The dinner tonight was an absolute abomination. It could easily have been some medieval mélange concocted by the college gardener utilizing lawn improver, machinist’s oil, and ground-up old men. And I question even the quality of those ingredients. I may die tonight of poisoning. Maybe if I’m lucky it will strike quickly and leave no marks. Don’t want Dad’s old school to lose its accreditation after all. However, I’m a little concerned that the townspeople will be kept awake tonight by the sounds of 247 “well-fed” freshmen looking at their reflections in the toilet bowl. Today while I was buying books an upperclassman called me green for not getting used ones. If he was in any way referring to the way my face looks right now, he should be hired by some psychic foundation. He can tell the future.
Anyway, Mom, I certainly do miss your cooking. Almost as much as I miss my stomach’s equilibrium. Ugh.
The room gets cold early with the snow and all. But I have plenty of blankets (remember the excessive luggage? . . . you guessed it) so that poses no difficulty. I’ll probably pick up a small heater next week, first free day I get. For now I’ll manage with hot tea, the collected works of Charles Dickens, and warm memories of all of you back home. Until I write again, I send my love and an abundance of sneezes.
Here’s looking achoo . . .
Yours regurgitatively,
February 2
Dear Mom and Dad:
Greetings from Antarctica. It is unbelievably cold up here. If you can imagine your son as a hybrid between a popsicle and a slab of marble, you’ve got the right idea, just make it a little colder. In a word, freezing. In another word, numbing. In two other words, liquid oxygen. I may be picking up that heater sooner than I thought. I see no future in becoming a glacier.
I met my professors today, all of whom seem interested and dedicated. My Calculus class might be a trifle dreary, but, then, numbers put a damper on things any way you look at it. The other courses look promising so far. Tell you-know-who that he-knows-who is genuinely excited about something. I’m sure he’ll be cheered by that forecast of future involvements.
Burping is very popular in my wing of the dormitory and some of the guys have been explaining its physical principles to me, complete with sonic demonstrations to validate their theories. One guy, Jim, who looks a little like a bull dog with slightly bigger eyes (and a much bigger stomach) apparently holds the record in two prestigious areas: he drinks the most and belches the loudest. For your own personal information files, he also seems to know the fewest words a person can possess and still communicate with. I estimate that the exact number of words is a high 1 digit counting number, but I could still be going too easily on him. His belches, however, are enormously awesome. He is able (he whispered to me when I bumped into his drunken body in the hallway last night) to make time stand still temporarily with one of his burps.
Furthermore (he said), that would be one of his lesser efforts. Were he to launch a truly prize-winning belch (he said) civilization as we know it would be obliterated and the earth’s atmosphere rendered noxious for 2,000 years. Personally, I feel he exaggerates a bit. Maybe 1,500 years.
Jim doesn’t stop burping until 1 or 2 in the morning, which makes studying a degree harder. It’s like having a baby in the dorm, with Jim erupting and gurgling into the a.m. hours. Except that he weighs 300 pounds. But I’m learning to live with it. Occasionally, he gets to be more than a petty annoyance and I get upset, but it’s really nothing to worry about. So tell you-know-who to not put himself into a state. I’m fine.
If we could harness the secret of Jim’s aberration and regulate it at timed intervals perhaps Yellowstone Park would be interested. Oh well, he’ll probably quiet down soon. I miss you all a lot and send my fondest love. Until I thaw out again, bye for now.
Bundlingly yours . . .
P.S. Avoid telling you-know-who I’m “cold” up here. He has this thing about that word.
February 22
Dear Mom and Dad:
An enlivening new roommate has entered my monastic quarters. He is slight in frame and says very little; a simple kind of person with a dearth of affinities, except for cheese, which he loves. I call him Hannibal owing to his fearlessly exploratory nature. You see Hannibal, while not easy to detect, is very much present. He comes out to mingle only during the evening. The late evening. More precisely, that part of the evening when I like to try and catch some sleep. Hannibal is evidently on a different schedule than I.
In short, I have mouse trouble.
Hannibal, in all fairness, is but one of the offenders. He is joined each evening by a host of other raucous marauders who squeal and scratch until dawn, determined to disturb my rest. They’re actually quite cute, but are, regardless of angelic appearances, a steadily unappreciated annoyance.
I mentioned my visitors to some of the other students in the dormitory and they said I wasn’t the only victim of the whiskered nocturnal regime. They advised setting traps and, failing that, to use a poison which can be purchased from the student store. It is rumored to yield foolproof results. I know it sounds all together like a cross borrowing from Walt Disney and an Edgar Allan Poe story, but, regrettably, I must do something.
As an alternate plan, I thought of possibly speaking with a brainy flutist I know from orchestra class, who is quite talented. Whether or not he would care to revivify a gothic tale simply for the benefit of my slumberous tranquility is something we will have to discuss. Also the question of playing and walking at the same time may come up. But I’ll try to circumvent that aspect. It’s a slightly off-beat gig but it seems an improvement on the other method. I’ll speak with him.
My classes are going fairly well, with no serious laggings in any subject despite the effects of Jim and Hannibal’s henchmen upon my alertness. Thanks for the letter and a very special thanks for those fantastic cookies, Mom. They were delicious. You really made my day. And the travelling scent of your generosity made me quite sought after for a “little sample” of what food can really taste like. Jim went ape over them and said he wouldn’t mind taking the whole next box off my hands. Which is something like a man with no legs admitting that he, occasionally, limps. Good old Jim. He’ll probably eat himself to death one day. Although it would take him at least two days to do it right.
In light of the popularity of your largess, I have determined that everybody else must have the same immense regard for the school cook I do. He is acquiring a definite reputation, the likes of which has been shared by a handful of historical figures. Like Lizzie Borden, Jack the Ripper, and endless other notables. The man has no regard for the human taste bud. All in all, I’m convinced that our chef will most assuredly go to hell.
Anyway, Mom, thanks again for the cookies. They were eaten with rapturous abandon. And you may have saved several students from ulcers. What better compliment? All my love to everyone back home. Including you-know-who.
Thwarted by burps, squeaks, and bad food . . .
P.S. I think Jim (our resident sulphur spring) finally knows what its like being kept up at night. He too has mouse trouble. (At least someone will visit him.)
March 9
Dear Mom and Dad:
Got in a small amount of trouble today as a result of being late to class and complicating matters by arguing with my professor over a dumb thing he said about me.