History of Goucher: The Beginning of Years

Sean Varner
Features Editor

One hundred and twenty two is the atomic number of unbibium. It’s also the greatest number of years a human is documented to have ever lived, the number an Austrian dials when he burns down his home making grilled cheese, and the number of times commencement has been held at Goucher. Or, rather, it will be in a few weeks’ time.

I’m no good at commencements. Never have been. They’ve been a constant train of ill fortunate since kindergarten graduation in 1996. I forgot the lyrics to the Forest Hill Elementary Alma Mater song, you see, and panicked. So I started singing “Hungry Like the Wolf” instead (it was the only song I had memorized; it still probably is), much to the embarrassment of everyone, not least of all to those parents in the audience who were members of the local chapter of the Official Duran Duran Fan Club.

Full steam ahead still went the train at high school graduation. My name was called, I ascended the stairs, took my diploma, and shook the principle’s hand. I could not figure out why, as I continued to shake his hand, his teeth were gnarled in a sort of vengeful smile. Baffled, I continued to shake his hand in hopes of sorting the thing out. I finally gave it up and exited the stage. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him slightly limping, and only then did I realize I had been standing on his foot.

Goucher’s 122nd Commencement will most likely see a similar unfolding of events. I predict the biggest obstacle will this time be the gowns. Sweltering heat is sure to be with us that day, and the gowns won’t help matters: I’ll be fidgeting in my chair, removing my cap to scratch my itchy head, and discreetly wiping away the sweat from my armpits. Any one of these could result in someone losing an eye. I tell you, I really don’t think the thing would be so severe if it weren’t for the gowns. Aside from making me itchy and sweaty, wearing a gown gives me the unfulfilling idea that I’m Mr. Chips, and that isn’t healthy for anyone.

The first class to graduate from Goucher—in June of 1892—nearly pulled off the remarkable feat of escaping the gowns. I don’t mean they discarded them and strutted around in the nude, or anything. I mean, they almost didn’t have to wear them.

The caps and gowns were ordered from a local clothing firm. As graduation neared, they remained undelivered. Yet, snatching misfortunate from the jaws of luck, the firm delivered them on the day of graduation. Dean Van Meter discovered them as the graduates—all five of them—were already in procession to the ceremony at the church. Van Meter nabbed both the box and, just as they had entered the church doors, the graduates. He hauled all into a small side room, and distributed the garments. All were quickly dressed, then spit out to get their diplomas.

Those fist diplomas would have measured thirteen by sixteen inches in size and been made of parchment. As Anna Heubeck notes, perhaps with a slight sigh of relief, the wording “was to be in English.” The graduates did not as today receive their diplomas alphabetically. Rather, it was decided to present them in the order of their matriculation. So it was that Harriet Stratton Ellis was the first person to ever properly become a graduate of Goucher College.

President Goucher, making his remarks at the event, said the occasion marked for the college “the beginning of years.” But it marks the beginning of years for students, too. Though these years (and this history column) are at their end, mine are just beginning.

Special thanks to Marilyn Warshawsky for sharing her knowledge of Goucher with me whenever I’d write myself into a corner without knowing the facts necessary to get out.

Goucher Eats: The End of an Era

Kathryn Walker
Staff Writer

Each day I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that soon, in fact really soon, as in my-mom-is-already-badgering-me-about-packing soon, I will be returning to the shores of the Land of Jumbo-sized Cars and Coffee.  And sometimes, to be blatantly honest, it scares the buhjesus out of me.

Not because I don’t like jumbo-sized coffee or that I no longer have a grasp on any kind of grammar, but because in these past eight months in Paris, I have learned more about this place and these people than any other time or any other place I’ve been in in my life.

I’ve learned that bread should be bought hot and fresh daily, that scarves are a necessary accessory for all hours and seasons, that French children love Spongebob Squarepants, that people will welcome you into their lives with wine and hugs and kisses after just a simple “Bonjour” or “Hello.”

That the capacity of random people to do astonishing things is just gobsmacking and awe-inspiring—every time I find myself thinking, “He/she is just another hipster/addict/tourist/person,” that person turns around and does something completely unexpected.  Like starting to talk about the similarities between Kanye West and Charles de Gaulle. Or how physics can change the world.

That there are some things in French that I can spell more accurately than I can pronounce; that the bakery I work at uses 420 kilograms—more than 800 pounds—of butter every week; that sometimes it’s ok to fall down twice in five seconds because luckily there will be two of the sweetest people in the world behind you with Band-Aids; that public transportation is the best time in the world to either stare off in space or read about one page of your book every 10 minutes. The list could go on and on, but now with 5 weeks—and only 3 weekends—remaining in Paris, there is still so much I want to do and see but still, hélas, have not yet done.

And while it’s comforting to know that my grandma has already started a countdown calendar, there’s a part of me that is slightly freaking out about picking up everything and moving back to a whole other way of life.  I’ve realized that I’ll be leaving my home here in Paris with so many loose and split and tangled ends, so many ends that will be making my heart hurt and my eyes tearing up at random moments and make me sound like a raving lunatic when I go back to the States.

Initially, I thought that leaving the US would be harder: leaving Goucher oh-so-long-ago in August, my bag thrown into the trunk and Beyoncé’s voice ricocheting throughout my car, I almost pulled over to the side of 695 with thoughts of “WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING” and “WHY THE HELL AM I LEAVING MY HOME?!?”  And of course, there were moments in France where I did feel lonely or discombobulated—No one ever tells you how badly you will get people-sick when you go abroad.  No one ever tells you that you will get pangs of “I wish so-and-so was here to share with and appreciate this moment with me.” No one tells you there will be moments when your soul desire is to see the faces of your friends and family levitate in front of you.

But after this year abroad, with all of its adventures and mishaps and moments, my most sincere wish is to some day be able to gather everyone that I have ever loved and do love and will love from this experience and from my life in one space under some sort of soft lighting, with a late-spring breeze sweeping through and bringing the scent of just-crushed blades of grass and my grandma’s perfume, in a place where I am surrounded by bliss and past memories and future memories and pictures of laughter on the walls and visions of the future incarnated by my friends and family beside me.

Surrounded by the books, the images, the food, and the people that I care most about, we would all be in Paris, at dusk, looking out onto the Seine and life would be wonderful.  That’s what I’m bringing back from Paris—along with some non-pasteurized cheese—my Mirror of Erised wish to come back to gay old Paree and someday, somehow, create that space where everyone can just respirer et manger bien.

And so now making the bleak-old winter dreams of wine-on-grass and bodies-in-sunshine a reality in this spring-time weather, here’s to hoping that there will be more of these Parisian moments wherever I go and end up in the world.  Santé!

Goucher Eats: Patisserie Perks

Kathryn Walker
Staff Writer

Starting three weeks ago, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I now get up earlier than anyone I know to go to the other-side of the Parisian universe to work at the patisserie Fournée d’Augustine.  When I get up in the morning, I open up my blinds in the hopes of seeing some glimmer of sunshine, some small fragment of the day that is to come.  Usually all I see is one lone light coming from an apartment building to the left of my room. One.  One other person awake in the entirety of my window-scape.  I must be folle.

Being the cheapskate that I am, instead of investing in a bag of deep-roasted caffeine-filled coffee beans that taste like glorified gourmet dirt, I’ve been splashing a sachet of green and a sachet of black store-brand tea in a coffee-mug and hoping that somehow, magically, it will give me the power and the presence to walk out my door at 6:15 in the morning to catch the metro by 6:22.

So far I’ve noticed that this can fuel me till about 10 a.m. by which point I start yawning and dropping things left and right and by which point I reach for the coffee pot, pour a glug of it into my mug, and drink it straight, black, and dark in one amer shot.  Five minutes later, I am almost fully-functioning again and almost bouncing off the walls.  Probably a huge indicator that I can’t handle caffeine and that it is most definitely a stimulating drug.

But anyway, the first day at the patisserie, and pre-coffee consumption, consisted of Monsieur Bernard handing me a blow-torch and waving towards a pile of mini-tartes, “Crisp the tops of the tartelettes and then let me know when you’re done.”  And leaving me with a highly-explosive devise and a lighter, M. Bernard went off to focus on more impressive works of pastry wizardry.

After several failed attempts, there was finally a WOOSH and out came the flame, tickling the top of my hand.

“Ooh oww oww,” I yipped, licking and wringing my hand simultaneously to try and cool it down.

“Ah Kathryn, you put the gas all the way up.  Here, turn it down and it won’t fly out as fast,” said M. Bernard reaching for and adjusting the canister of gas.  After that, I just concentrated on dusting the tops of the tartelettes with cane sugar.

But progressively throughout these past three weeks, I’ve gone from almost lighting myself on fire to becoming a mild pyromaniac that jumps at the chance to handle la torche.  I have also now rolled croissants, made cookies, garnished gâteaux, piped out chouquettes, and even learned how to work the fancy dough-rolling machine, albeit pressing the “go” button just a little more than necessary so that the dough ended up flying off the conveyor belt and onto the marble countertop.

During breaks, we ascend the stairs to the real-world to see how much Up Above has changed from the few hours that we’ve been below ground in the sous-sol turning out patisseries.  It’s always a shock to see that in a mere few hours, the sky has gone from dark to sun-streaked and filled with bustling people on the way to work.

The bouchers across the street are usually my favorite to gawk at, primarily because they wield massive cleavers and chop off huge hunks of meat at a mile-a-minute while shouting across the street to us, “Hey pâtisiers, why are you so lazy and taking a break? Look at us! We’re really serving the public here!” To which my two patrons feel obligated to reply in lots of witty banter that amounts to the bouchers waving their cleavers around in the air in faux-aggitation while grinning ear-to-ear.

Back downstairs, we continue the banter and the pastry-making—Monsieur Bernard whistles and hums while prepping the croissant dough, Monsieur Gérard and I talk about new art exhibits while rolling the croissants.

At the end of the day, they send me upstairs in my sweater-coat-scarf ensemble, past the boulangers that look like flour-covered ghosts, and to the boutique where the dames load me down with tartelettes and bread to bring back home.  I give a quick wave and a salut to everyone, and then descend back into the metro, repeating my trajectory, this time in reverse, to head from metro to home to bed.

Once home, I crack open a baguette, throw open the door of the mini-fridge, and devour lunch in approximately five seconds.  And nibble on one of the tartelettes that I made that morning.  Sometimes working at a patisserie has its perks…

History of Goucher: Goucher Sings

Sean Varner
Features Editor

Recently I came across a video of Elton John. He’s doing a question-and-answer session onstage, when someone challenges him to compose, on the spot, a song to suit the words of a toaster oven instruction manual. John agrees, the challenger hands over the manual, John goes to his piano, and not-a-bad song ensues.

“Amazing,” I said, probably to myself, since browsing the Internet tends to be a solitary activity. 

How To: Pop An Eye Back In

Molly Wallner
Staff Writer

This week’s article is going to take on a bit of a different tone, as I am putting on my doctor’s cap in hopes to give you some advice regarding a medical mishap whose possibility haunts me every day of my life.