About 50 years ago, Readers’ Digest used to run a continuing column about “My Most Unforgettable Character,” written by a person who knew the unique individual. After teaching at NWOSU for roughly 40 years, I’ve gotten to know a number of people who would qualify for inclusion in the unforgettable category, but one in particular comes to mind.

As a first-time teacher at the university, I met Joseph Duane Budney in the fall semester of 1966. (He preferred “Joe” or “Budney”). At the time, he had finished his enlistment in the Air Force, and enrolled in the class. The class was Intro to Business, and had 42 semi-enthusiastic students scheduled to take it.

For this first class, I had prepared five legal sheets of notes, front and back, along with five pretty good “filler jokes” for any time the class lecture/conversation lagged. The class was fifty minutes long, and after reviewing my notes a couple of times, I felt I was ready.

While taking roll for the class, I discovered it had two persons named Terry Lynn Campbell in it, and spelled their names identically. I became nervous trying to figure out how to distinguish between the two of them, and in the process, the class as a whole became VERY quiet, and did not react to any of my rhetorical questions or laugh at any of the rehearsed jokes. I.e., interactive dialogue among myself and class members became firmly pegged at zero.

As a result, after taking roll, the five pages of notes began passing much faster than the clock, and the room sounded more like an echo chamber than a room filled with students. As a consequence, I began to adlib some comments about the situation. One male student near the back of the room began to smile in a friendly fashion, and the class period ended with no serious damage done to any of its participants.

After the class period ended, Joe worked his way to the front, and said he enjoyed the way I worked humor into the subject matter. A compliment! And I thought to myself, “I might be able to do this for a living after all.”

Joe then stunned me. “I’m new here from the Chicago and South Bend, Indiana, area, and I’ve got to go downtown for a job interview. Would you like to come with me and get a Coke afterwards? I’ve got my car across the street.” (For the information of you under age-60 types, soft drinks any kind in the 1960s of were generally called Cokes, while a “soda” was a sweet drink composed of a fruit flavored syrup, carbonated water, and ice cream served with a smile and a spoon.)

As a newly minted instructor, I thought that in the near future, I was going to need all the student friends I could possibly make, and quickly responded “If we can make it quick, sure thing Joe.” Thereupon we headed for Joe’s car.

I had never previously known that the term “car” could be relative. We approached what I initially thought was an aging dark faded blue Chevy Malibu convertible in the parking lot that had been wrecked. It was cleared of dirt and grime, but its paint had seen much better days, and it had a haggard fabric top that had several tears patched with tape over its well-worn surface.

Joe matter-of-factly walked up to the car, and yanked on the driver’s side door several times, before it finally screeched open loudly as it was pulled away from the car’s body. Joe then said, “The door handle on your side is missing. I’ll have to slide over and open the door from the inside.” He thereupon reached in and got hold of a vice-grips device which he used to open the passenger’s door.

I hesitated as I got my first glance at the inside of Joe’s car. The back seat had a stack of clothing, text books, and miscellaneous school supplies scattered across it. And the guts of the car’s heater had been piled in the middle of the bench style front seat, where Joe could use a set of pliers to adjust the car’s interior temperature. Of course the heater’s complete removal had left a cavernous hole in his dashboard.

As I lifted my feet into the car, my left foot caught on the passenger side floorboard, and I noticed a four inch by eight inch hole in said floorboard. Joe’s passenger thereby had a nifty unimpeded view of the pavement as it passed beneath the car. Joe merely commented, “I’ve got to fix that hole one of these days.”

But to my knowledge, he never did effect repairs to the hole in the floorboard, other than occasionally placing a towel over it. Future rides in Joe’s car alerted me to the added danger of hitting puddles at highway speeds on rainy days.

But what struck me as most unbelievable was the fact that Joe had driven the car in its present condition all the way from Chicago to Alva! Be that as it may, our immediate concern was that Joe needed a job. And thus after the car’s motor coughed and wheezed to life, we headed for the downtown square of Alva.

(Next time, Joe Budney’s memorable job interview)