Displays of Affection (Prompt # 8 - PDA at NCSSM)

Displays of Affection

by James Lisk

July 21, 2025

 

In Douglas Adam’s book So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish (part of the Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy book series), the main character, Arthur, falls into a romance with a young woman named Fenchurch. Fenchurch could already float an inch off the ground, so it was an easy matter for Arthur to teach her how to fly. In the book, flying is largely a matter of forgetting how to fall.  Once they could both fly, they took their dates into the clouds. And if you want to know what they did in the clouds, Douglas Adams is quite clear: “It is none of your business.”

Alas, I still have not forgotten how to fall, so when Beth and I started dating at NCSSM in 1980, there was no way for me to teach her how to fly. So the clouds were few and far between.

When Beth and I were together on campus, holding hands, walking with my arm around her just felt nice. More than that? Refer to Douglas Adams.

The PDA trouble may have started on a nice sunny day, maybe the second week, when Beth and I were sitting under one of the oaks in front the Main Building (now called the Bryan Center) and a reporter, I believe for the Durham Morning Herald, was touring the campus. We were both studying, but we were also clearly together. We weren’t the only couple the reporter saw that day. But when her article was published, it said something to the effect that “the school looks more like the North Carolina School of Lovers than of Science and Math.” I still feel sorry for that reporter, and wonder if she has ever been able to get a date.

Clearly though, something had to be done. After all, NCSSM was just getting started and needed a reputation as a serious, academic institution. A two or maybe a three-pronged approach to the issue seemed to be taken by the administration.

NCSSM director, Dr. Eilber, speaking to the students in the library in 1980

First, there was the PDA talk. Up to that point, I’d never heard the term “Public Display of Affection.” We students were all politely reminded that we needed to be mindful of all the eyes on us. During that discussion, one of the guys responded that we were now away from our families and friends, and that “it is easier to stand on four legs than on two.”

Second, was having the residential advisors monitor the dorm commons areas and a set of rules for co-educational interactions. In one instance in a common area, a teacher wacked the buttocks of a young man to break his embrace from his affectionate girl.  

Third, seemed to be something of a concession to the students, with regular dances and outings being organized to allow time for socializing in a non-private setting outside the public eye. Maybe that was planned all along, after all we were teenagers. Those events gave us a needed chance to step away from home work and the books.

I recall only one specific occasion when I was clearly chastised for PDA, and that was off-campus. Beth and I went to church with several other students, including Saralynn Hawkins and Chris Staffa, driven by Chris’ mother. During the worship service, I put my arm around Beth and got a very stern look from the assistant minister, Rev. Wilson Gunn, who was also our Sunday School teacher. I promptly removed my arm. He later asked that I not put my arm around Beth during worship.

One staff comment came when I had my arm around Beth, walking down the hall. Dot Doyle approached, looking at me she said, “I know she’s great, but I need to talk with her for a bit” and then pulled Beth away.

 

Dating happened at NCSSM, and displays of affection were part of that. Flirtations happened, couples came together, and most broke up while at NCSSM or later. Beth and I dated steadily while at NCSSM, but our college choices challenged our relationship.

While Beth and I were brought together by North Carolina, during college, with me at Virginia Tech and Beth at Furman University in South Carolina, we were geographically separated by North Carolina. Beth and her family moved to Kingsport, Tennessee after she left NCSSM, further from from my home, but relatively close to Virginia Tech. Getting together during breaks required planning, a car and gas money, and I was the proverbially broke college guy. With no car on campus my freshman year, visits were out. Long distance relationships are hard, especially in the days before smart phones replaced expensive long distance phone calls.  

Neither Beth nor I had friends attending our respective college at the start of our freshman year. At Virginia Tech, everyone else seemed to know at least a dozen other folks; making friends took effort.    

During college, we stayed in touch largely with weekly letters and occasional phone calls. We saw each other on occasion during breaks or the rare weekend trip. And yes, we went out with other people. 

I experienced some dark times at Virginia Tech: times I thought Beth and I would never be together again, times certain professors seemed to have it in for me, and when my favorite professor was killed in an auto accident. When my dad was laid-off from his job and my financial aid was cut in my Junior year, I seriously considered dropping out of school to work. Beth and I remained at least friends throughout.

In a summer session between Junior and Senior year, Chemical Engineering students like me must take the Unit Operations Lab. That summer, in 1985, Beth visited several times and I proposed marriage. But I didn’t ask the right way: 1) I didn’t have a ring, 2) I hadn’t talked to her father and 3) I totally forgot about the down on one knee thing. I was quickly able to fix number 3, but the talk with her parents had to wait until Thanksgiving, and the ring had to wait for me to get a student loan. In hind-sight, I should have borrowed more! We married in 1987, while I was in graduate school, still broke, and Beth was working as an accountant. Now in 2025, with two kids and two grand kids, we’re still together. 

 

NCSSM – Chemistry with Dr. Owens

 NCSSM – Chemistry with Dr. Owens 

By James Lisk, June 30, 2025

There were so many wonderful teachers and administrators at NCSSM that selecting one seems unfair to the others. But, with apologies to the other admirable and influential NCSSM staff, I’ll write briefly about my memories of my love of chemistry and my favorite chemistry teacher, Dr. Rufus Owens.

Long before NCSSM, when it was clear that I would not be an athlete; I decided that my favorite school subject was science, and that my favorite field of science was chemistry. Rather than try again to hit a baseball (especially difficult before realizing I needed glasses), I was trying to grow crystals from saturated solutions of salt, sugar and Epsom salt, or was nose-in-book looking up the chemical elements of my current favorite mineral. 

The 1970’s popular black-light posters and fluorescent paints fascinated me, and I wanted to understand the science... the chemistry... behind the glow. Perusal of my dad’s 1960’s era college chemistry text book had little relevant information about fluorescence; but rocks-and-minerals books included a bit. For instance, did you know that a trace amount of chromium in an otherwise clear aluminum oxide crystal makes the crystal red, glow under UV-light, and otherwise be a ruby? Or that several different transition metal elements can cause an aluminum oxide crystal to be a blue sapphire?

A refreshing difference between NCSSM and my home-town high-school was that at NCSSM, none of the science teachers were introduced as “Coach.” So I was thinking "No worries about hitting a baseball here!"

When I first went to chemistry class in 1980, Doctor Rufus Owens, relatively short, dressed in shirt, jacket and tie, at the head of the class, talked impressively about chemistry, education and the plans for the class and labs. But then he commented, at a previous school, “I was the wrestling coach.  If anybody is interested, come see me," and my heart sank a notch .

Later, that first or second week, I was looking for Dr. Owens. He wasn’t in the lab, so I checked his office. The office door was open, so I stepped in. He was not there, but the book shelf in front of his desk was loaded with chemistry text books. I stepped over and started reading titles like “Organic Chemistry”, “Qualitative Analytical Chemistry” and “Physical Chemistry.” I was ready to pull one out, sit on the floor and start reading.

Then a voice behind me said, “See anything interesting? I was the wrestling coach before here, so I could pin you down to the floor before you could get anywhere with anything.” It was Dr. Owens, apparently thinking I was in his office trying to steal something. Or maybe he was just bragging about his wrestling ability. Or both.

“I was just looking at all your chemistry books,” was my meager reply, then added that I was looking for him. That seemed to calm him. We talked a bit about the classes he had to take to get a PhD which he happily answered. And I asked about getting some chemistry lab experience via the work-study program.

Later, Dr. Owens provided my first hands-on experience in a chemistry lab. As part of the work-study program, he taught me about general lab work... protective gear and safety, for instance, in safely diluting acids. One day, I managed to over-flow a graduated cylinder, just a bit, while diluting sulfuric acid for one of the class labs. Dr. Owens seemed reasonably satisfied that I used sodium bicarbonate (aka baking soda) for an immediate cleanup. So that rather than me asking for his help, he was asking “What is going on here?”  I quickly explained. Another student, Joe Hall, was with him and pointed out that sodium carbonate would have been a better choice, requiring only half the amount to neutralize the acid. I shrugged and admitted, “well that would have worked too.”

He and Carolyn Morris helped me with my "tribolumiescence" senior project, maybe more on that in a later blog.

Early in my senior year, I went to Dr. Owens for advice regarding college applications and a college major selection. I asked about the difference between chemistry and chemical engineering, which were at the top of my college major list, along with electrical engineering. Chemistry was offered at many colleges, but few colleges had chemical engineering programs. Duke University, for instance, had both chemistry and several engineering majors, but not chemical engineering.

Dr. Owens’ advice was very practical. “If you start in chemistry, and later decide you want to be in chemical engineering, you’ll be a year or two behind in the engineering classes. So you’ll be stuck in chemistry if you want to graduate in a reasonable time,” he said. “But if you start in chemical engineering and decide switch to chemistry after a year or two, you will still be largely on-track.” And so, I scratched Duke, Emory, UNC and Davidson, off the list and applied only to schools with chemical engineering programs. And I later graduated in chemical engineering.

New Place, New Friends, New Games

 New Place, New Friends, New Games

By James Lisk, June 16, 2025

In the introduction to James F. Cooper’s The Pioneers, the publisher writes “...the author had more pleasure in writing The Pioneers than the book will probably give to any of its readers.” I expect the this statement is also applies to this shorter recollection.

I felt odd when school started in August 1980. In my home town of Randleman, my brothers and  buddies were back in school while I was at home reading The Pioneers and helping mom. Older friends starting college were also gone. Adding to the oddness, my younger but taller brother was starting high school, moved up to the varsity football team, and connecting with my buddies, leaving me largely out of the loop. Picking-up my brother from football practice, I could see my marching band friends practicing in the distance and felt left-out.

Dorms opened for us students at NCSSM on Sunday, September 7, 1980 and I was excited to start. Mom, dad and all three of my younger brothers came along to help me move in.

Getting one of the rare single rooms in the “Main Building” was a pleasant surprise. After years of sharing a bedroom with my little brother, I had a room to myself! The dorm room was clean, though my mom insisted on giving it another cleaning.  I noticed that there was no lock on the door nor mirror in the bathroom. Fortunately, I brought a small mirror from home. The lock seemed un-needed.

After moving in and saying good-bye to my brothers and parents, I started to meet the other guys on the hall. In rooms close-by were Michael Riddle and Brian (Paul) Habit who became life-long friends. I soon met Lee Bulwinkle, Alex Rimberg, Tony Hefner, Dwayne Raiford, Walter Gordon, Chuck Long, Marshal Mauney and many other, all with diverse personalities, and eager to make friends. At dinner, I tried to get to know folks a bit better and was surprised by the number of students who were more interested in subjects other than science or math. The “Student Handbook 1980-1981” lists a dance that first evening, but I don’t think I stayed long.

Monday was exploring around the campus, learning about the dorm sign-out cards and similar administrative items. Our first work-study assignments may have been given then. At least one student wanted to discuss The Pioneers. Back in the dorm, I had a long philosophical conversation with several of the guys, which included Marshall describing reaching a trance-like state when he played his violin.

The first all-student meeting, held in what would soon be the library, may have been on that Monday, or later that week. Dr. Eilber assured us that the E.K. Powe dining was temporary, and asked us to speak up about our needs. One guy from my hall (not me!) suggested that we needed “a passion pit” for co-education romantic interaction, though his word choice was a bit more succinct. All of us students became silent, certain that this was not what Dr. Eilber was wanting to hear. The teachers’ and administrators’ faces responded with emotions ranging from amused to horrified. Dr. Eilber’s reply was essentially “no”: student lounges would be well-lit, open-doored, with limited hours for studying and socializing, and effectively chaperoned by residential advisors.

The New Games on Tuesday were designed to build a sense of community; and since then, I’ve since seen similar games in professional team-building events. These were cooperative activities, without winners or losers. 

In one game, each person took a turn standing in the middle of a circle, with everyone else lying on the ground, feet towards that person, forming a circle with arms up. The standing person would then fall backwards and be caught by the people on the ground and passed around the circle, then propped up again. I declined to be the standing-falling person, recalling a similar “trust-fall” in Boy Scouts being interrupted by a prankster. But I clearly remember one girl, with shoulder-length dark hair and the pettiest face, closing her eyes and falling back. For some reason, I really wanted to reach up and touch her as she went around, but alas, the fellows on either side of me had longer arms than me. Seven years later, I married that girl, Beth Kennedy, but that is getting ahead of the story.

Another game had two teams running across the field, one trying to tag and “catch” the members of the other team. Anyone who got through to the other side became the taggers on the next round. Near the end, Beth and I were left with only a few folks on one side and just a few moments to introduce ourselves before we were “captured” by the other side and ushered to the next event.

The New Games clearly worked. By the time classes started, I was comfortable in my new home and confident that a good year lay ahead of us.

Summer Reading Assignments and James F. Cooper's "The Pioneers"

 Summer Reading Assignments and James F. Cooper’s The Pioneers

by James Lisk 

June 2, 2025

 

I was excited to start first grade. My mother said I would learn important things in “real school”. Kindergarten had been playing, singing the alphabet, and music sessions; sessions where the other kids always got the shiny cymbals and I got the dull wood sticks. First grade was going to be different and I had questions; questions my mother could not answer. I wanted to know why the sky was blue, why my toy gyroscope didn’t fall over when spinning, how birds could fly, why a magnet picked up a nail but not a penny, and how a light bulb worked. That first school day I eagerly sat on the front row, only to get moved to my assigned seat. The teacher read “See Spot run. See Jane run.” while pointing to each letter and describing the sounds they made; repeating what my mother had taught me years before. The second day, I sat on the back row and started to look for distractions, but got moved to my assigned seat.

Later, I found exciting distractions in the writings of J. R. R. Tolkien, Isaac Asimov, or better yet via the exploits of James T. Kirk and Spock (thank you, Gene Roddenberry). And some answers I wanted were in the World Book Encyclopedia.

When The Pioneers reading assignment came, I thought “Shouldn’t the Science and Math school have a science or math summer reading assignment? Or maybe a biography of an accomplished scientist or inventor? Something that will help me become a scientist?” But I was determined to get ahead and complete this assignment, so I read the book. It seemed so irrelevant to me.

Years after finishing The Pioneers, three specific impressions remain: 1) the way the towns folk made sport of killing as many passenger pigeons as they could; 2) a description of harvesting sap from maple trees in a way that killed the trees; and 3) the repeated references from teachers and administrators that we, the first students at NCSSM, were Pioneers.  The Pioneer, it appeared had been selected to be our mascot. And Pioneers, after surviving starvation and freezing, were unable to maintain the abundance that later surrounded them.

Walking to E.K. Poe elementary school for meals at the start of the school year, I could have pondered over the scarcity of good food and adult sized chairs for us Pioneers. But no, I was too engrossed in the abundance of other students who were loaded with their own questions about how the universe works.

Fund Raising in 1976 (Prompt #1)

Fund Raising in 1976

By James Lisk

Of all the things I dreaded as a kid, fund-raising by selling overpriced trinkets was one of the worst. Every year, groups ranging from the school, the YMCA, the band, and the Boy Scouts had fund raisers that expected the kids involved to sell a minimum amount of something. If my family wouldn’t buy the minimum, then, uhg, I had to go door-to-door and ask the neighbors. With three younger brothers each also trying to peddle something, like the same thing for the same group, I often had to go door to door.

The “don’t talk to strangers” safety motto was indoctrinated into me, and I thought most of our neighbors were strange. Some were old with bad hearing, some had mean barking dogs, others had bigger mean kids, and one or two had previously told me to “get outa my yard.”

The band sold Texas Manor fruitcake every fall. As fruitcake went, I grew accustomed to it, but we still gave a lot of fruit cake to aunts and uncles at Christmas. In my class, a girl named Alicia would always get the prize for selling the most; her mom took the order form to work. I had no sympathy from my mom on this; her kindergarten students were the wrong market demographic. No, she was selling World Book Encyclopedias and sometimes Tupperware, and sometimes both to the parents of those kids. To her, learning to sell was a life skill I needed to master.

In 1976, I was twelve years old and America was celebrating “The Bicentennial”, the two-hundredth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Every store had patriotic merchandise like red, white and blue hats, t-shirts, coffee mugs and shoelaces. I think one of my brothers was selling Bicentennial pencils for a school club. Fair warning here, 2026 marks the two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary.

And in 1976, my Boy Scout Troop, Troop 567, was selling Bicentennial themed brass medallions and key chains to help cover our expenses for the district hike-o-ree to the Guilford Courthouse Revolutionary War Battle Field. While excited about the upcoming two-day event, which included a live musket and canon demonstrations, and battle reenactors; I dreaded selling those trinkets. You might eat fruit cake, but to me, these medallions were useless. I’d earned the coin collecting merit badge, so I knew the difference between a real collectible coin and a cheap gimmick medallion. The key chain was usable, if you snapped the heavy medallion off.

I took my stash of medallions and key chains to church and tried to sell them there. “Sorry, but I already bought one from Derrick,” was repeated three times and I gave up. Derrick was one of my best friends and also in scouts. His mother played the church organ, so he’d arrived early and sold all of his medallions to folks as soon as they walked in.  I think the story of Jesus driving the money changers out of the temple was taught that day.

The next night, Monday, was the Boy Scout meeting. I’d sold two key chains. One to my mom and one to myself, using money pulled out of my coin collection. Dad didn’t want one. I reported my total to Mr. Thomas, the Scout Master, “Only two? Derrick has sold his twelve, and we’ve given him twelve more. You must not be trying very hard. Have you gone door to door?”

“No,” I replied, wondering why I’d joined the Boy Scouts.

“How about your grandparents or relatives?”

“We haven’t been to see them this week.” Seems every other Scout had relatives next door, but ours were an hour’s drive away.

“How about at church?”

“I tried. Nobody wanted any.”

“Teachers?”

“Do you know how many kids are trying to sell stuff to the teachers?” Derrick had gotten to the band director too.

“Well, you need to use some salesmanship. Tell them that these historic medallions are solid brass and they are specially made to commemorate the Bicennential. And years from now, they can remember the celebrations and be proud of our country when they look at it. I’m sure your neighbors will buy some, just wear your uniform so they see you’re official.”

Later that week, after school, I put on my Scout uniform and trudged around the neighborhood, walking house to house on the long gravel roads. Many folks weren’t home, or were hiding from the Boy Scout selling trinkets. The mother fixing dinner with the crying baby didn’t want one. The old man with the barking dogs didn’t want one. My friends on bikes said that their mom wasn’t home, which might have been true. One fellow with groggy eyes opened his door, wearing pajama bottoms and a grubby t-shirt. I’d waken him from his sleep before working the night shift. “Sure, I’ll buy one,” he said. The same guy had bought fruit cake from me in the fall.

My sales total reached three. The next week at Boy Scouts, Mr. Thomas encouraged me, “Keep trying! You’ve got to sell at least twelve, so only nine more to go.” I was able to sell the others, mostly to my grand-parents who said they’d make nice gifts. Dad broke down and bought the last one, so I did sell the minimum.

And no, after I sold my minimum, when Mr. Thomas asked, I didn’t want to try and sell any more.

The hike-o-ree that June was quite the experience. The police insisted on rerouting the hiking route at the last minute to avoid busy streets, obviously without concern for the distance we had to walk. The promised short hike turned into a sort of death march in the sweltering heat with our overloaded back-packs. Being my first backpacking trip, I had packed two of most everything I needed, just in case. On the second day, the concept of packing light was making more sense. 

Several volunteers drove cars and picked up the boys that weren’t going to make it. After about four hours hiking, I asked for a ride. Apparently, I didn’t look tired enough and the driver shouted “you can make it.” Another hour later, my troop was ahead and out of sight, and my legs and feet were sore, my boots seemed to have transformed into lead and my shirt was drenched in sweat. My canteen was empty and my throat was parched.

“Come on get in, you’re the last one,” the driver said with a twinge of pitty in his voice.

But it was only a half a mile further, if I’d made it this far, I could finish this.

“No,” I said, “I can make it.” Trudging on, I was the last Boy Scout to enter the Battle Ground. I found my troop and dropped my backpack in the pile and collapsed on the ground.

“Where have you been?” Derrick asked me, “you missed the musket demonstration.” 

I did get to see the cannon demonstration and get some water before piling into the back of a pickup truck and riding home.

The next Scout Meeting, Mr. Thomas handed out the awards for completing the hike. We each got a red and white ribbon with a bronze Bicentennial medallion.