This was a play-by-play account of my ascent to the top of the eight-story College Gothic tower that looms over Cornell Law School (as if the place weren't creepy enough already). Students are not allowed up there, so I had to go with a special "guide." It was all a bit unnerving, but I decided to take one for the team.
You all know how much I hate to toot my own horn, but I've had so many requests for this piece over the years (from people who obviously forgot to cut it out and put it in their scrapbooks at the time) that I've finally decided to post it and be through with it. Hurry and print it for your records while you have the chance.
So...here it is, exactly as it appeared in the April 9, 1998 edition of the Cornell Law Tower, with the exception that spelling and punctuation have been modernized (it was published back in 1998, remember). NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED. Annotations in bold are mine.
Tour of the Tower
| An image of the Tower, taken on the one day that Ithaca, New York actually had a blue sky (or is it the work of Photoshop?) |
I think all of us here at Cornell Law have gazed up at the ominous, eight-story stack of rocks rising from Myron Taylor Hall (the law school) and wondered, "What's in there? And why can't I go up there?" I'm about to answer both questions with the expert assistance of June Morehouse, Assistant Director of Administration here at the law school, who will be our guide on a "Tour of the Tower."
Our tour begins at a regular wooden door marked "Elevator," which is located half-way down the third-floor hall that runs from the reading room to the moot court room. June opens the door, and after a polite greeting from Visiting Professor Josef Straus (who is coming out as we go in) she leads me through a small foyer and pulls open a heavy wooden door, revealing an ancient elevator. "Come in," she says. She must sense reluctance on my part, because she adds, "Don't worry, it's been modernized." (Cue chattering of teeth.)
| The elevator looked similar to this one, only more derelict. |
The elevator is one of those metal cage affairs that you would expect to see staffed by a uniformed attendant, but this one is empty. Jane takes matters into her own hands, pushes some buttons, and as we ascend--very slowly--we're treated to a view of the bricks that form the tower's interior. "Luckily there's a phone in here now," says June. "Before the remodeling, if you got stuck in this elevator, you could have been here for days." (Cue creepy organ music.)
The cage finally creaks open on the seventh floor, and we step out onto a narrow landing with a flight of stairs to one side. I ask where the stairs lead. "To the observation deck," says June. I ask if the deck--which makes up the Tower's eighth and top floor--will be included on our tour. June shakes her head. "Only the Facilities Office has a key," she says.
As we begin our exploration of the seventh floor, June tells me levels five, six, and seven of the Tower function largely as a hotel for visiting professors. There is daily maid service, which consists of light cleaning and changing of linen, and a common kitchen and living room that guests are entitled to share. One other thing: Hotel Myron Taylor is absolutely free (made possible, in part, by the fact I was paying $34,000 a year in tuition).
The first room we enter is the kitchen, which is quite small and quite Sixties given its aqua cabinetry. As we pass into the living room, June says, "I always warn peopel to keep the windows closed up here because the pigeons come in." (Cue creepy music from The Birds.)
The living room is a truly great space, with high ceilings, cranberry carpet, and teal mouldings. (Okay, so my taste in color schemes was a little off back then.) There's a black baby grand piano (impromptu concerts have been known to happen, according to June), an impressive antique desk, and several comfy couches and faux Louis Quinze chairs. The dining table seats eight, there is a fireplace in one corner (functional, but never used), and over the fireplace hangs a portrait of an august male personage whose name seems to be lost to Cornell posterity (it's definitely not Myron Taylor or Ezra Cornell). The best thing about the room is its 270-degree view of campus, Cayuga Lake, and the town of Ithaca.
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| Approximate view from the Tower's seventh floor. |
Suddenly it becomes clear to me why Professor Robert Kent waxed poetic one day last December in Aladdin's (a local restaurant at the time--since I've never been back to Ithaca, I don't know whether it still exists) about the days when law school luncheons were held in the Tower rather than in the Berger Atrium. Compared to the Tower's gemütlich ambience and expansive views, the atrium is a claustrophobic mausoleum. (Actually, the Berger Atrium is a claustrophobic mausoleum no matter what you compare it to.) I ask June why law school events are no longer held in the Tower, and without missing a beat, she hands me a copy of the 1989 letter from the New York State Uniform Code people that put an end to the fun.
| Myron Taylor Hall's delightful Berger Atrium, modeled after a federal prison yard somewhere in the Ozark Mountains. |
It seems no fire truck in Ithaca has a ladder long enough to rescue the potential victims of this potential eight-story inferno. (As you know, rock and brick are prone to spontaneous combustion) As a result, the total occupancy of this massive room--which could easily accomodate fifty people--is now limited to six. (Dean Osgood, if you're reading this, it might be worth a hundred grand to buy a used fire truck with a long ladder and park it out back. Dean Siliciano could man it, if necessary.) (Dean Siliciano was a volunteer fireman, hee-hee.)
"Watch your step," June tells me, as we make our way down a narrow staircase to the sixth floor, home to two combination bed/sitting rooms and a shared bath. June knocks politely on the door of 6 West, and Hildegard Straus (wife of Josef Straus), invites us in. This is a large room, with two twin beds covered in floral bedspreads, a built-in desk with a large mirror, a sitting area with two comfortable-looking chairs, a TV, and for whatever reason, closet space sufficient for Imelda Marcos. (Readers in 1998 would have known that Imelda Marcos, wife of former Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, had a penchant for stockpiling thousands of pairs of pricey designer shoes.)
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| Imelda Marcos shows off part of her shoe collection. |
Professor and Mrs. Straus (I don't remember now if they were German, Swiss, or Austrian, but they were European) have been coming to Cornell for a six-week preiod every two years since 1989, and with one ill-fated exception involving a bad Ithaca landlord (in other words, a normal Ithaca landlord) they have stayed in the Tower. I ask Mrs. Straus how she finds the conditions. "Very comfortable," she says in her euphonious German accent. "We are very thankful to stay here." The only inconveniences she notes are the shared bathroom and the late-night door-slamming of some of the other Tower tenants. "Maybe they're all young people," she says. (Or just rude old people.)
Because 6 East is the mirror image of 6 West, with slightly different furniture, we will forego its description and move on to the shared bathroom, which suffers from an identity crisis. Is this the bathroom of a pseudo-hotel...or is it a locker room? As you walk in, you are immediately greeted by those cold steel partitions found in institutional bathrooms across the world. But here the walls are painted pale pink, and when you open the first gray metal door, you're greeted by a homey wooden vanity next to an institutional toilet. The shower, behind its own gray metal door, is covered in pinkish tile.
| Ithaca...or Transylvania? The Tower in winter (i.e., every month other than July). |
Next we go downstairs to 5 East, which is June's favorite room. It's more inviting than the previous rooms, with warm ivory walls, antiques, and a walk-in closet. Next door is 5 West, or the "Blue Room," the star of which is an antique cherry secretaire. We sit down for a few moments on the blue couch to finish our interview. "The Tower is not the Ritz," says June, "but it is unique. Some guests stay here, then move to the Statler (Ithaca's premier hotel at the time), and then request to come back here."
Finally, we descend to the Tower's fourth floor, which is dedicated to the law school's computer department. I can thoroughly describe this place in seven words: post-it notes and random computer components...everywhere. There are also two xerox (wow, I haven't used that word for awhile) portraits of department director Elmer Masters on one wall. The first, labeled "Pre-CLS," (CLS = Cornell Law School) is normal; the second, "Post-CLS," has horns and fangs. (Speaking of Transylvania....)
We take the elevator back to the third floor--the official starting point of the Tower--and stick our heads into the Alumni Office, where I bid June a very fond and thankful adieu. Then I go straight to the Facilities Office to see about getting access to the eighth-floor observation deck. "Promise me you won't jump," says the person (who shall remain anonymous) who grants me permission. Another guide is appointed to accompany me, and we're off.
As we step out onto the eighth floor--which is open to the elements--the wind nearly blows my ratty red hat off. "They need a picnic table up here," says my guide. I agree. This would be a great place to eat lunch. (Except for the fact that Ithaca is covered in snow from mid-August to mid-May. I guess people could eat up there, al fresco, in snow suits. It could be an après-ski kind of thing.)
| April comes to Myron Taylor Hall: spring blossoms look best against a backdrop of snow and gray skies. |
I peer over the edge of the stone balcony and get dizzy. The students spread out on the benches of the courtyard below look like ants. Suddenly one of the ants starts waving its hands and yelling my name. It's first-year law student Zoe Bikos, wondering what I'm doing up here.
As I follow my guide back to the elevator, I reflect on the melancholy fact that so few people are currently permitted to experience the pleasures of the Tower. I vow that someday, when I'm a big shot in my corner office, I'll make a donation to Cornell Law School: the Todd Morrill Memorial Fire Truck. (Uh, since the corner office thing hasn't happened--yet--I guess that vow is on hold.)
| “Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate!” (from Dante's Inferno) |
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