Rest in Peace . . . | The Wordsmith's Page

Rest in Peace, Lady Barrington

The last week of the fiscal year, the week after final exams, was a week of mourning all over the Barrington campus. The Economics Department, among others, held a wake. A pine coffin was placed at one end of the conference room. Over it hung a mock-up of an engraved tombstone.

On the last day, Christopher Lawrence wore his great grandfather’s nineteenth-century mourning suit and top hat. The sleeves struck him at mid-forearm, and the legs struck him several inches above his ankles. At the appointed hour, he walked into the conference room with his head held low and a Bible tucked in his hand and made his way slowly, somberly to the far end of the room. There, he took his place beside the coffin. As a hush descended over those gathered, he began to speak.

“Friends,” he intoned somberly, “We are gathered here to mourn the passing of our dear and beloved friend and family member, Barrington College. Lady Barrington was born to the Lutheran Church, Eastern Synod, in a day when the north reigned supreme, the south mourned, and the west fought off the Native Americans on whose land they trespassed. She weighed in with but a single building, the late Hirschheimer Hall, and leaves us this week with twenty-seven buildings, too numerous to name but most lovingly remembered here, in Welles-Browning Hall.”

“Aye!” Don Peterson proclaimed.

“She produced more than three-quarters of a million graduates and has been supported by more than a million and a half hard-working parents and ten million toiling taxpayers.”

Snickers came from the far corner, causing Christopher to glance up and give Caroline Aultman and Trudy Brannon a disapproving eye.

“Yea, our lady has supported seven thousand faculty and staff in her near-hundred-year reign, managing to help most of us avoid bankruptcy and other social disgraces.”

“Amen,” James Witherspoon intoned.

“Yet, she has not endured without great strain, including losing football games, budget cuts, and that thrice-annual scourge known as exam week. Through it all, she has held her head high. She survived the Great Fire of 1934, in Boulder Hall, and all too many floods in some, if not most, of her restrooms.”

More snickers rang out, causing Christopher to stiffen and pause as he cast a disapproving eye around the entire room. He was surprised to see that students, faculty, and staff from other departments in the building and beyond were gathering. After a moment, he lowered his head once again and continued to speak.

“In the past few years, however, our great Lady Barrington College has been stricken with the disease she could not survive. She has succumbed to Etat interferens, or government interference, for those whose Latin fails them. Despite the best efforts of her students, her faculty and staff, and others to revive her, she has graduated her last class and raised her last flag on the parade grounds. You shall remain forever in our hearts, Lady Barrington. Amen.”

“Amen,” the others chorused.

Christopher turned and took up a jam box, which he perched on his shoulder. As the college’s processional began to play, he walked slowly from the room as four colleagues carried the coffin behind him. There was not a dry eye in the room or in the corridor beside it.

They carried the coffin to the parade grounds, where they placed it before the flagpole and erected the tombstone behind it. When the huge following, as well as those who joined the processional enroute, had gathered about, Christopher began to speak again.

“We lay you to rest, Lady Barrington. Bricks and mortar, floorboards and radiators, we commit you to the Barrington Research Park Association. Long may you reign as a research park and upon all who visit you. Amen.”

“Amen!” chorused everyone in attendance.

Little did they realize that both the coffin and the handmade tombstone would remain there, undisturbed, for nearly a year before a construction crew would take them away.