I wrote for the
Hillsdale Collegian each of my four years as an undergraduate. I recall pieces detailing my journey to the school, a celebration of the radio commentator Paul Harvey (Page two!), a narrative describing a visit to Jackson Prison with one of my professors, play reviews, editorials, spoofs, and straight up news writing.
While I think we had a pretty good weekly student newspaper, I’m in awe of what’s happening now at the College. John J. Miller – a
National Review contributor, book author, and who seems like a good guy – has built an actual journalism program at Hillsdale. The school now has a radio station (Radio Free Hillsdale – go figure), the
Collegian has won awards, and the quality of the paper is admirable. Congratulations John.
One thing that is lacking, however, is the foolhardy reportage embraced by a few of us in the early 80s. A particular evening – in gallant pursuit of the story – found Greg Stevens (who succeeded me as feature editor for the paper) and I driving to Ann Arbor to do a Friday night bar review.
As I recall, this was in January; it was sleeting; we took separate cars as he planned to go on to his parents’ home after our adventure. I was going to drive back to Hillsdale. I was in a 1980 Dodge Omni – what could go wrong?
Our goal was to review some of the bars of Ann Arbor in the event any of our classmates would want to plan their own adventure. I believe we went to five different establishments. Moreover, to assure an objective scientific evaluation, we agreed to drink the same drink at each bar. For me, the classic gin and tonic. Greg chose a draft beer (I don’t recall which?) to evaluate for temperature, froth, and quantity of the pour. I just was fond of gin and tonics.
There was a tie that evening. One of the winning establishments was the
Blind Pig. While this venue survives today, it was quite different in 1983. At the time, one entered through a “secret” door behind an oversized art print, climbed down stairs, and nestled at communal tables under a confining six and a half foot ceiling. That evening, we happened upon "Chicago Pete and the Detroiters" as the floor show. Wow! That was my introduction to blues music – an affliction that has debilitated me since!
The other winner was
Mr. Flood’s Party (based on the quality of the gin and tonics, as I remember). Flood's was in the 100 block of West Liberty (my property borders the 9700 block!) and sadly is no longer part of our community. The good news is that a wonderful restaurant occupies the spot – The
West End Grill – and they pay tribute to Mr. Flood’s Party by displaying E. A. Robinson’s poem by the same name.
The trip home was uneventful (we did our best to counter act the drinks with coffee and food – kids don’t try this at home) with the exception of my alternator starting to die with about 20 miles left. Sleet was falling, headlights were failing, but the Omni persevered! Well, at one point, I did have to resort to leaning out of the driver’s side window with a flashlight to find the center line of the road. Sleet stings.
This has been a long preamble to introduce one of my favorite poems: Mr. Flood’s Party.
Mr. Flood's Party
By Edwin Arlington Robinson
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.
"Only a very little, Mr. Flood—
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang—
"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.
I’m more than a little surprised how much First Lady Barbara
Bush’s death has affected me. I never met her. I thought she was bright and
witty; a passionate advocate; a voice of reason that cut through the political
fog; a kind woman who cared for her family and worked tirelessly for literacy
efforts.
