired these days but, well, as Kenzie sees, she's a colorful character — bright red hair, bright red lips, bright red dress, even bright red shoes. He makes a note to come back with his camera, definitely with color film. Igor greets her with something more than Buenas noches, Maria! Sounds a tad risqué to Kenzie's ears, even before he realizes his new governor is trying to inflict something that sounds like a firecracker on Kenzie's innocent, very tender, taste buds. At least she has the courtesy of checking for confirmation with the intended victim.

Uh, no. Thanks. Do you have brats? Kenzie nearly begs.

Well, this raises eyebrows! Have what? But he's told, Tonight, you in luck. Ditto with the sauerkraut, homemade by somebody out in the county. Really lucky, so Maria insists. Can he trust her? Or them?

Brats?

Bratwurst, a favorite back home.

Oh? Lemme try. Igor, Madbury, Miller, and Wyatt. Yummy, yummy, yummy, yummy. This could get expensive. Kenzie has to order himself another. Not only do Maria's brats live up to his standards, they've just established his credibility in this new brotherhood.

By the way, he does return with the camera. Teak-wick! As I discover to my great enchantment years later. See, she's my great-grandmother. And this has to be his first brush with our family.

The whole way back to the dorm, Kenzie listens closely to their footsteps. Brawny Wyatt has a shuffle mid-stride. Madbury may resemble a scarab beetle, but his feet hit the ground with a surprisingly heavy thud, it's obvious he won't be sneaking up on anyone. Hapless Miller barely touches the pavement, he's like a fox dancing in the air. Swarthy Igor has an ominously long, long stride. Their conversation, meanwhile, sounds more like a classical string quartet than a jazz combo, and it definitely isn't rock — not tonight as it points to a mellow end to a significant first day.

Back at the dorm, he excuses himself but hardly sleeps, even when his new roommate slips in sometime after midnight with nary a word of conversation other than, Oh, sorry 'bout the overhead light. Next morning, Kenzie dresses without disturbing his co-inhabitant and sets of for breakfast, where he catches up with Wyatt and Miller in a line waiting for the cafeteria doors to open.

You spend half of your college career right here, Wyatt explains.

He's only half joking, Miller adds. The dining hall seats only half the Mulberries at a time, so you're better off queuing up before it opens, if you can. Otherwise, you have to wait for tables to clear, and that can take hours.

Days, Wyatt corrects.

The serving line itself feeds into a tunnel that opens on the other end into a paneled barn that has a band of windows near the ceiling and a brass chandelier where three of its thirty-six forty-watt lightbulbs are already kaput. The place smells like?

Dead cobras, Wyatt insists. With a dash of hot asphalt.

Kenzie stares at his tray. Two blue-yolk rubbery eggs, a curling strip of ham-colored fabric, and two pieces of half-toasted rye bread. As for the orange juice?

When it comes to selection? Wyatt grimaces. Take it or leave it.

Pretty much, Miller agrees.

Kenzie will have plenty of opportunity to ruminate over the ways this tabernacle intended to invoke knights in shining armor and everything that troubadours would celebrate instead veers off to take its inspiration in army mess tents and state prisons.

His attention shifts to four freshmen joining their table — Boone Walker, from Noblesville; roly-poly Ned Rike from Gringdingle; chain-smoking Si Davis, a black from Logansport; and Igor's new roommate, Jan Kovaz, from Kokomo. They seem pleasant enough, although Rike's already annoyed by the fumes, especially when the Hungarian bums a light from Si's pack, unasked.

Igor? He'll be sleeping till noon.

Kenzie senses he'll need a map of the state just to place all of his new comrades. Already he has Madbury from Mishawaka, wherever that is; Miller, Vincennes; Wyatt, Shelbyville; and Igor, Valparaiso.

Dutifully, the freshmen link up and head off together to their orientation. The big auditorium's exterior is quite the fortress, while its vast interior feels to Kenzie like a huge seashell — one that bounces distant conversations down his own neck and collar. This isn't about our needs, as the Vaz, now addressed in C-3 reassessment as the Vaz, accurately perceives. It's about theirs. Is there a single piece of useful information they garner in the next two hours or the tour that follows? What a waste! You know. Fluff.

Then they split up to check in with their academic advisors. Kenzie's already having second thoughts, and his intestinal reaction to the morning's input is doing nothing to calm him. What he needs comfort and calm, not the neurotic graduate student assigned to his case — someone who proves even less useful than his high school guidance counselor, the one whose only role had been to sign him up for the military draft. College? You really wanna go? Kenzie realizes his dorm elders have already provided far more reliable guidance, thank you.

= + =

That evening, he's rounded up with the other C-3 freshmen for a more private tour of the campus, this one led by Prince Igor, who promises to reveal the shortcuts and cubbyholes and precautions they'll need to navigate successfully. He's joined by another junior, Deacon Bert Hendricks, a black from Wabash, and Madbury, a senior.

As they set off toward the student union, Igor explains they're continuing a long tradition for Chouthonian Unit Three, one paralleled in nearly half of Mulberry Row's other eight units. Not every resident of C-3 accepts the invitation they're offered — or its obligations — but for those who do, it's a select fellowship.

What do you mean? the centipede Walker pipes up.

First and foremost, we're here for each other, Deacon replies, an answer aimed especially at Si. Both of them, Kenzie notices, are already exceptions to the last-name only convention. As is Rike, Deacon's new matie, who's already tagged Tater.

We promise, Madbury says. Look at us. We got a lot of help when we arrived. We're dutybound to do the same for you.

Igor delineates the student union's three entrances closest to Mulberry Row and the advantages and disadvantages of each. One, he warns, is essentially formal; you're almost trespassing and loud behavior can get you banned. Another is buttoned tight early each evening, something that can come as a shock if you're trying to dash in from rain or snow. The third is far from any escape on the other side of the building. And then he points out a fourth entrance used by employees. It's not really open to the public, but who can complain? It really is handy.

As they head on, Igor presents pedestrian routes that enter one door and exit another, often on different floors. As he explains, you have to know which doors are unlocked and which ones don't lead into dead ends. What I'm showing you is how to cross the campus without having to go outside that much.

You'll rarely see him wearing a coat, even in a heavy rain or deep cold, Madbury chuckles. He is a transportation major. Now you see why.

Tater weighs in. They say it's one of the ten prettiest college campuses in North America.

They? Well, you know, everyone. Right?

To an art critic, though, most of what Kenzie observes looks pretty heavy-handed. Rather than rising in grace and light, the stone-encased cubes sit like fat warehouses imposed helter-skelter along the banks of a stream sarcastically known as Mad River. None of the individual buildings are architecturally remarkable. Any aesthetic strength comes through the uniformity of one construction element — the native stone, quarried locally. That, and the school's biggest saving grace in the way it's built into a forest carved into the town.

Madbury's specialty is geology, which comes into play as he describes the fifteen inescapable sinkholes that define the oldest part of the campus and, unseen below, seven minor caves. He then names sources for the relentlessly rocky faces of each building. As for the watershed of the Mad River, he remarks it's generally a tranquil creek — he has a technical term — but watch out in a heavy rain when it swells with storm drainage. And that's before dealing with its seasonal flood plain, the real reason much of campus remains forested.

How quaint, Kenzie smirks. This is the real dirt.

On the route back, they pass two small family cemeteries but say nothing until the Vaz inquires, Anyone else wonder about vampires?

You're joking, right? Madbury responds.

Not at all. Just feel the air, the Vaz says.

So, Deacon, how do you see all this?

Me? Oh, my, it's just one big circuit board, juice running all over the place. You can measure it in volts, watts, amps, and ohms. Indeed.

But?

His field's electrical engineering, Tater explains. This is going to be fun.

What Kenzie senses is that these few days before his first class begins are more auspicious than anyone lets on.

= + =

It really is essential that he settle in somehow. This is his first-ever home away from home. He's never been on a sports team travelling overnight together or even a class trip to someplace like Washington or Orlando. Scout tents, maybe? This is to be his base camp for work, accomplishment, recognition, honor. This?

What was it like for his father, in the Army, that early time in the barracks, anyway?

Who can you trust? How much can you expose? Disclose?

Life in C-3 is already taking shape, and most of the upperclassmen haven't yet returned to campus.

When he unpacks his gear, Kenzie doesn't yet know a soul on campus. Duh?

And now, only a few days in?

Quite simply? Indiana ain't Iowa, even if they both grow a lot of corn.

= + =

These freshmen have something else in common.

Each elementary teacher had said the same thing. Yours is the worst class I’ve ever had. Something’s wrong with you. First grade. Second grade. Sixth grade. When did it end?

With us? Look around.

Couldn’t they see, Kenzie’s was the first class born with the set on? Was the first with that constantly in the background, and often dead in front of them? Nobody had warned anyone, or even prepared them. Or the children. All, at the crest, of a vast uncharted social experiment.

It wasn’t enough to be born in the shadow of World War II. There was motion in Korea, presaging Vietnam — Red Menace everywhere.

The screens were gray, rather than silvery. Dirty snow, gunpowder, ghostly fallout. Couldn’t anyone see, Howdy Doody was anything but guileless — a masked Pied Piper waiting to be paid. Follow the Lone Ranger. Even Tonto, into a sunset. A nuclear holocaust sunset.

By mid-twentieth century, finding anything that comes without cost was difficult. Free resources, like clean air and pure water, diminished daily. Thank technology and booming population. Look closer and see that even human sacrifice continued.

Wise, seasoned guides were almost totally relics. Even books failed to fill the role of elders, as they had for a generation. No, the black-and-white set now pointed the way. It was both priest and household altar. (Their own children have another round of gods to worship — color MTV, personal computers, videotape, DVD. But do they have a revolution to execute or uphold? Or merely zoombie?) (Adults can ask themselves. When is the last time I was bored? Or even had time to slow down?)

Even with the fears within their grouping; sameness is not equality.

Listen to their chant: We WERE different, broken off and away from tradition, because THEY who were in power changed the rules on us, all the way through. No annual baseball trip for the crossing guards. No formal dance. Negate the ongoing with New Math. This war, unlike the one our parents fought, had no heroes, posed no clear-cut threat to our shores, was shrouded in gauze. And at college graduation, the promised jobs dried up. Take your Ph.D. and drive a cab in some city.

Connect their dots: Television begat rock ’n’ roll begat The Pill begat acid euphoria. Nowadays every teenager must have a car, its windows a monitor screen, a video screen, a multiplex screen. This is the legacy. Look, but don’t touch. Don’t get involved. It’s always somebody else.

Unearth antecedent context: Their history is no history, an erasure of geo-political advancement. Except in professional sports and related commercial entertainment industries, there are no giants. Those passing as heroes and heroines all have press agents. Maybe sports have become the religion for men and for boys; the mall, for women and girls. Hollywood and rock for all.

Leave a message on the answering machine tape. Fax me in the morning.

Beam me up to a Brady Bunch in the ethereal airwaves. Microwave dinner. Use sunscreen. Cancer lurks everywhere, if you live long enough.

Of course, nobody understands their children. Authority was broken. By them, by us. By the oppressive cult of conformity. Hippie nonconformity will nevertheless keep the sofas and televisions of their parents. Who are they? Who are we? Who was anyone in this matrix? Oppression continues, opportunities decline. The subsidiary president now reports to a conglomerate vice president who now reports to the CEO. Back then, there were no CEOs.

The fortune cookie asks: What have you done with your life?

Grownups would learn they could ride bicycles — twenty gear settings. Skinny tires, not fat. Go back, hightop.

Gear settings, like moods, with technical complications. So what’s game?

Go ahead, accuse many of yuppie-dom. For many, paychecks for the same jobs had half the purchasing power the older workers took home. On top of it all, mortgages soared. Salaries paid in Monopoly cash. Tin figures on cardboard. Go play. Go figure.

The rallying cry, after all, had been, For the times they are a’changin’

It becomes quicksilver. Confusion.

Get lost. Hit the road. Stretch your thumb.

The warnings ring hollow.

Gas, grass, or ass.

An extended free ride takes a psychic toll.

Oh, Baba, if only you could have told me.

Yes, they share more in common than they suspect. In future years, they'll be grouped together as Boomers — more expressively, Baby Boomers. Or what he might see as Booming Busters.

But that's only part of the picture. Some will be 'Nam veterans. And others, degrees of hippie. Either way, they'll be scarred and burned.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Fog

. . . . .

If he thinks he can navigate this alone, unassisted, on sheer willpower and genius, he's mistaken. Even in a pack of fellow freshmen, there's no time to waste in setting forth on the right foot, on the right pathway, into the pure light, by simple trial and error. In the vast scheme of his new universe, this place called a university, everyone in a classroom is in competition with the others, and some — like the denomination of hearts in the deck — are slated for losers.

He has no sense of how blessed he is to have Igor and Madbury and Deacon and Wyatt as his elders, his wizened guides into this labyrinth. It's far more than being lucky in his coming to dwell in Chouthonia Three.

His fellow freshmen, meanwhile, share in his discoveries — sometimes awe, sometimes outrage, usually somewhere between. You know. Coffee in, coffee out. Even that stuff.

As for a best friend? This is far more promising than what he'd outgrown.

Well, there are moments, like the time he comes out of his lair and faces a pyramid of naked butts on the other end of the hallway. Three guys on hands and knees as the bottom; two more, on them; and a third, on top. Standing beside them is Wyatt's new roommate, Sammy Nazirite, with a cigarette lighter in hand. Watch this, he grins, and the guy atop the triangle duly farts, producing a brief blowtorch.

Cool, eh, Sammy says. Wanna see it again?

Uh, no thanks.

And I thought this was going to be about the mystery of boyz, even more than my brothers and those in the family squad? You can’t make this up.

Sammy, by the way — another exception to the last-names only appellation.

= + =

At least Kenzie has listened to the advice not to buy textbooks until you get the syllabus on the first day of class. As Igor advised, Don't trust the lists on the shelves. Of course, that means being a hundred pages behind from the git-go in each course, even if you can find the required reading in any of the three big bookdealers in town. If Kenzie thinks registration's an ordeal, he'll rank these rounds a close second.

Only two days into classes and he's already five hundred pages in arrears?

Yup, you walk into a class and you're already a full week behind, Madbury deadpans. Don't panic.

But!

Kenzie has to get acclimated quickly. His class schedule, of course, is completely unlike high school, and each course takes place in a different building. He has to learn to keep up on the assigned readings, be back at the dorm in time for meals, figure out what all the real rules are, and on top of everything, establish a social life of some kind.

As the geologist Madbury relates, Half of Indiana's ridges collide in Daffodil, which explains why you're continually walking uphill. It's your karma.

My what?

Wyatt explains. You reap what you sow. This life, previous lives, the future. There's no escape. You've got to take a stand.

Countered by Deacon the Pentecostal. Don't listen to that pagan propaganda. Life is seldom easy, and when it is, you better be suspicious. That's why you need Jesus. And grace. And he starts talking about the Book of Life.

Obviously, then, ridges aren't the only thing colliding on campus. Natural or otherwise.

While C-3 is already shaping Kenzie's identity on campus — indeed, he is a member of a unique band of Chouthonians in the college — he's also about to undergo serious refocusing of his primary identity as a photographer, thanks to his weekly seminars with his fast-track colleagues. Back and forth. One hundred thirty miles an hour. This first year, with the launch of the program, their major focus is on ways of thinking and acting as successful artists. Do it right the first time, whatever. Presenting factual information in illustrated graphics, the intended field of one, can be quite different from advertising design or packaging, which two others are pursuing. It's all pretty awesome new stuff. Only one other photographer is included, and Kim's central themes are travel and food or, especially, creating scenes for a large cast on specially constructed studio sets — real bigtime. Low-budget Kenzie, in