507 Holes

One of my childhood homes is to be torn down later this year. We can argue whether a college freshman is a child (I suppose it depends on the individual) and whether a dormitory qualifies as a home. Perhaps, we can agree that at least the first half of the premise is true.

Mark, my college roommate, informed me of the tragic news this last week. It seems that our freshman dormitory, W. W. Holes, is no longer suited for today’s discriminating college students.

The first time I lived anywhere other than my parent’s home was in that fifteen by twelve foot room. Even though it was spacious in a cramped sort of way, the room was richly appointed with two of everything – matching beds, desks, chairs, and closets.

From five floors up the window overlooked the corner of 3^rd Avenue and 4^th Street. That corner marked the northwest border of the St. Cloud State University campus. I was a freshman there and had never shared a bedroom with anyone but my brothers. Now a stranger and I were thrown together to share this dormitory room. Besides serving as our bedroom, it would become our study, breakfast nook, den, living room, rec room, and whatever else our activities directed it to be.

The bathroom was even less private. It was down the hall and Mark and I shared it with about fifty other guys, most of which I would come to know on some level. Women occupied the floors above and below us; I did not get to know most of them on any level. They lived on the even numbered floors and the men on the odd ones (naturally).

Holes Hall was a nine-floor co-ed dorm. The main floor had a front desk (not at all similar to your nicer hotels), unsecure mailboxes for the insecure freshman residents, and a recreation area (for those who never thought to use their own room for such a purpose).  There was also a TV lounge. It was like going to a well-lit movie theater to watch something you normally wouldn’t, with people you would not normally associate with, on furniture you would not choose to sit in.

Outside our room were the two elevators. Through careful study and observation, Mark and I learned to listen to the movement in the elevator shaft and judge the arrival of the elevator car. Within an acceptable margin of error, we could determine whether it was faster to take the stairs or wait for the elevator. Everyone else had quickly concluded that it was usually faster to take the stairs.

I learned quite a bit on the fifth floor of Holes Hall that year: I learned to save time and money by washing colors and whites together; studying leads to knowledge; knowledge is preferred over guessing; actions have consequences; and a good reputation is easier kept than recovered.

Fortunately, what I learned will not disappear when they tear the building down. After that first year Mark and I lived with each other for another four years (extended learning) in various dormitories and apartments. When he told me that our freshman dormitory was going to be demolished, I was thankful that he and I, the former occupants of Room 507, survived to tell about it.