Rice History Corner

Snow on campus always begins with quiet, calm wonder at the unexpected beauty then inevitably descends into hijinks. Compared to the events that followed some earlier storms (here in 1918 and here in 1929) these snow creatures are pretty mild. The architects can’t help themselves, though:

Bonus: Not as much fun when you’re a full-fledged adult. My husband refused to take a pajama day and went straight off to work. And my beloved but Yankee son-in-law had a satisfying opportunity to use the scraper he has unaccountably held on to since moving here.

Extra Bonus: Almost immediately after retiring I found myself working other jobs so I don’t have much chance to get in to the archives these days. I do have a bunch of unused pictures in my laptop, though, so I’ll try to post a bit more. I also managed to figure out how to print out the entire blog (with comments!) and my next project is to index it so it will be useful for others later. Just in case you thought I wasn’t really working all these years, this isn’t even the whole thing:

I was aware that Carl’s death was coming but it still hit hard. I’m not sure there will ever be another like him here–things have changed on campus in ways that probably make it impossible. The title of the Sallyport article below, published at the time of his retirement, has thus turned out to be even truer than we imagined. Do read this piece. I don’t believe I’ve seen before or since this kind of loving praise and deep gratitude from so many of our most respected leaders.

I spent a lot of time with Carl and I learned a tremendous amount from him. I also have some hilarious stories because he could be a lot of fun too, especially after a couple of pints down at the Black Lab. All the things people say in the article are true: he did indeed understand and personify the spirit that animated Rice in those days, and he did combine the qualities of a police officer and a priest. And he did what he did while carrying the enormous burden of keeping the institution running. This was hard and time consuming and frequently thankless. Carl was often the maker of difficult calls, the bearer of bad new, the voice of reason in an environment that was all too frequently unreasonable, as most universities are. He was utterly trustworthy and willing to admit it when he made a mistake. I was young enough when I first met him to think that he was sometimes unduly pessimistic. More time in the archives and a bit of experience and that ended quick enough. He was, in fact, a very well-informed realist. I still hear his voice in my ear whenever big plans are announced.

I will say one other thing. The day he retired he gave me one of those old timey door keys, a big iron thing, and told me all his papers were locked in a store room in the basement of Lovett Hall. They are now the Carl MacDowell Assistant to the President Papers in the Woodson, 206 boxes that cover nearly forty years of Rice’s history, an invaluable collection for understanding the real story of the place, the guts of how it ran. And also in there, if you spend enough time with all those file folders, you’ll find that Carl MacDowell frequently did good in secret. Carl MacDowell, rest in peace.

Bonus: Another true thing in that article is that there are almost no pictures of him to be found. I’ve been searching and only came up with this one, taken at the groundbreaking for the Humanities Building in 1998. I love seeing these guys–that’s Hackerman, of course, at right and King Walters at left.

Extra Bonus: Me and Carl, 2011.

There are a lot of things I could say about this welcome to campus, written by Dr. Lovett during the hard times of the Great Depression. I will bite my tongue about the dismal physical state of the campus today and note instead that I fully subscribe to his belief that adversity has its uses and that fear for the future is a waste of time. It’s work, “the slavery of your schedules and the bondage of routine,” that is the order of the day.

Bonus: A loyal but forgetful reader sends another piece from 1932 Rice, but he can’t remember where he found it. It’s so tiny I can hardly believe he found it at all.

It’s been raining on and off for a week and today it has rained all day. It is in fact still raining this evening. The result: lots of mud, lots of deep water, and a post that combines two of my long-running interests: drainage and dead trees.

I knew this could not possibly have been the first time we’ve seen such a scene. And sure enough, five minutes of poking around in my laptop turned up two more images. The first one is clearly very early, possibly even part of the aftermath of the flood of 1911:

(Lots more about the 1911-1912 era attempts to control the flow of water on campus here and here.)

The second, although possibly less muddy somehow seems even more melancholy. It was 1946 and I bet they had to pump all that water out of the hole they dug for the Anderson Building foundation:

Bonus: An old familiar feeling .

Although I admit that there have been days when I was ready to hoist the black flag, I’m not advocating insurrection here. Just this morning I was given a full box of things that had belonged to Holmes McNeely, director of the Rice band from 1951 to 1967. A guide to his papers in the Woodson is here, and they’re fairly extensive. But I was very surprised by something in today’s box, a Rice song that I’ve never encountered before:

I was initially fooled by the date at top right and spent quite a bit of time looking for Mr. Shannon in the years around 1950. Thwarted, I turned to an old alumni directory where I found Richard Shannon, class of 1934, president of the band his senior year. His place of employment was listed as “Dick Shannon Music Productions.” I think this is our man:

If anyone is familiar with this song please let me know.

Bonus: Graciously sent in by loyal reader Betsy Wittenmyer, MLS 2018. It’s pretty and it also makes me think of campus in the olden days.

Neal Heaps ’42 passed away a couple of weeks at the age of 102. I had missed the Chronicle obituary during the chaos after Hurricane Beryl but am thankful that Grungy took the time to send it to me. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this:

Neal’s father was Claude Heaps, who arrived at Rice in 1914 to teach Physics and remained on staff for forty-three years. And Neal, I believe, was the very last of that generation of children who were raised in the closely knit campus community during the early years of the Institute. This community truly was a large extended family for the young faculty members recruited by Lovett, most of whom left families and institutions back east to pioneer the new university in Houston. Katherine Tsanoff Brown, Marjorie Bray Chapman, Joan Wilson Sherred, Ray Watkin Hoagland Strange, George and Griffy Evans, and many others spent their early lives entwined with Rice and each other, many remaining good friends their entire lives.

Neal was a lovely man, always curious and kind, fun to be with, and deeply grateful for Rice and the childhood spent here. Here he is at a Galveston outing with the Math Department sometime in the 1930s:

And explaining his project for the Engineering Show in 1940:

And finally, during the centennial in 2012  describing some of his time here during the early days:

Neal Heaps, rest in peace.

First, a hearty thanks to the inquisitive Leonard Lane who commented in yesterday’s post about my puzzlement over the purpose of the pipes, astutely suggesting that “the Pipe columns are supporting the structure added above the existing roof.”

I was skeptical because they look sort of flimsy but then he did what I should have done myself and walked around looking at the other sides:

Case closed but I would note that they don’t look very nice.

Next, let’s go charging off in a wildly different direction. Another loyal reader sends this photo of two small pieces of jewelry that were found among a relative’s possessions. I’m fairly sure but not absolutely certain that they aren’t just generic Rice but instead are related to the Owen Wister Literary Society

My reader is wondering more or less the same things I am :“Other than the fact that they were in a box together, I believe these pieces functioned together because there is a very short delicate chain hanging from the larger piece. The pin on the back of the smaller one will go through the links of that chain. I suppose I have a 50% chance of being correct about the fact that they were worn together. It would be interesting to know the symbolism of the elements on the larger piece. I can’t figure out whether that’s a book in the center or something else.”

If anyone can shed light on this it would be most welcome. I know there are still OWLS alumnae around so if you are or know one please chime in. If nobody knows I’ll have to turn to the OWLS scrapbooks.

Bonus: When decades collide.

While I was out surveying the damage on campus the other day I noticed this pretty view amidst the wreckage:

A couple of years ago I got interested in that round window in Anderson Architecture and why I’d never noticed it:

It was trees, of course, that blocked the view but the construction of Cannady Hall took out several of them, leaving the window much more visible. It’s a small thing but I think it looks nice.

And speaking of Cannady Hall:

I can’t say I love it but I also don’t hate it. It looks like something architects would come up with. I do wonder what is going on with these pipes–any thoughts?

Bonus: Yet another grandchild arrived yesterday. He already has a whole vibe going.

I was gone all of June for our annual trip to Washington state and got back to Houston just in time for Beryl. I’m happy to be home but in hindsight I probably should have stayed an extra week.

I made it over to campus yesterday and was impressed by the amount of storm damage. It’s some of the worst I’ve seen here, almost as bad as Ike. I took this picture from the Cohen House parking lot, near Entrance 2, thinking well, it could have been worse:

But when I started walking around I saw that in places it actually was worse:

These trees between the back door of Fondren and the Brochstein have always had a propensity to lean but this is something else again:

I don’t know if you can read the words on the tape but it says “Do Not Enter, Life Hazard.” I wouldn’t mind having a roll of that to carry around with me.

Bonus: Here’s a look at the trees near Entrance 2, circa 1918.

Extra Bonus: This summer’s golf was, as usual, erratic. But erratic in a very pretty spot.

A while back I got an unexpected phone call from a family member of J. Sayles Leach, who served as a Rice trustees in the 1950s and 60s. I’ve written about Mr. Leach here, in a post about this courtyard, which is named for him:

I was delighted to learn that she had some Rice related materials, including the July 1975 issue of the Smithsonian magazine , which contains a long article about the history of the Rice Hotel. It’s possible that there’s a copy 0f this somewhere in the archives, but I’d certainly never seen it before so I was eager to read it. As soon as I opened the page a small piece of paper fell out. A quick glance revealed it to contain one of the most arresting sentences I’ve come across in years: “I have never seen the Charleston done with greater precision–and believe me, I know what I’m talking about.” If anything ever begged for explanation, this is it:

Daisy is Mrs. Leach and Collette Ray the wife of another Rice trustee, Robert Ray, who I’ve written about here and here. Ray has a courtyard named for him too:

Here’s the article, which is both accurate and interesting, and which includes a photo of Mrs. Leach in mid-dance. Don’t miss this–or the picture of Percy Foreman being served the last cup of coffee at the hotel:

Bonus: I was getting into my car in the Cohen House lot when a friend called my name. As I turned around I was struck again by the genius of this building.