[§] cattered remnants of popcorn , picture trimmings, trashed page planners , and rejected articles dotted the spinach-green carpet of the Petit Jean office, the only reminders left of the final all-night work party. Just to the left of the door of the long narrow office sat the boxes of Christmas ornaments long ago packed but never stored . On top of the ancient ornaments and new lights, lay a straw wreath Mom made and sent to me in early December to "brighten up your office for the holiday. " (Her packages, Dad's "gas contributions, " Kathy's and Karol 's letters, Tammy's and Eddie's five dollar bills, David's and Daina's cards, and Karl 's calls from Fort Worth had kept my heart warm and a little homesick all year long.) To the right, photo requests still dotted the bulletin board. John had gone home at 12:00 a.m., too tired to take down the last of the fulfilled requests. He worked hard, and Suzanne had been a trooper - she often carne up and helped him and me out. I relied on them . The yellow grandmother armchair wedged between the filing cabinet and the bookshelf, cradled Jerry's gray jacket. He would be up at noon looking for it -the last of his noon time "checking on everything" visits; well, maybe it wouldn't be the last. Those visits often became all-clay / night work-a-thons, and his dedication and laughter carried me some days. Just across the room, Bobby's senior activity sheets and Sharon's meticulously 382 1986 Petit Jt:an editors marked checklists overlapped one another in a huge stack . No one on the staff ever knew for sure just what part of the office would become "their desk" next. Just above the pile, the bulletin board, stripped of the decorative paper and border to make a giant Valentine's card for the staff beau, Dr. Joe, held Ron 's most recent favorite print. His personal cork board never had seemed large enough to hold his stuff, so he claimed the lower right corner of the all-staff bulletin board. The card we had made for Dr. Joe hung above the Pryor's kitchen table for a week. Their house had become my home through the year. Beverly Joe laughed so hard when she saw that card , I had to laugh. She always cheered life up. In the corner, David's sleeping bag peeked out from under the counter. It had made a great blanket on nights when the computer ~ad turned the heat gff .jn ..the office and the temperature dropped below 40 degrees. I don't think David had ever gotten to use it, but he never c~rnplained. Just below the wall - oracles, Amy's goldenrod covered, from end to end, the entire counter top. Her whole section, the first to be finished over six weeks ago, still lay there. Rounding the corner of the large outer office, just past my inner office door, stood Denise's desk. Monique's letter lay in the middle of all the sports pictures. The final comment, "David, I'll only come back to Harding and marry you if I can take my mace on the honeymoon ... " was highlighted with yellow. We missed her during the spring semester. A cardboard box stood beside the desk, the fir st of many Denise would soon move to my office, making it her's box by box. But, for now, it was my office. The mass-picture of Jeremy , Joshua, Stephen , Audria, Laura and Patricia, Andrew's birth announcement , Eddie's Robert Frost book with the Teddy Bear marker and the ivy that seemed to sprout a new leaf as each page was completed held so many memories, so much happiness . Just opposite my desk stood Cindy' s brown chair. She collapsed there after "The Squirrel Chase." That poor squirrel , fallen through the roof, trapped in the darkroom wall, chased merciless in the office before it's capture and return to nature, nearly killed Cindy, me and half of the staff - near hysteria. On the desks, the last pieces o f homemade candy from ~ Bessie Mae , -'Sherry's final, always comforting and timely, "here's the copy you wanted" note and cards from my Mazzio's buddies - Todd, Todd, Torn, Penny and Bill lay cluttered. Lying between the diet coke can and Tri-Kappa keepsake box a phone m~ssage from Miss Gulch of Kansas signed by the only Tin Man with a hearffhat I know of, Jack Shock, made me laugh. The laughter turned to silence as tears of relief, sadness, and pride fell on Torn's preliminary sketches of the 1986 Petit Jean cover. We, had finished. We had accomplished all we hoped for: the book, like Harding herself, stood "in line with excellence. " Jm - Karen Leann Roseberry, editor-in-chief Editor's edict. Patiently, Amy Fisher , editor of the "Living" section , waits to discuss her lay-out while Karen Roseberry, editor-in-chief, skeptically listens to one of head photographer John Radcliffe's latest darkroo m escapades . - photo by Ron Pacheco. - ·
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