[September 5, 2024] Arriving at the Texas Tech University campus in early May of 1970, this would be the first time I’d ever been away from home for more than a long week at Boy Scout Camp. College was about to become a humdinger of an adventure, beginning with my first day checking into Gordon Hall, one of the oldest and non-air conditioned student residential buildings on campus, maybe the oldest. Under the bunk beds, written in pencil, was graffiti saying “Screw Truman,” the U.S. president when the dormitory was built.
The campus of “Tech,” as we called it, was majestic and huge. On my first trip to Lubbock, traveling north on US Route 87, a monster sandstorm enveloped the town. The university provided buses that ran various routes so students could get from one class to another. The area was clean and free of trash, with flowers and large trees everywhere. It seemed as if the semi-arid climate couldn’t keep the fauna back. Most impressive were the massive buildings that housed a student population of about 40,000, plus another 15,000 faculty and staff. It was awesome. I felt out of place being at such a glorious university.
I’d arrived with all my worldly possessions, consisting of a tan Lincoln De Lux suitcase, loaned to me by my Dad, containing my entire clothing line. It also had one threadbare towel, toiletries, an old dictionary, a metal slide rule recently purchased, the last of my savings $47, a pencil and one spiral notebook. I would live with that suitcase until I was in my 40s, and my wife would then secretly and purposely throw it out.
My roommate was a tall fellow from El Paso, Texas, a Mathematics major in his junior year and the son of a Texas Ranger, a highly regarded statewide law enforcement agency. J.J. was a third-generation Texas Tech student and proud of it. He had cleverly arrived before me and taken the best bed, drawers, and desk. Yep, first come, first get. Arriving first and being a junior, he also had first dibs on the telephone that hung on the wall, a black rotary dial. He was tall and thin and wore a straw cowboy hat and boots to class. Unfortunately for me, he was a high-energy young man – older than me by a couple of years – who stayed up late studying and calling his other college friends for help with unsolved math problems.
The good news was that he lived close enough to drive every weekend to spend time on his uncle’s cattle ranch. He had an uppity girlfriend from somewhere out on the Yankee East Coast; I think it was New York City or Boston. She was an odd character all by herself, and she thought college Freshmen, which I was at the time, were dweebs to look down upon.
I didn’t like her, but she came by our dorm room often enough that I was not getting on my roommate’s wrong side by saying something to her. She sure made up for what she lacked in charm and manners by being a hot mess. Other guys on our dorm floor stared at her whenever she was there, dressing provocatively in tight, tight shorts. And she knew it. She also walked in a cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke, enough to make the cockroaches that patrolled the hallways run away.
This event was 64 years ago, and I clearly remember trying to get up the courage to tell my roommate that his girlfriend was playing the field with other guys in our dormitory. “Girls” were not allowed on the men’s dormitory floor. If the girl was cute, like my roommate’s girl, we would ignore that rule.
Two of my friends were to attend that summer at Texas Tech with me but backed out when they didn’t have enough money. Fortunately, I had saved for three years working multiple jobs – some were fun and certainly educational – like providing good customer service and being a clean gas jockey. There was one incident where two wayward robbers tried to steal from Mr. Amato, who owned a gas station in Abilene. Even I knew better than to try to pull something as brazen as that off against an Italian immigrant. I loved that guy; he taught me more than I would ever have learned in college. And that’s a fact.
One day, J.J.’s girlfriend asked me to read one of her English class book reports on the book “Fahrenheit 451,” which was later released as a film directed by François Truffaut. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the report was rubbish – I couldn’t even follow what she was trying to say – and her English composition was grade-school level. She must have had a brain freeze the day before as she threw random words onto paper. “Yeah, looks good to me,” I said. I do hope she eventually forgave me later in life.
After her professor read it, I’m sure there must have been a one-way “conversation” about who should be in college and who might think about a different path in life. She was probably looking for her MRS Degree anyway, like so many blonds that found college life so exciting and picking smart men to get engaged to. That ring meant a lot to these young women. Later, I asked myself why a gold digger was after J.J., a Mathematics major. Oh, yeah.
What I remember most about the Freshman Trigonometry Class I took that summer was the Pakistani female grad student teaching the course, who barely spoke fluent English and tried to pronounce math-essential words like “perpendicular.” It took my class two weeks to figure out what she was saying. Thank goodness for my high school Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Riggs for teaching me the basics.
I took the college course to help me acclimate to college life and give a nice boost to my GPA. And J.J. was there to run a self-help study group for us, where we spent a significant amount of time translating heavily accented sentences. I passed with an “A,” unlike the rest of the poor souls, many who failed.
Some of my newly found college friends ordered a whole bunch of cheese pizzas for our English Literature study group. Cramming a dozen guys – yep, all guys – into one of the group’s dorm rooms and then expecting anything remotely similar to studying was a bridge too far.
And this is where my reckless avoiding of public education came flying back to haunt me. I was keenly aware the highest grade I had ever got in high school English was a marginal pass, and that would be a predictor of my future success. Anyhow, inspired by a bunch of scared Texans, we stuck it out for three hours a day, Monday to Thursday. Hey, I don’t want to spoil a few days off by trying to pass a required but unnecessary course. And by a miracle, I passed, again marginally.
Shortly after arriving at school, I volunteered to help out cooking in a soup kitchen and met my first college girlfriend, all while helping feed hundreds who we affected by the dual tornadoes that ripped through Lubbock. That is a story for another day.
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NOTE: See all my letters here: https://www.theleadermaker.com/granddaughter-letters/
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Such beautiful and loving letters and a great idea to have these to pass down who you are/were to your grandchildren and beyond. Sir, thanks for what you do and for your service.
It is wonderful to read that it was your mom who encouraged you to join an athletic’s team and stick with it.
Sir, another great love letter for prosperity. And yes, I find them very entertaining but also insightful. I really do love the entire series of letters that you’ve written, in part, because they remind me of my childhood – which is a couple of decades after yours. In my upbringing a kid had to be extra careful not to get involved in illegal drugs, not because they were illegal, but because those drugs do great damage to your future. Today in America under our current Whitehouse, drug use is okay. I think that is wrong. Just see first son Hunter Biden as a classic example of failure.
Point well taken, aiken. True. The US government is not going after the druggies or their suppliers much anymore and it shows. Look at the crime, broken families, drug users on the sidewalks, tent cities, the homeless, and the list goes on. What is being done? Almost nothing. DON’T DO DRUGS.
Got that right, Peigin, don’t do drugs. I don’t care who says it’s okay, don’t do drugs. You will ruin your future and be trapped by the drugs.
I don’t comment much here but I have to write this time that I enjoyed this letter.
Sir, wonderful letter and loving letter. I have enjoyed your letters to your granddaughter now for more than a year and would hope you keep on writing them. I know that your time has almost come to discontinue these letters but maybe you could just put them into another format. Oh, and if you do decide to write a book from these, let us know. I will surely buy a few copies and pass them around as gifts to my friends.
Nothing like waking up early and getting to read a letter to Gen. Satterfield’s granddaughter…. I often get to have a flashback to my old track and field days in high school, and what a time we had. 😜
There is a lesson here:
“The cinders that made up the surface of the Cooper High School running track were digging into my back, making so many tiny pricks that my blood turned my track shirt a bright red. Someone offered a hand to help me up after another runner tripped me accidentally. Hobbling off the track, our coach came over to yell at me for getting blood on his new track surface. And he gave me his professional advice for the injury, “Just shake it off.” Oookkayyyy.” – Gen. Doug Satterfield
The lesson is resilience, strength, and courage. These would help Gen. Satterfield for his entire career in the US Army and be something that allowed him to have a good liife.
Exactly correct, Willie. I was thinking that too. Others below pointed this out. And this is one of the reasons these letters are more than just entertainment but provide a vehicle for learning something important about how to be successful in life. ✔✔✔✔
I hope that Gen. Satterfield takes this series beyond 100. Let’s all encourage him to do so.
He had a rough time and laughed about it.
Hi Dern, I’m not so sure he laughed about it, but certainly Gen. Satterfield as a teenager didn’t let not finishing first or being tripped, get him down. He got right back up and brushed it off. And didn’t let the blood effect him either. Maybe he didn’t notice the bleeding but I’m sure his running teammates told him. These are the kind of things that I like about reading this blog and especially these letters to his granddaughter. This is what being human is about – being strong and resilient, doing the right thing even when you are just one of the gang, and being good and helping others. That is what Gen. Satterfield is in spades.
Wow, Gen. Satterfield. Thank you for another love letter – of sorts – to your granddaughter. You’ve not given us feedback on what she thinks of your letters.
Here we are now at Letter #92 and closing in on #100 where the series ends. Thank you Gen. Satterfield in advance for your series and insights into your childhood. What most folks reading this might not pickup on so quickly, is Gen. Satterfield grew up at a time when drugs were not such a big scourge as it is today. Mostly the drug culture came about in the late 1960s and got really going in the early 1970s. By that time, Gen. Satterfield was a young man in college and then later in the US Army. The latter didn’t tolerate drug use and those caught were kicked out and right so. The drug culture was something that fortunately, didn’t capture the young Gen. S. and for all of us, we can be appreciative. Maybe Gen. S. will comment on that at some point.
Good point on the drug culture coming in mostly after Gen. Satterfield was grown. But it still took courage and having his head on straight that he didn’t get involved in this dead-end habit.
Loved the story. I’m sure your granddaughter will also love the story. 💕
As a new kid at school, Gen. Satterfield was right to get involved in athletics early on. That forces you to know people and to interact. For someone shy, that is good for them. I liked it when Gen. S. said that he had blood on his shirt and his coach yelled at him for getting blood on the new track. Ha Ha. I can just see it now. The young Satterfield must have been mortified.
As a long-time reader and fan of Gen. Satterfield and his website, i just wanted to note that this letter is classic Gen. S. He always writes about resilience and how important it is for us to always get back up when knocked down. And he discusses it briefly here. i think this letter is more of a metaphor for his life than true to life (which it certainly also is) and should be read that way in order for us to remember that we must always get back up. That is how we will be judged. and rightly so.
JT, you and me both. For those who read this blog and actually try to apply what Gen. Satterfield gives us in the way of advice (free for the taking), “getting up when knocked down” is a common thread — and very useful life values. Thanks.
Another beautiful and relatable love letter to Gen. Satterfield’s granddaughter.
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From the boy to the man, another great letter from Gen. Satterfield.
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For those new to this website, if you are willing to make an investment in yourself, go and get a copy of Gen. Satterfield’s book. My favorite is “55 Rules for a Good Life” and read it.
https://www.amazon.com/55-Rules-Good-Life-Responsibility/dp/1737915529/
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Right, if there is one thing we can say about the teenager Doug Satterfield is that he had no problem getting back up when knocked down – literally and figuratively – and keep on going. This is another great story about a normal day in the life of Gen. Satterfield that we all can relate to.
Boy to man …. yep! This is why these letters take me back to when I was a kid and struggled in High School, just like he is doing.
True facts. ✨
BOY TO MAN ………… I like it.