out comment, either in a campus publication or the Ogden paper. That absence of comment has always bothered me more than outright ridicule would have. The float was a mess. What could I say? But Purling Unctions complaint that I wore my Phoenix sweater too often rankled a bit. He put it in such a way as to imply that to be restored to grace I had only to choose from my wardrobe another sweater from time to time. I had no other sweater. How many sweaters can one man wear? And Dad didnt have another veal ready to slaughter that I might live among the rich. So Purling Unction advised me to get another sweater or get rich, whichever came sooner. To my mind they came to the same thing. I took his wisdom under advisement, then asked him if I were to rip the Phoenix insignia off my underwear as well. (Laughter, but no reply). I kept wearing my sweater to school, for I was walking to school and back from my sisters place in Marriott and the autumn nights and mornings were chilly. At school, I would put my sweater in the Student Body office (Rex was student body president, from Plain City and understood) then put it on again in the evening for the walk down Seventeenth Street. Purling Unction meant well, but my quick resentment emerged from a feeling I did not really know I had until I went to Weber. It was a silly and wrong feeling. It took a while for me to realize that anyone living in Ogden and coming from Ogden High was not rich. I divided the students at the College into the rich ones from Ogden High, the poor ones from Weber High, and the inscrutable exotics from Box Elder, Davis, and Morgan High, beyond classification. I was wrong, but the Ogden students were different from the country students. We had our share of arrogance, machismo, confidence, beauty, brains. We also had a big load of inferiority, or perhaps my load was enough for all. But to my eyes, still watering with awe and the onion fields, the city bunch walked, talked, laughed, stood still, and even smelled different from us, especially those of us who came from the dirt farms of West and Northwestern Weber County. If a group of us got together on the steps of the gym or on the stools of the C.I. just an hour or so away from morning milking, the onions of Plain City and Warren mixing with the tomatoes of Hooper and the herbs and green peppers from Riverdale put into the air a pleasant odor of chili sauce bubbling on the kitchen range with just a pinch of manure. But the Ogden students smelled of chlorinated water from the swimming pool of the Weber gym or of the new one at Lorin Farr, the pools at Rainbow Gardens and Patio Springs, of clipped greens from the Country Club or El Monte, of sunlight and sweat from the tennis courts. And they all had cars, lived with their suntans on Marilyn Drive in red brick houses with curving drives, and inside the houses were clothes closets and chest of drawers, coat racks, sofas and stairwells and banisters and newel posts that bulged, heaped, overflowed and were draped with sweaters. Sweaters, sweaters everywhere; sweaters like Gatsbys shirts or Imelda Marcoss shoes. The city kids were different, or so I dreamed. They were rich, and tall, and they selected which sweater to wear. Time has not completely corrected my delusions. I did one final disaster for the men of Phoenix before I wrapped my sweater about me and crept away to enjoy my membership in private. I wrote and produced an assembly for us. I dont want to talk much about it. Every December, as an accompaniment to our Snowball, Phoenix put on an assembly. Harvey Wheelwright and I went down to Kaysville to Van Nances to write it. I think we spent the night. Van played the piano for us. He was a brilliant pianist with a bad heart and died before most of us got home from the war. We wrote. Laughed. I forget about what. A couple weeks later, we put on our assembly. Harvey scooted about the stage in drag, his tight bodice heaving from the pressure of two huge lactating grapefruits. There was more, no part relating to any other part. I tried to laugh. Harvey brazened it out to whatever end we had devised. As with the float, I remember practically nothing. Only Caroline Hobson enjoyed the spectacle, by walking out twenty minutes after it began. She did not speak to me until spring softened her heart. Not since high school when I put Beus Soderquist on stage in a diaper beating a saucepan with a spoon (the theme was Christmas, see?) had anything of mine so misfired, unless it was the float. I truly loved Phoenix and the men I knew there. Yet whenever I touched something in its name, my sweet, pure impulse so full of love and gratitude came out like the Butthole Surfers doing an extended cover version of As Time Goes By. Others, in other contexts, have called this skill my Rappacini Touch. I didnt learn it at Weber. I did not arrive entirely empty handed. And I long ago lost my Phoenix sweater. Perhaps it just wore out. Apology, But More Of The Same Hemingway ends his long book about Spain by listing all the things he has left out like most of what he loves about Spain. In this wayward essay, I have got in aspects of my Weber College. What I have left out is everybody elses. Mr. Dooley said Teddy Roosevelts account of the rough riders should have been called Alone in Cuba. Readers of my account will wonder where all the other students were. They were there. They made the Weber I remember. But I didnt get them in here. I hardly got the real classes with the real students in. The chemistry lab in the basement of Moench does not stink here. Nor are there field trips or games, though we cancelled a lot of those excursions during the war. The Signpost and its two intrepid editors, Ed Anderson and Jean-Anne Waterstradt, are not here. Nor the Acorn and its substitute for one year, The Transit. Marvel Murphy, Beth Rhees, and John Vernieu my staff that ran student affairs while I ate ice cream and donuts at board of control meetings not here. Roy Gibson, president of the class of 43 not here. No assemblies, except Phoenixs, though there was nothing like it, before or since. No flaming W hike to Malan Heights. No blackout ball, when the siren did not work. No Oren Jacobs and Marj Andelin lip synching. No student body remnant gathered at the Union Depot the evening of April 8, 1943 to sing Purple and White when the army reservists were called up. The deaths of Winslow Gardner, Bob Gudmunson, Dil Young how many others? not here. Nothing is here but me. So Ill end as I began. In July of 1943, in