Starting this blog has forced me to reacquaint myself with the world of deadlines. I’ve never been very good at them; my college years were dotted with cans of Java Monster energy drinks (Nut Up- or Loca Mocha-flavored, please) and nights that turned into dawns as I feverishly finished dozens of papers. As I begin writing this I am attempting to pull another all-nighter, though this is not deadline-induced. I have an overnight shift at the bookstore, and the best way I can figure to force myself to sleep all day is to stay up the night before. And as I suck down coffee and type away at my laptop, I can’t help but think of the place where most of my college all-nighters were spent: The Rose O’Neill Literary House, known to all the students that frequented it as The Lit House.
The Lit House at Washington College in Chestertown, Maryland is situated at the edge of campus. Cater Walk cuts through the heart of campus from Martha Washington Square and ends in the brick-paved cross walk that connects three residence halls, Health Services, the financial office, and the Lit House to the rest of campus across Route 213. More often than not the Lit House kids elected to cross a bit further down to arrive at the Lit House steps more directly. The entrance that faces the road was once the house’s proper front door, though it’s not nearly used as much now. That door leads into the L-shaped enclosed porch, where many readings are held, from well-known writers and students alike. Folding chairs are often set up down each length of the porch, faced towards the podium, but the most coveted seat is the old red couch along the back wall farthest from the front door. The French doors next to it lead into the Lit House living room. It contains a large, sink-into-it-and-never-recover couch, a few armchairs of varying comfort, a desk with an iMac computer often used to print out various things by students who didn’t feel like going to the library, and a fireplace that Public Safety had sealed off years ago. On the wall above the couch there hang two portraits, one of F. Scott Fitzgerald and the other of his wife, Zelda. They’re reproductions of the ones done by Harrison Fisher; the real ones hang in the Smithsonian. As far as I know, the Fitzgeralds have no direct connection with the Lit House, other than being two famous names in American literature. The pictures are positioned so Scott and Zelda are looking at each other through their frames.
In my first year and a half of college the hallway snaking past the second sitting room into the kitchen was oddly used: it was lined with bookcases, so if you wanted to browse the various books the Lit House kept, you inevitably ended up in someone’s way. The second sitting room had a loveseat up against the windows, a small table with a chair, and a recliner that had, on many occasion, dumped the person sitting backwards when they tried to recline. By the middle of my sophomore year the Lit House had gone through some much-needed renovations. The bookcases were taken out of the hallway and the second sitting room became a real library with built-in shelves. We got a light fixture with arms that could have bits of artwork clipped to it; it quickly became filled with sketches and literary quotes written on scraps of paper. The student-flipping chair was unceremoniously discarded.
There’s a flight of stairs that goes up to the second floor. There, the offices of the director, assistant director, and administrative assistant are set up along with a conference room (good for the most serious study sessions) and a large bathroom (good for dying hair). Another staircase to the third floor leads to the Fellowship Rooms. The Fellowship Rooms are given to select seniors that show promise in writing. There’s two to a room, and each room sports desks, chairs, and lamps. The Fellowship students are lucky enough to get keys to the Lit House, though to be honest the doors are seldom locked.
The hallway passes a utility closet and a half-bathroom before it ends in the kitchen. Like the library, the kitchen went through a few changes. The appliances were updated, the old counter was ripped out and a new island was put in, and the kitchen was equipped with whatever we might need to cook. A coffee pot kept the caffeine flowing for any and all study sessions and term papers that needed fueling well into the night. Red coffee cups bearing an outline of the Lit House filled the cupboards and inevitably found their way to dorm rooms. One wall was painted over in chalkboard paint and has since been host to hundreds of drawings and fleeting thoughts traced out in brightly colored chalk.
A set of pocket doors lead into the front room. From there you could go down a short flight of stairs into the room that houses the printing presses, run by Mike Kaylor. The Lit House printing press produces broadsides for some of the readings and Mr. Kaylor runs workshops for the students. Come back up the stairs and go left, and you’ll leave the house and stand on the porch. It’s large, with about four tables with chairs rimming each, and a bench that ran around the perimeter.
These were the rooms where my friends and I spent so much of our time in college that we practically lived there. We fought over outlets when our laptops needed to be plugged in; we “called fives” on spots of the couch when we had to leave briefly. We understood that any food not clearly labeled with our name in the fridge was free game, and any food we made was shared with whoever else was around. We stayed until all hours of the night; when Public Safety made their rounds at two AM, they simply told us to lock up when we left. We read and wrote, we debated on subjects serious and silly, and we served the one member of the house who actually lived there: the black and white cat named Edith Wharton.
Edith Wharton came to the Lit House in 1993 as a gift to one of the English and Creative Writing professors. It was extremely unusual to have a pet at one of the official college buildings, but the Lit House never felt like an academic building. Most other academic building didn’t have couches or a source of free coffee or a cat that was wont to lay across your seat or your books at will. Edith had been poorly treated by students when she first came to the Lit House, and as a result she was aloof at best and sharply defensive at worst. It was a long running joke that a newcomer wasn’t One of Us until Edith Wharton had drawn blood on them. We all loved her though, even when her claws sank into our thighs as she lay in our laps. She enforced the feeling that we were home.
I hope in the future to write more of my memories of the Lit House, and in the meantime I hope this serves as a good introduction.
For The Stories 