Progress marches on, leaving memories lingering in the dut

  • By Mike Dewey
  • January 30, 2011
  • 341
                        
You've probably never heard of Miller Hall, which used to be the oldest building left standing on the campus of Ashland College or, as it's known now, Ashland University. Not that it matters, since they tore it down last month. Or, at least, they were poised to demolish it. Being 770 miles away, I'm in no position to say whether or not they might have been deterred, either by a change of heart or a serious snowstorm. So I'm going to assume that Miller Hall, like so much of the town I used to call home, is no longer there. And that, faithful readers, is a shame. When my family moved from Columbus to Ashland in the summer of 1964, it wasn't easy on any of us. To leave the state capital -- a big city -- to a tiny little town that no one had ever heard of was a jolt. Especially to Mom, who'd never lived anyplace other than Columbus and, I'm sure, never expected to leave. But when Dad landed a teaching job at AC, as it was called then, well, what choice did she have? He'd always wanted to be a college professor and, finally, having earned his doctorate, had the world at his fingertips. The gig he'd held -- some mind-numbing, pencil-pushing dead end in the Bureau of Taxation -- was killing him and he longed for a better life for his wife and three children. So there was probably some, well, tension, though my parents were loathe to display anything other than a loving, caring facade in front of the three of us. They never let us see them fight, let along disagree, but they couldn't have been immune to the occasional disagreement. Whatever happened between them stayed there ... and we packed up and moved 90 miles north. President Kennedy was dead, Vietnam was moving from a simmer to a boil and the five of us left all we'd ever known to start again in a place so small it wasn't even on some maps. Ashland wasn't like I expected. I liked the school and made friends and began taking guitar lessons and played Little League baseball. I didn't mind the half-a-house we rented and got to know the upstairs neighbors, a young couple who had a color TV which, to my way of thinking, made them way cool. But the best thing about that place was that it was within walking distance of the college and Miller Hall, where my father had his office. You can't imagine how amazing that was, to walk those two blocks and know that Dad was sitting behind his desk, talking with his students between classes, making a difference. I was 9 years old and very, very proud to have him as my father. Miller Hall was built during the Great Depression, which made it about 30 years old that fall and winter. Built of red brick, it wasn't so much imposing as it was inviting. Students streamed through the doors, coming in or going out, and there was a place called the Union just across the parking lot where'd they'd go to grab a sandwich or listen to someone playing a guitar. Even back then, Miller Hall was rumored to be haunted and I heard so many ghost stories, I wouldn't know where to begin. But I believed them all. Miller Hall was all about possibilities and now, apparently, there are none left. They've killed it. They've torn it down. I know that time marches on and I get it. I understand that nothing matters except change and the chase for the almighty dollar. I realize that the town I loved isn't just a snow-globe memory for me to cherish ... it's a town hard-hit by the recession, a place where many can't find work. Again, I can relate ... there are no jobs down here in Eastern North Carolina either. But my father, who died 12 years ago this very day as I write, didn't accept the fact that he couldn't succeed. He made himself into a professor of political science and took a stand in that little town which has probably all but forgotten him and his family. That's the way it goes. Time means loss. But losing Miller Hall means more than just another building crumbling into dust. Several years later, my mother -- armed with her master's in literature -- landed a teaching position at Ashland College, as well. True, she wasn't teaching Chaucer or Edmund Spenser, but she was in front of a class of young people willing to learn all that she had to share. And her office, too, was in Miller Hall. By the time I was in high school, we'd moved to another neighborhood, but it wasn't all that long a trek to the college campus and I still found myself, especially in winter, walking there. Mom's office was in the basement, a cubbyhole compared with Dad's palatial expanse, but she made it her own cozy space and seemed so happy there. There was one of those old-fashioned steam radiators there, sort of shaped like those McDonald's Golden Arches, in her cramped little space and I can remember the hiss it made when, occasionally, it was working. Mostly, it was chilly down there. But Mom didn't mind. Her husband was two floors up, her children could walk to the campus anytime they wanted and Miller Hall offered shelter from the storm. And now, they've gone and torn it down. Or so I'm led to believe. It seems like every valued edifice in my little town has met a similar fate, from the Music Building to the Old Jail, from the Bob-a-Lou Bar to St. Edward's Church, from the First National Bank to the Dairie Dollie, from the Possum Run General Store to Paine's Music Shop. Not much survives from the year we moved in from Columbus. I understand progress. What I don't get is lack of vision. Is Ashland ever going to be confused with an authentic national treasure, something with a past worth preserving? I suppose that depends on who's past your talking about. If it's your own, you might think twice before you signed a piece of paper silencing another echo of better days. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.


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