Their Honeymoon Was Over

[I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping. They were so loud, and so near the heat duct, I couldn’t help but overhear the couple two doors down. O.K., O.K., maybe I eavesdropped a little.]

*   *   *

Donna Joy Hyland and I were married on June 8, 1963, after I finished my freshman year at the University of North Carolina, and when we moved to Chapel Hill in September to begin my sophomore year we had enough money. Donna was working full time as a secretary at the UNC School of Nursing and I was working afternoons and weekends at the UNC Office of Sports Information.

But when we discovered we were going to have a baby in May everything changed, financially speaking.

Our bill in 1966, for rent, water and electricity, totaled $41. Adjusted for inflation, that's $315.82 in 2017 dollars.
Our bill in 1966, for rent, water and electricity, totaled $41. Adjusted for inflation, that’s $315.82 in 2017 dollars.

We moved out of our fancy apartment on Airport Road at the end of the first semester and into Victory Village, university-owned housing for married students.  UNC also owned dozens of handsome, brick apartments for married students but Victory Village was a lot cheaper and it was all we could afford.

Turned out, it was a wonderful place to live, full of good friends and good times –good memories now — and we lived there, at 114 Daniels Road, until I graduated in May 1966.

The single and multi-family prefabs were erected after World War II to house the influx of married servicemen enrolling at UNC. Each of the multi-family units contained eight apartments, long and narrow, like a railroad car, side by side by side.

She ran inside our apartment at 114 Daniels Road
She ran inside our Victory Village apartment at 114 Daniels Road.
Donna did not want her picture taken with her hair in curlers.
My wife, Donna, did not want her picture taken with her hair in curlers.

The front door opened into the living room;  a tiny kitchen and bathroom were side by side in the middle; and the bedroom was in the back.  The was no back door but there were two windows, one in the front and one in the back.

Donna was eight months pregnant with our twins when I graduated in May 1966, The front door of our apartment is on the left.
Donna was eight months pregnant with our twins when I graduated in May 1966.  The front door of our apartment is on the left.

The apartments were connected by a heating duct that ran from one end of the building to the other. The thermostat was controlled by the couple in the apartment on one end, which meant that during the cold months the temperature in all eight apartment was the same, often too cold or too hot. There was no air conditioning so we were all the same boat in the hot months, too.

This shows the heading duct going into the unit next to our unit.
This shows the heating duct going into the unit next to ours.

When a new couple moved in everyone would greet them warmly but no one would tell them the heating duct secret: If  you were standing too close it carried your voice, quite clearly, down the row of apartments. New couples had to learn that for themselves and, until they did, they were a frequent source of entertainment.

One fine day a newly married couple moved in and what a handsome pair they were, the woman for sure. They arrived in a bright red convertible, said hello, and then all but disappeared into their apartment, two doors down from ours.

Tom Harris, a neighbor who was in law school, with our son, Bo. In the background you can see the porches of four apartments.
Tom Harris, a neighbor who was in law school, with our son, Bo. In the background you can see the porches of four apartments.

We didn’t see much of them for several weeks.  Like I said, they were just married. And then one morning, as I was making coffee, getting ready to leave for school, I heard them arguing, yelling, which really wasn’t necessary because they were standing so close to the heat vent I could have heard every word anyway.

Apparently her good looks were not enough any more because she yelled at him:  “I didn’t say I could cook when we got married!”

NOTE: For a news story about the housing shortage at UNC right after WWII II go here.  This is what it said about the multi-family buildings, which it called “barracks”, where we lived in Victory Village:   “The barracks are like apartment houses with extra-thin walls. The occupants say you can hear every word from the apartments next door. If a wife in a middle apartment calls ‘honey’ to her husband, she may get three answers.”

Coming Monday: The [Warm] Iceman

“F”

The writing course I took my first semester at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill must have been required.  I was 20 years old and I thought I already knew just about everything I needed to know.

All kidding aside, I really did know one or two things. After graduating from high school I had worked a summer reporting sports for The Charlotte News and I had worked 20 months as a journalist in the Navy after I finished boot camp and went to sea.

Didn’t that make me a professional?  Sort of?  Nevertheless, I worked hard on the first paper I wrote for class, and the second.

62ddfe19e89c71e51542a7b3fbf1eea7_carolina-tar-heels-clipart-1-unc-logo-clip-art_1050-869I got the first one back when I turned in the second paper. My first grade was an “F.” I worked even harder on the third paper and when I turned it in, I got the second one back. It was an “F”, too.

At that point I went to see the instructor, not to whine about my grades, no, I just wanted him to show me an “A” or “B” paper. I wanted to see what one looked like.  Just how good were the other people in my class? How far was I was missing the mark?

The instructor didn’t show me a paper with a high grade. Instead, he said to me, “Mr. Stith, if you knew how to write when you took my class you wouldn’t have needed to take my class.”

Then I understood. Perfectly. And I relaxed. I still tried to do decent work. I checked my spelling. I turned in my papers on time. But I stopped sweating it.

As the weeks went by my grades improved — a “D” and then a couple of “C’s,” a “B.” And then “A’s.” My final grade for the course was “A.”

Under his tutelage, according to him, I had learned to write.

Coming Friday: The Ice Cream Officer