Seventy years ago was just around the corner, and almost a different world. You can see it in the old photos. It’s obvious, too, in the photos from my alma mater’s yearbook, the Glomerata, which I collect. My grandparents aren’t in this book, but their peers are. Maybe some people they knew, or would know later, are in here, though we’ll never know.

This is the third installment of our glance through 1954. Part one is here, and you can find part two here. I’ll put them all in the Glomerata section (eventually). You can see others, here. Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all of the covers. I wouldn’t blame you. They’re quite handsome. The university hosts their collection here.

This is Walter Everidge, a senior from Columbus, Georgia, (or Decatur, the old pubs disagree) studying industrial management, which is a sufficiently vague sounding major. He was also the editor of The Plainsman, and the next several people we’ll see worked for the campus paper. I spend a lot of time on them because, a few decades later, I was writing under their masthead.

The problem right now is, I can’t find anything else, at all, about Everidge. But he’s got that posed candid shot down pat, doesn’t he?

Josephine Newsom had a grand life. She got a masters in history at UGA and became a teacher. She got married, they had three kids, was at the vanguard of Head Start in her hometown, and would teach art, literature, science and history until she retired in 1993. She became a preservationist, working to revitalize historic buildings, and the president of her county’s historical society. When she died, in 2015, she was survived by her husband of 57 years, two sons, six grandchildren and two great grandchildren.

Carmer Robinson is the guy in the multicolored shirt. He was a junior from Georgia, studying textile engineering. He was in the Army Corps of Engineers during the Korean War. He traveled the world, lived in Hong Kong for a few years and eventually went back home, working his way into a job as the international sales director for a textile concern. He helped develop pre-washed and stretched denim. He was heavily involved in his community, and did a lot of local theater, too. He was 89 when he passed away in 2019, having raised three children, 10 grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren.

Judy Long grew up in Birmingham. She married another student, Jim, and they had three daughters and nine grandchildren. If I’m reading this correctly, one of her daughters had three sets of twins. Judy became a high school guidance counselor. Jim died in their 52nd year of marriage. A dozen years later, she would remarry a lifelong friend. She volunteered at hospitals and attended her church for 60 years. She died in 2021 and her family wrote her a lovely obituary.

Bea Dominick was a freshman from Prattville, Alabama. She graduated in 1957 and married an Emory grad in 1958. They lived in Georgia, where he had a private practice until he retired in 1999, and then joined the faculty at Emory. Bea and her husband traveled the world. She has three daughters, a son, and several grandchildren.

Helen Hackett’s life took her from Jasper, Alabama, to Auburn — the Glom said she studied journalism. She ventured on to Connecticut, and then Fort Lauderdale and Indian River Shores, Florida. It was there that she published the diary of her grandfather, who’d been a country doctor. She died in 2011, age 75. She’d been married for 42 years.

Frances Walthall was a sophomore education major from tiny Newbern, Alabama — population 350 or so back then and about half that size today. She married an Auburn man who became a manager at Alabama Power. They had four children and 14 grandchildren. Her husband died in 2007, but she’s still living in the state.

Les Ford was the managing editor of The Plainsman. The enormous headline tells us he’s reading a paper from the week of October 12th. You can read it here.

Ford was from Greenville, Mississippi, born just a few years after the flood. I hope he was the sort of fellow who held on to those socks until they became fashionable again.

JoAnne Lucci was a senior from Montgomery, Alabama. She was studying journalism, and after receiving two degrees from Auburn she went into the business.

But she realized that she wanted her summers off, so she could be in the outdoors. She loved the outdoors. She was always on her boat, fishing or skiing. And if she wasn’t on the water her hands were in the soil. She wound up teaching English and journalism at her high school alma mater for a quarter of a century. She had a lake house on Lake Martin. She had season tickets to Auburn games for almost five decades. So the odds are good that, at least once, I was on the water, or in the stadium, at the same time she was. She died last December, at 91.

To the right of her is Charles, “Red” Provost. A decade or so after this photo was taken, that clean cut young man would become a hippie. And then he discovered flamenco music. And he lived a fascinating life. He taught English in Italy, studied music in Spain, worked as a paralegal back home in the States. He’d also been a secretary, bill collector and a milkman. He died in 2000, but had been a musical fixture in Atlanta for more than 30 years.

That’s Ronald Owen, on the right, holding the piece of paper that was going to be a headline or a newsroom punchline. Owen went into the U.S. Army after school, and later went to work for General Dynamics, IBM, and the department store, Rich’s in Atlanta. He moved to Jacksonville, Florida, working as the IT Director for National Merchandise Company for more than 20 years. Well into his retirement he freelanced for newspapers around Florida.

And the answer to the question was, yes, the Tigers would go a-bowling. They headed to the Gator Bowl at the end of the 1953 season, and losing to Texas Tech.

Bill Neville, of Eufaula, Alabama, is seated in this photo. The basketball arena is currently named after the Nevilles, who have donated millions over the years.

Col. Walter J. Klepinger was a professor of military science and tactics, and headed the ROTC program. This was to be Klepinger’s last year on the Plains. And, for some reason, the yearbook had this photograph flipped, so I’ve taken the liberty of correcting that error here.

The university’s library records say he was there for 20 years. His family genealogy says he served in the Pacific, apparently on New Guinea from soon after Pearl Harbor until 1944 or thereabouts. He also had some NATO based duty stations after the war. The colonel was awarded the Legion of Merit and Bronze Star medal. He is buried at Arlington.

In 1954, service in the ROTC was a compulsory two-year program for all male students (who weren’t already veterans). It might not have been all bad, you got to wear all the smelly old green uniforms you wanted, and played with a bunch of hand-me-down gear.

Also, the ROTC cadets got to ride around in tanks. Can you imagine? This was probably at Fort Benning — which is now named Fort Moore — in Columbus.

That’s enough for now. In our next installment, we’ll take a quick look at the rest of the ROTC, and some of the always-fun space filler photographs.

All of these photos will wind up in the Glomerata section, of course. You can see others, here. Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all of the covers. The university hosts their collection here.

Seventy years ago, things were different, but almost everything looks familiar. You can see it in the photos of campus life from the beautiful old yearbooks. And this is a look at my alma mater’s yearbook, the Glomerata, which I collect. My grandparents aren’t in this book, but their peers are. Maybe some people they knew, or would know later, are in here, though we’ll never know.

This is the second installment of our glance through 1954. Part one is here, but I’ll put them all in the Glomerata section, of course. You can see others, here. Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all of the covers. I wouldn’t blame you. They’re quite handsome. The university hosts their collection here.

In 1954 the university was in the middle of the G.I. Bill enrollment explosion. The campus had their second largest ever enrollment, and the campus was still in a growth phase. I put a fair amount of context in the part one post, so let’s just jump in.

Since this is a highlight feature, rather than a complete look, I’ve been using a few rules — minimal buildings and minimal head shots– and I’m breaking both of my rules here. Just because this line art is well done.

This is a drawing of Comer Hall, which houses the College of Agriculture, where I spent half of my time. There was a computer lab on the third floor in my day, a small auditorium classroom on the second floor, and my advisor, the dean, had his office on the first floor. There was a fallout shelter in the basement, and that might be one of the few parts of the building I didn’t know anything about. It was built in 1920, burned and rebuilt in 1922. It is named after B.B. Comer, an early 20th century Alabama governor. And a progressive one, at that. (Progressive among his contemporary peers, to be sure.)

That’s the dean, E.V. Smith (no relation) who was director of Extension from 1951 to 1972 and a real power player of his era. The research center in nearby Shorter is named for Smith. There, researchers conduct experiments on plant breeding, animal husbandry, horticultural innovation, biosystems engineering and more. It’s comprehensive.

The younger man is the student president of the college of agriculture. I’m not sure when those positions disappeared, but we’ll figure it out in other books. Buck Compton was from a place called Nanafalia, which sits on a ridge above the Tombigbee. One of the 75 people there would have to drive some distance to find a town you’d ever heard of or read about. It’s the sort of middle of nowhere that’s surrounded by a lot of nowhere, is what we’re saying. It’s a small place now, it was small when Compton grew up there. Anyway, he met his wife, Barbara, in college when they were sophomores. They graduated and got married in the summer of ’54.

He joined the Air Force, and when he left the service, he returned to the family farm. He and his dad ran cattle, a timber company and a country store, and the cattle and store were still in operation until just a few years ago. She was a high school history teacher. They were married for 62 years until he died, in 2016. She passed away in 2020. Together, they raised two daughters, and they had five grandchildren.

On the same page are two smaller photos meant to be evocative of the CoAg experience. (I wonder if anyone called it that in the 1950s …) They’re a bit fuzzy because I resized them, but we’re obviously examining and weighing produce.

And it looks like we’re working on a small disc harrow here.

I wonder how long all of that equipment remained in use on campus, and where it went when they upgraded.

Here’s a drawing of Tichenor Hall, which is where I spent much of the rest of my time. By the time I showed up it was filled with journalism students. (Don’t laugh, there were a lot of us then.) The basement had some geography folks, but it was mostly just us. Tichenor was built in 1940, and is named after Isaac Taylor Tichenor, the university’s third president, serving in that role from 1872 to 1881. He was also a pastor, having served as a chaplain during the Civil War, a farmer, a mining executive and in the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention.

Tichenor is one of those complicated 19th century people in modern eyes. He was a proponent of slavery. He felt the Confederacy lost their war because of the Union’s industrial strength. And that’s how he framed his work at the university, pushing for big changes in higher education and diversity in the local economies, sort of a preview of the New South that was to come.

Roger Allen went to college at Auburn, played baseball and graduated with a chemistry degree in 1918, and a master’s the next year. After lab work during World War I and some time in New York and at Howard College, he came back to the Plains to teach in 1928. They pulled him out of the classroom for a quarter-century run as an administrator, and he was at the helm when the College of Science and Mathematics saw a great deal of growth. He retired in 1967.

Bill Fickling was from Georgia, where he was a three-sport star, including two state championships in the hurdles. In college, he played varsity basketball and ran an incredibly respectful 110-meter hurdles, where he was a conference champion in his sophomore year. His dad was a real estate powerbroker, and Bill Jr. took on the family business. Junior did well for himself. He married Miss America, Neva Jane Langley, in 1955. They were together for 58 years, until she died in 2012. They raised four children. Her obituary is clear: her pageant life did not define her. But it followed her anyway. Bill was still active in his community through the twenty-teens.

A few scenes from Tichenor Hall. That looks like an adding machine of some sort.

And those typewriters, they even look clunky for their day. I hope at least some of them landed in the hands of collectors.

When I was in school we were working on Macs. They were almost as clunky, but incredibly modern. You never think about those things when you’re young and working on a deadline. I wonder what they are typing, and if it stuck with any of those students long after the assignment was complete.

This is Samford Hall, the modern administration building. The graduate school was housed there in the 1950s. Today it is the icon building for photos and branding, and it should be. It’s still a lovely place in the Georgia colonial style.

I include this one in appreciation for the dodging and burning that someone undertook to get this in the book. In darkrooms, you did this with paper and light. I had two courses in undergrad that were darkroom intensive, and I never mastered the analog skill. Whoever did this, though, had some talent. And whoever is in silhouette here is working on pages we might see later.

Did you notice the Coke bottle? That was a nice touch.

These next few are staffers of the Glomerata, and I include them because they gave us this wonderful book. That’s Fred Nichols on the left, he was the editor of the yearbook. He was from Columbiana, Alabama, and was involved in all sorts of stuff on campus. President of his fraternity, in two different leadership groups, edited the Greeks’ rag, was an associate editor of the newspaper (which we’ll see in our next installment) and in the student senate. I’ve no idea how he managed to study industrial management. He went into the Air Force for a time, got married and they raised two children and two grandchildren. He died in 2001. You’re going to meet her in just a few moments.

The guy on the right is Tommy Tate, who was the business manager. He ran track, was recognized in one the mysterious leadership groups and studied business. I’m not sure what became of him. Tate is a surprisingly common name.

Look at the middle photo. The guy on the right is Batey Smith. He studied architecture, served as a captain in the U.S. Army and then went home to create ahugely important Tennessee firm, helping to build modern Nashville. In 1999 he and his wife established an endowed scholarship at AU. His was a hugely successful career, the lifetime achievement sort of career. Founding member of this. board member of that. He and his wife retired to Auburn in 2013 and he lived there until he died, in 2022 at 88.

The woman on the right side of the right photo is Jean Cross. She studied home economics. If I’ve got the right one, she married a football player. He would become a high school coach and athletic director in Georgia, where they lived until they retired to Florida.

I’m not sure why these two got their own photo. Maybe they were late to the picture sesh. But they’re worth talking about.

David Irvine’s dad was on the faculty, and he’s a senior in this photograph. He studied art at Auburn, became a tank commander in Europe during the Korean War, came home and earned his master’s and doctorate degrees in educational psychology and counseling from UNC. He became a school counselor and a teacher. After retirement he became a writer. As of this writing, he, at 92 (!!!) is still writing for his local paper, The Daily Dispatch (Henderson, North Carolina).

The office space gets a little more crowded for the last series of Glomerata staff photos. Let’s see what we can find.

Kathryn Keith studied psychology and became a teacher, a vice principal and homemaker in Georgia. She and her husband of 50 years raised one child, a grandchild and a great grandchild. She passed away in 2006. Frances Walthall married an Auburn man who became a manager at Alabama Power. They had four children and 14 grandchildren. Her husband died in 2007, but she’s still living in the state.

Irene Donovan finished at Auburn, and then went to graduate school at Tulane. She became a social worker, helping families in Louisiana and Georgia throughout her career.

June Sellers married Fred Nichols, the editor of this yearbook we mentioned above. She survived her husband. They had two children and two grandchildren. She started the kindergarten program at her church, volunteered at Children’s Hospital in Birmingham, was in DAR and volunteered and was a member of a sackful of other organizations. In her later years she moved into an assisted living facility. Her 2007 obituary said “she participated in every activity and was, not surprisingly, a member of the Social Committee” there. Hers was a life of service and doing.

Mary Ann Willman, from Columbus, Georgia, was a sophomore studying home economics. She married Haskell Sumrall, an Auburn man, a BMOC who became a captain in the Marine Corps. They lived in Florida until retirement. They had three kids. She died in 2014, and he passed away in 2020. They are buried at Miramar National Cemetery, in California.

Bill Whitaker died just this year, at 91. He met his wife in college, while he was studying electrical engineering. Whitaker joined the Air Force and stayed in until 1968. By then he had a master’s degree and a lifelong infatuation with computers. He worked at IBM, then went into sales with another big firm, and put in machines at places like Oak Ridge, Red Stone and Cape Canaveral. He returned to Alabama to head up the data processing department of Trust National Bank. He started his own company, eventually sold it, went to Memorex and another place or two before retiring.

The woman standing next to him the photo? That’s his future wife, Margaret, a sophomore from Mobile. They had two kids and two grandchildren and what sounds like a full and hopefully wonderful life. They were married for 68 years.

All of these photos will wind up in the Glomerata section, of course. You can see others, here. Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all of the covers. The university hosts their collection here.

After a month away from this feature, we return to the dusty old pages of old yearbooks. Prepare for pretty pictures from the Plains.

That’s the 1954 edition of The Glomerata, the yearbook of my alma mater. To refresh the memory, I collect the yearbooks. It’s an almost unique thing, and they look great. The first Glom was published in 1897. (I don’t have that one, so if you run across it … ) and the last one I’ll collect was the 2016 book. There are 120 in between. (One year they published two books.) I now have 112 of them.

In 1954 the world was changing quickly, and so was the old alma mater. Ralph B. Draughon was the president. On the faculty since 1931, he moved into the president’s mansion in 1948. There was, of course, political tumult between the university, the Alabama Extension Service and the governor. (All of this went on for decades.)

The day-to-day campus issues centered around a population explosion. The GI Bill doubled enrollment in the late 1940s and it was obvious they needed more faculty, more space, more books for the library, more everything. Draughon’s almost two decades as president concentrated a great deal on growth and modernity.

Money, as ever, was the sticking point, but Draughon hit on a unique idea. He convinced the presidents of the other schools in the state — the white ones, anyway, because segregation was still everywhere — to present unified budgets to the state legislature. It made for an uneasy alliance, but sometimes it worked. Other times that, too, was contentious. You get the sense the state might have preferred it that way. Much of the legislature didn’t care for Draughon’s emphasis on education and modernism. Alabama isn’t a hard place to understand when you come to understand that the people with votes don’t always want to understand how to improve things. And change, improvement, was coming.

During his tenure, he put up 50 new buildings, doubled the on-campus housing options, opened 16 doctoral programs, landed an important series of accreditations and boosted the faculty numbers.

Civil rights and segregation were as much a part of the era as the university’s growth. It was the spring of 1954 when Brown vs Board of Education was handed down, but it would be another decade before Harold Franklin enrolled at Auburn, overcoming the board and state government’s intransigence, ending segregation on the campus. Draughon spent years trying to thread a non-confrontational needle while walking slowly along the fine line of progress.

We’re looking at the 1954 Glomerata here, but it’s important to note that in just a few more years, in 1960, the name would finally change from Alabama Polytechnic Institute to Auburn University. (It had been a topic of conversation since at least 1948.) Also in 1960, they started work on a new library. In 1965 the university named it for Ralph B. Draughon. Several decades later, when I was in school, state budget cuts were so severe that the RBD had to cut back on book, periodical and journal acquisitions. Draughon, buried just two blocks away from his library, would have had a fit.

Let’s look inside the book!

The first photo is in big, bright, beautiful color. It’s a signal to you and I, dear reader, that the future, grounded in wonder, inspiration and science, was here.

On the opposite leaf was this lovely little photo.

He’s wearing an Auburn button, and there’s a little football hooked to it. You can occasionally see those on e-bay. Here’s one now. Her corsage suggests that was a homecoming photo, but there’s no caption with it.

I don’t know what building this is, which annoys me. You think you know everything, but then there’s this marble staircase and that’s certainly something that should stand out in the memory.

The marble stands out, but so do those outfits. That shirt the guy is wearing. His shoes. No way that’s not a staged photograph. That getup couldn’t catch a woman’s eye, could it?

Students playing cards on the shore at Chewacla.

If you look at this Google Maps image, this is where they would have been. Seven decades ago.

The Tektronix Type 511-D Cathode Ray Oscilloscope was a wide range, portable instrument. It allows scientists to observe a wide variety of electrical waveshapes and was primarily intended for laboratory and shop use, in the development and testing of all types of electronic equipment. And while I’ve been reading about this, I’ve wondered, how long did this instrument stay on campus?

It was sold through 1955 or so, but it would be a hard-to-part item today. And that over-engineered press in the smaller photo? What even is that thing?

We can see now how sports culture is starting to become a more prevalent part of campus life. There’s already a crowd shot here in this front matter.

I think that’s from the Ole Miss game, but we don’t know for certain. It is a pretty educated guess, though, and I’m sure it’ll come up again later.

Look at that dress! I wonder what event this charming woman is heading to.

And those wire fish on the wall! How have those not come around in fashion at least twice in the years since.

Here’s the classic arch shot from Samford Hall. That’s the administration building. In the background is Smith Hall, no relation. (This is basically the same view today.)

I love how the stone is almost glowing. Wouldn’t that have been a neat trick back then, architecturally speaking? It’d be a wonder today, too.

I imagine it’s hard to spend a whole career on a campus and have everyone love you, but that was the case for James Foy, who generations of students knew and loved as Dean Foy. The 1954 Glomerata was dedicated to “one whose influence, leadership, guidance, and loveable personal qualities are known and felt by all.”

He was the dean of student affairs. Probably that job is different, and harder, today. Back then, his duties included being a hype man and a vibe guy. There are photos, decades after this, of students tossing him high into the air. He loved every bit of it.

Foy learned Auburn’s alma mater as a boy from his brother, Simpson, who attended API in the 1920s. (We learned about him a few months ago.) Simpson was a contemporary of the guy that wrote that song. James went to Alabama, where he was a part of the group that helped rekindle the Auburn-Alabama football rivalry. (Indeed, the trophy Auburn and Alabama share around the Iron Bowl is named after him.) After his military service as a naval aviator, he spent 28 years working at Auburn. When he retired, he worked there as a volunteer for another three decades, almost up to his death in 2010, at 93. He was beloved, then, for a lifetime, and he loved the university and its people in kind. The yearbook picked this one well.

A building on campus, Foy Hall, is named after him today. When I was in school it was the student union, which was apt. Nowadays the university names buildings after other important historical figures, and do a thoughtful job of it, or anyone who gives them a lot of money.

As ever, this is not a complete examination of the yearbook, just the images that jump out at me as I flip through it. There will be more next week. This collection will live in the Glomerata section, of course. You can see others, here. Or, to just see the beautiful covers, go here. The university hosts their complete collection here.