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The third page is a flashy red-and-gold design named “Embassy,” but the pattern on Page 17, “Arbor,” a textured stripe with a subtle metallic sheen, is equally attractive. Look past the backgrounds, however, and you’ll notice this 82-page 1940s wallpaper sample book serves double duty as a 20-year time capsule of UD theater.
It sits perched atop a computer hutch off the theater department’s main office, blending in with stacks of scripts and old VHS performance tapes. “I’m probably the only person who knows about it,” said Darrell Anderson ’69, associate professor and director of the theater program.
Anderson has served as the scenic and lighting designer at UD since 1974, and he was one of the last students to contribute to the scrapbook. Starting with Ladies of the Jury in 1948 and continuing through fall 1968, the book contains various memorabilia: ticket stubs, playbills, promotional posters; everything from the UD Players’ early years as a student organization to the full-fledged theater program that set the stage for today’s students.
There are words of praise: “They have elevated the reputation of the university to a plane unrivaled by any other faction of the school,” wrote one admirer of 1949’s Our Town. Or, “Fantastic! Little Mary Sunshine was supposed to be funny, I cried all the way through it — I was so thrilled with your success,” noted a UD employee after the 1965 production.
There are newspaper clippings, like one from the Dayton Daily News’ March 26, 1968, issue, which chronicled the transformation of 21-year-old Diane Wiesemann Jenkins ’69 into a 40-year-old slob for Come Back, Little Sheba — plaster face cast and all.
There are even memos regarding student ticket requirements (a consistent 10 or 12, regardless of decade), club meetings and casting decisions. “There was an exceptional amount of talent displayed, and, unfortunately, a small cast. This situation is good for a play, frustrating for a director, and absolute hell for actors,” noted longtime director Pat Gilvary ’50 in a 1963 letter. He retired in 1994 after a 39-year University career.
A few mementos from the 1970s and ’80s made their way, loose-leaf style, into the back of the book — including a program for the University’s 1976 rendition of Our Town. “I’ve tried to keep an eye on the scrapbook over the years and made sure it moved with us each time we changed offices,” said Anderson, who took over the watchful task from Gilvary.
Despite the wallpaper’s claims to be “waterfast and fadeproof,” the book has experienced its share of wear and tear. Anderson recalls one mishap in 1975 involving a broken steam pipe, causing some water damage to the first dozen pages.
The moisture may have blurred the words, but it can’t dampen the memories.
They say the story is found between the lines. But sometimes the story is laid out before the letters even hit the paper.
For those using a letterpress system, setting out the letters is only the beginning of a process that’s stamped in their memories forever.
In a dark corner of College Park Center, an obscure contraption called a platen press sits, tucked behind rows of computers. Although the piece seems out of place, it isn’t completely alone — it’s neighbored by a California Job Case, which contains drawer after drawer of type featuring individual letters, numbers and images of the University’s logo and presidential seal.
And while the letterpress system sits in the shadows of digital print, a few remember a time when it had a very active presence on campus.
Brother Joe Mariscalco, S.M. ’62, who now lives at Mount Saint John in Beavercreek, Ohio, operated the letterpress system until 1998. With a master’s in printing technology, he put his degree to use for 44 years.
“I haven’t seen one of those [presses] in a long time,” he chuckled. His retirement marked the end of the press’s use on campus.
Brother Joe Barrish, S.M. ’50, noted the great level of skill required in this intricate process that would set the foundation for later methods of printing. Whether it was for stationery, a brochure or a flyer, the process began
by organizing the designated type — one letter at a time.
Laid out backward in preparation for the transfer of ink to paper, the type was set into a heavy steel frame called a chase. Squared and locked up, it would then go into the press. But it wasn’t an automatic finish. Mariscalco would then pull down a lever that would lock the chase into place and work with the press’s distinct rhythm as he placed the paper in and pulled the paper out. And once you had put in the paper, “get your hand out right away . . . it’s going to print whether you’ve got paper or not,” said Mariscalco.
His hands were lucky enough to escape the press, but he still couldn’t avoid the very noticeable ink-stained fingers. Thinking back, Mariscalco, now 84, said he probably should’ve worn gloves.
The ink stains on Mariscalco’s fingers faded away years ago, but the memory of the letterpress made a lasting impression.
More than 100 years ago, on an island far, far away, a bushy-bearded man hauled his big boxy camera up to picturesque hilltops and down to cascading waterfalls, capturing life on glass plate negatives.
The Society of Mary appointed Brother Gabriel Bertram Bellinghausen, S.M., to introduce its educational mission to the Hawaiian Islands, according to Kimberley Neuenschwander, assistant archivist for the Marianist Archives. Bellinghausen took over St. Louis College in Honolulu in 1883 and increased the size of the student body tenfold over the next 22 years. It was just one way in which he was prolific.
While in Hawaii, Bellinghausen shot nearly 2,000 photographs, which Father Paul Vieson, S.M., director of the Marianist Archives at UD, describes as “marvelous” and “incredibly clear.”
“They’re very valuable in the sense that they record pictorially all the flora and fauna and a lot of the life in the Hawaiian Islands in the late 1800s and early 1900s,” Vieson said.
Bellinghausen saw it all through the 8-by-10-inch glass sheets — panoramic views of the Marianist order lined up in heavy black robes outside St. Louis College, stark shots of bunches of ripe fruits, portraits of the Hawaiian monarchy, collages of St. Louis College’s track and field stars, crisp views of Honolulu’s architecture and more.
But in his day, capturing these images was no simple feat.
“It was a big set-up to take the pictures,” said archivist Jennifer Gerth. “The [glass] plates themselves, that was the actual film he put in the camera.”
Today, the Marianist Archives holds approximately 1,250 of Bellinghausen’s plates, boxed and neatly lined up across 23 shelves, secured with neon green bungee cords. Before arriving at UD, this set of plates traveled from Hawaii to Cupertino, Calif., the site of the former Marianist Pacific province’s archives, Vieson said. The provinces were later combined, and their archives consolidated in Dayton. Vieson said other plates remain at the University of Hawaii and the Hawaii Historical Society.
“The people giving them away didn’t know just how valuable they would be,” Vieson said.
Neuenschwander said Bellinghausen’s photographs have been displayed at UD at least twice. Tom Patterson, adjunct visual arts teacher at Stivers School for the Arts in Dayton, scanned the plates several years ago and printed a selection of them for the exhibitions. The scans were also sent to Chaminade University, right next to what is now known as St. Louis School.
“These photos are valuable for us [the Marianists] because they give us pictures of the schools we had,” Vieson said. “They’re also valuable because there are pictures of the brothers and priests who were there — Marianists and other missionary groups as well — which you otherwise might not get. They really are a treasure.”
This treasure may not be so much hidden as buried, mineralized, scoured, dug-up and sat-upon.
Geology professor Michael Sandy wanders into a mild winter’s fading sunlight and bends down to point at a rock in the retaining wall in Kennedy Union Plaza. On warmer days, students sit here, searching for friends or a few quiet moments before class. The rock is Springfield dolomite, and protruding out of the rock are fossilized brachiopods, bottom-dwelling creatures that thrived in ancient Paleozoic seas.
“You’re walking past the Silurian period, 420 million years ago — I like that idea,” he says, pointing out a 3-inch clam-like fossil sticking out of one chunk, a handful of half-dollar-sized ones scattered on others. “You’ve got this stuff all around us — it’s part of earth history, of our planet.”
In Dayton, that history includes an ancient, tropical sea and glaciers several hundreds of feet thick. The former created perfect conditions for the brachiopods — waving in water like clams atop stalks anchored in the sand. They died, fell to the sea floor, and were buried and infilled with sediment, their soft interiors and hard shells dissolved away leaving a fossil casting of their former selves. Fast forward 418 million years. While glaciers bulldozed up deposits that would become Woodland Cemetery just north of campus, they also revealed outcrops of Springfield dolomite and its cousin, Dayton limestone, which in the 19th century would be recognized as one of Ohio’s finest building stones.
“I’ve always enjoyed landscapes,” says Sandy who, as a child, hiked the rolling North Downs outside London. “I’ve always wondered why the land is the shape it is and, surprise surprise, geology usually has the answers.
“There is always geology to see, wherever you live. People think of the Grand Canyon; a significant record of earth history is on the doorstep.”
He means that, literally. Look at the rock used for building and you’ll find hints of an area’s geologic history.
In April, Sandy will be leading scientists from the Geological Society of America around downtown Dayton to reveal the geology behind the city’s building stones. The fieldtrip’s highlight is the Greek-Revival Old Courthouse, where Presidents Lincoln and Kennedy addressed citizens from the building’s Dayton limestone steps.
Sandy will also take scientists on a fieldtrip of Dayton’s geology, from the fossil beds of Caesar Creek to the glacial margin that carved the gorge near Clifton. His students take a similar trip each semester.
Sandy, who specializes in the relatively younger brachiopods of the Mesozoic era, appreciates the practical nature of geology. His fossils may answer questions about the chemical composition of ancient seas; the stone walls in KU Plaza can stoke a desire for more knowledge.
“If you start looking at other buildings, you start to see other fossils and geologic indicators just waiting for the eyes of the observant, inquiring student,” he says.
Wintertime is often marked by the stark contrast of cold, bleak landscapes and warm, jubilant holiday festivities. When famous Daytonian poet Paul Laurence Dunbar published the hopeful seasonal sonnet “Chris’mus is a’comin,” he had one year left to live.
New York-based publishing house Dodd, Mead and Co. printed the poem in 1905.
Dunbar was in his early 30s at the time, depressed after separating from his wife and suffering from a progressively worsening case of tuberculosis, for which he had been falsely prescribed alcohol as a cure. Still, Dunbar continued to write and a physician eventually gave him a proper diagnosis. This doctor sent him to Colorado to recover, where he made great progress. For a moment, all seemed calm.
“He thought he was cured,” said Herbert Woodward Martin, UD professor emeritus and renowned Dunbar scholar.
In light of his improving health, Dunbar returned to Dayton. But the weather during the journey exacerbated his condition again, and he died in 1906 in his mother’s home.
Nonetheless, the poet’s work continued to circulate in the decades following his death. In 1907, Dodd, Mead and Co. published a small book titled Chris’mus is a’Comin & Other Poems, to be used as a Christmas gift.
The booklet was nearly the size of a woman’s hand, printed in red with touches of gold. The title poem, written in African-American dialect, takes up the first two pages.
Martin said part of the enjoyment in the poem comes from the anticipation of the holiday. Dunbar created a natural dialogue that made this poem highly accessible for black and white readers alike.
One copy of the Christmas booklet was gifted to Mrs. C.J. Brooks, the sender’s name illegible in winding cursive.
This copy made its way to an auction in New York where an agent for Victor Jacobs — a man well known to those familiar with UD’s special collections and rare books — purchased it.
Finally, UD acquired this copy of the book in the 1980s. While the rest of the Dunbar works in the Victor and Irene Jacobs Collection are housed on the second floor of Albert Emanuel Hall — accessible from Roesch Library only after passing through a tunnel and unlocking stacks that are alarmed — Nicoletta Hary, curator of special collections at UD libraries, keeps this tiny volume in her office.
“It’s a lovely little book representative of the time when it was published,” she said.
Martin said Dunbar’s presentation of real characters in his poems, novels and stories makes his work enjoyable to read.
“That is the great value in his fiction and in his poetry. There were real people in these poems, they had genuine voices and they had something to say.”
We won the cup, and we never gave it up.
It was Nov. 4, 1972, and there was a lot on the line, including the silver Governor’s Cup, first awarded in 1929 by Ohio Gov. Myers Cooper to the winner of the UD-Xavier football rivalry and taken home by the victors every game since. It was also UD’s homecoming at Baujan Field, and the Flyers were looking to improve on their 20-27-3 series record against the Musketeers going back to 1907.
But Xavier had more at risk. Its football team was losing games, losing money and, possibly, losing the program.
Musketeer quarterback Tim Dydo set Xavier records, attempting 60 passes and completing 31 for 337 yards. But Flyer quarterback Ken Polke ’75 repeatedly turned to Denny Whitehead ’73, who picked up 139 yards and three touchdowns in what Flyer News called “his finest afternoon in a Dayton uniform.”
The game’s score is etched on a silver plate on the trophy’s wooden stand: 31 Dayton – Xavier 13.
It’s the last series statistic. In 1973, Xavier’s board of trustees ended the school’s football program, and Dayton kept the cup.
Fast forward to 2002. UD Arena is being renovated, and equipment manager Tony Caruso ’81 rescues the trophy that was once stored in the north air-handling room with scores of other memorabilia. Today, you’ll find it atop a worn wooden wall cabinet outside his office near the football locker room.
He’s surrounded by history he’s saved. There’s a 1949 pigskin signed by the team. On a high shelf is a brass basketball given by the Rotary Club to the 1952 basketball team. He has a brass football presented Jan. 18, 1955, at a dinner for legendary football coach Harry Baujan in honor of 33 years of service; he’d work at UD for 21 more until his death Dec. 30, 1976.
“I keep all of the old stuff — you can’t go forward until you see where you’ve been,” says Caruso, who played baseball from 1977-81, coached through the ’80s and has worked with the athletics programs ever since.
In the room with industrial-sized washers are more than 40 football helmets, some from college teams that no longer exist. You can hang your coat on a four-and-a-half-foot trophy that sits by his office door; it’s the TOMPROP, a steel airplane propeller affixed with a brass tomahawk that passed between the Miami University and Dayton football programs from 1935 to 1955.
These traveling trophies are among his favorites. And he’s in search of one more. He’s heard rumor of the Flying Cleat, golden with wings, passed between Marshall and Dayton. Caruso has made some calls, but no one knows where it is.
“It’s in the trash or someone’s house somewhere,” he says. Or maybe it’s a hidden treasure in plain sight, being guarded by another history buff like Caruso.
We received word this morning that Chuck Whalen ’42, who represented the Dayton area in the House of Representatives from 1966-1979 and was an economics professor at UD, died Monday in Bethesda, Md. A part of his legacy is the donation of his Congressional papers to the University, our largest collection aside from University records. The papers cover issues big and small, including civil rights and the Vietnam War.
For the Winter 2010 issue of University of Dayton Magazine, we pulled one of the more whimsical samples, a letter from Arizona Congressman John Rhodes asking Republican members to chip in for a good cause. Here’s the story we ran then:
Not all Congressional correspondence is top-secret material vital to U.S. national and economic security. Short and sweet, and maybe a bit silly, this 1974 memo from minority leader Rep. John Rhodes of Arizona to Ohio Rep. Charles Whalen Jr. ’42 highlights the Congressional talk-of-the town on Sept. 13 — a new television in the Republican cloakroom.
Assuming the Congressional representatives invested in a color television, like two-thirds of the 15 million Americans who purchased TVs that year, they probably spent around $600. In 1974, for example, a 19-inch, color Sony television cost about $590, according to TVhistory.com. Today’s shoppers can purchase an updated model of the same size Sony — complete with HDTV and 1440×900 resolution — for around $350.
The letter is just one of thousands that fill 15 boxes of Whalen’s correspondence and other personal papers, and those are just a portion of the 480 boxes and 41 scrapbooks of his Congressional papers housed in the University Archives and Special Collections.
The collection of news releases, personal papers, memorabilia, scrapbooks, campaign information, supported legislation and media files runs 237 feet in Albert Emanuel Hall.
“Many Congressmen leave their papers with a repository in their district,” said Rachel DeHart, interim archivist in University Archives.
As a UD alumnus and former professor of economics, Whalen, who now lives in Maryland, donated his papers to the University in the late 1970s following his retirement from Congress.
— Rachael Bade ’10
You can read more about Whalen’s life in this Dayton Daily News story. Coincidentally, Rachael Bade, our former student writer responsible for the piece above, now works as a reporter for Roll Call, Capitol Hill’s go-to newspaper. You can follow her on Twitter @rachaelmbade.
Four years of writing for Flyer News led me to this moment: signing a red metal mailbox.
The mailbox, stamped with the words CAMPUS MAIL ONLY, has been in the Flyer News office for almost a decade and on the UD campus even longer.
I talked to Tom Seifert, campus post office and mail room manager, to track down its history. Seifert has worked for the UD post office for 40 years, though the mailboxes have been here longer than that, probably since the late 1960s, he said.
Originally, there were two mailboxes in each academic building — the blue ones were for outgoing department mail, the red ones for campus mail. Around 1990, the University shelved the big metal mailboxes in favor of department mail service.
Our mailbox’s history is murky until the mid-1990s when Doug Lain ’97 found it in the basement of a campus house he was cleaning. He moved it to his father’s garage, where it was again abandoned. Flyer News adviser Larry Lain threatened to give the mailbox to his son for Doug’s 1998 wedding but was unwilling to rent a trailer to drive it to Massachusetts.
So there it sat until some Flyer News staff members saw it in 2004 and asked to bring it into the office.
During the year, the mailbox collects dust and discarded printouts; last year, I used the belly to hide the sports editor’s rubberband ball. But it comes to life and becomes tradition on the last day of deadline. The graduating staff signs in black Sharpie on the fading red paint and, with that act, hands off the newspaper to the new staff. On April 10, I added my name, class year and position to the growing collection of signatures. Now I am part of the mailbox’s history, too.
Today’s Arena playing floor is not your grandfather’s hardwood. And that’s one reason why, on Dec. 6, 1969, when the Arena saw its first Flyers’ game, the court was not wood.
It was Tartan, a name derived not from a plaid of red and blue but more likely associated with Scotch tape, a product of 3M, the maker of the floor.
“When the UD players came to the Arena for their first practice, they beamed — not just at the Arena itself, but at the floor,” says Don Donoher ’54, who spent his playing career on the Fieldhouse floor before coaching the Flyers to a record 437 victories.
The Fieldhouse (now the Frericks Center) may have been a legendary venue, but its floor was, Donoher remembers, “shin splints waiting to happen.”
The Tartan floor, made of a rubbery plastic compound, was, however, resilient. It also gave the ball a truer bounce than many wood floors.
The quality of Tartan was not the only reason it was the Arena’s original floor, remembers Donoher. Danger of flooding made a permanent wooden floor impractical; lack of storage made a moveable floor an impossibility. That changed after the Flyers made a run in the 1984 NCAA tournament, finishing in the Elite Eight and benefitting financially. Athletic director Tom Frericks was able to excavate space for the dual purpose of a media room and storage for a wood floor, installed for the 1985-86 season.
Today the Arena’s floor has the traditional look of wood but, unlike old-time floors, also gives truer bounces and fewer shin splints.
In the love of a friend, treasure greater than riches and pride appeared to poet Paul Laurence Dunbar.
And so the writer put pen to paper — the flyleaf of an original edition of Oak and Ivy, his first book of poems — and said so.
And now we are richer for it.
In February, Cincinnati resident Patrick Orsary called Dunbar scholar and professor emeritus Herbert Woodward Martin to say he had an 1893 first edition of Oak and Ivy and would sell it for $50.
Martin could hardly believe his good fortune — he’d been searching for an original Oak and Ivy for decades. He also found inscribed on the inside cover of the book a personal Dunbar poem, written and signed by the poet himself. The unpublished poem was addressed “To My Friend, Joseph S. Cotter, December 18th, 1894.”
“To have a poem written by Dunbar, in his own hand, to another African-American poet who was his contemporary is truly exciting,” Martin said. “I’m touching something that Dunbar touched. I’m connecting with that history.”
Martin’s research on Cotter, a poet living in Kentucky, revealed that he was a friend of Dunbar. Cotter founded the Paul Laurence Dunbar School in Louisville, Ky., in 1893 and became the school’s first principal. Dunbar visited Cotter the next year and possibly gave him the book as a gift, Martin said.
How the book came into the possession of Orsary’s family three generations before him is unknown.
“I’m just real excited that it ended up in the right place,” said Orsary, who contacted Martin through the University’s Dunbar website, http://dunbarsite.org. “You never know what you’re going to find hiding on a bookshelf or in a basement.”
The African American Review, the Modern Language Association’s journal of black literature and culture, recently published the Cotter poem. The book and the poem remain with Martin.