b. 1953 1937 The Dixon Dynasty “Departing that small, yet remarkably bounteous stage for the last time, I glanced ea RY eS 5 i es z, hth rs OF : a yZ Anl 3 e ia AEE 77 Pee sg 4 AeA RASS i ora it. MeL SSS : listeners.” ' phantom A back at its velvet curtains, the deep, almost sepulchral blue, unfurling their own mystertous universe. I was all alone, yet part of a remarkable gathering, surrounded by a host of < jit!) e Moench Ww memori oe cod oa ae F Na * Ro * oa rai | The Moench A Tinal visit to an old friend nen Building as depicted in a 1901 catalog by Gordon T. Allred* WSC professor of English Class of 1950 “he building was made of tan brick, three-storied, with _. elegant white trim: the balcony midway up with its bronze Statue, the columns supporting it, the large block “W” poised on the roof in eternal flight, the massive double doors in front ... all were white. Above the balcony were the words “Weber College,” and higher still, directly beneath the roof, Roinan numerals read MDCCCLXI, Approaching along the walkway, I felt the fall sunlight, muted and frail beneath the flanking chestnut trees, and paused wondering seriously whether to make that final excursion or not. It would be a kind of ritual, a bit like a visit to the cemetery, and I wasn’t certain that I could absorb it properly. Wolfe was probably right,” I told myself. “Maybe you really can’t go home again.” Seconds later, drawn irresistibly onward, I mounted the front steps, reached out and clasped the brass door handle with its ornately carved design, surmounted by the helmeted head of a warrior. That same handle had responded to my touch countless times before, and this was our last contact, one that asserted itself with remarkable familiarity. Then I was inside, walking the passing the once housed Department, warmly and empty, echoing hallways, hollow offices that had members of the English all people I knew so well: Leland Monson, Cluster Nilsson, Larry Evans, my been deserted, the odor lingered. Even the vapors of “rotten egg gas” that often evoked tolerant amusement, they too seemed to hover vaguely. Or perhaps it was merely my imagination, for by listening intently with the inner ear I could hear nostalgic echoes, decades past, of J. Clair Anderson at the organ in the auditorium above, the far sweet voices of Roland Parry’s mother Pearl Allred . . . and many others. The entire atmosphere vibrated faintly, and I began to feel a simmering sensation, a bubbly tingling within the cells. Once again, I was being ingested by the Moench, a building named long ago after Louis F. Moench, founder and first principal of the old Weber Stake Academy from which the present college evolved. Located on a quiet stretch of Jefferson Avenue across from Lester Park, it had for years ebbing and fading, along with the calls and laughter of friends, the footsteps of many students. All of it blended, evanesced, yet never quite ended. Mesmerized, I continued down the hall leaving echoes of my own a bit like waves on an empty shore. Slowly I climbed the broad stairway to my throbbed as the cultural heart of the left, instinctively running my palm campus and of Ogden City, and it contained its own unique aroma. “There was always a wonderful odor in this building,” a former student has written. “It was one which seemed to smell of Learning itselfi—made up of the aromatic stuff janitors used for sweeping floors, chalk dust, and various rather acrid emanations from the chemistry and zoology labs in the basement.” The words of novziist, Joan Sanders my siste;. along the polished balustrade which occasional students and even a few intrepid faculty had years past polished further with the seats of their pants, glissading down from the landing above in a precarious kind of side. saddle. Althong’: the building had long soil Voice Coeds . . . ebbing and flowing, But I was ascending now, passing a sP2cious window full of violet-tinted sky, heading for the top landing beyond to open another final door. Through that door lay the auditorium, and I hesitated on the brink, searching its gloomy confines for answers to questions that could never really be formulated. Slowly, I paced across the frayed, wine-colored carpet, inhaling must and dustiness. Cautiously I mounted the shallow span of stairs to the proscenium, crossed it to the right and groped my way among the waiting curtains. For a time I literally hid myself in their furls, secluded from the world, immersed in darkness and history. How "Rollo's Wild Oat" was a 1923 play presented at the college. *From "Weber State College: A Centennial History." Used by permission. within their somber blue mystery, yet safe from all harm in my own majestic security blanket. The rope that drew them open and closed was instantly familiar in the clasp of my hand, like no other. Tentatively I tugged, then more strongly and felt the pulleys overhead respond as always, felt the curtains spring to life, gliding outward | in a kind of universal susurration. It was almost like the ascent of some great, winged angel bent on. . . what? Retribution? No, more accurately, restoration. It was on that stage over a span of three decades that my father Thatcher Allred had directed more than sixty major productions: “Arms and The Man,” “Our Town,” “Night Must Fall,” “Let Us Be Gay” (long before the word “gay” had been appropriated for the exclusive use of homos¢xuals), “The Importance cf Being Emest,” “The Taming of the Shrew,” “The Little Foxes,” “The Perfect Alibi,” and so many others. During nearly all of that period he had served as chairman of the speech and drama department, becoming known early on to his friends as “Mr. Theatre.” Leaving my sanctuary, I walked to the center of the stage and waited. There amid the humming silence I heard voices as though they were coming from a recording at very low volume, all but subliminal, emanations from some other dimension. I remembered many names, saw the faces of directors, actors, and actresses from the college and its community: Kathryn Northrup, Fred Nixon, Dan Bailey, Karl White, Jim Andrews, Wayne Bundy, Gilbert Tolhurst, John Kelly, Julian Stephens, John Shorten, Gladys often I had done that very thing as a and Amos Sargent, Carolyn Glassman, HED Redford, Leonard Rowley, John child, enveloped in velvet, captured Elzey, and Sharon Wallace who at age