By the time I entered my Sophomore and Junior years at Iowa State, I was no longer the nervous freshman who had driven away from New Lisbon wondering whether he belonged. College had become home, and I was finally beginning to discover that earning an engineering degree was only part of the education I was receiving.
When people talk about college, they usually focus on the same things: the late-night studying, the endless tests, the professors with impossible standards, and the scramble to register for the right classes before everything fills up. And all of that was certainly part of my four years at Iowa State University. In fact, those early years—the freshman and sophomore stretch—felt like a long hallway of syllabi, homework, and trying not to look completely overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. For a small-town kid from New Lisbon, stepping onto campus in Ames felt like entering another world entirely. I spent much of those first two years simply trying to keep up.
But there’s a second kind of education that happens during college, the sort you can’t put on a transcript. It’s discovering friendships, learning how to navigate the world outside the safety of your hometown, figuring out your personality when no one is supervising you anymore—and yes, discovering how to have fun without completely derailing your future. That second kind of learning didn’t come easily at first. But by the time my junior and senior years rolled around, something clicked. I found my groove, my people, and a whole new kind of experience that made college feel like more than just classrooms and chalkboards.
And nothing symbolizes that era for me more than the parties we had on Cessna, our dorm floor—a place that could transform in an instant from a quiet hallway of college kids to a mini-community with its own traditions, favorite music, inside jokes, and legendary nights.
Looking back, I can clearly divide my college years into two halves. The first half? I was just trying to survive. I was figuring out where everything was—Larch Hall, the dining halls, the labyrinth of sidewalks that all looked identical at 7:50 a.m. on the way to an 8:00 class. I was the guy who wanted to do well, didn’t want to get behind, didn’t quite know how to have a social life yet, and felt a little intimidated by the sheer size and energy of Iowa State.
Everything changed around junior year. Some combination of confidence, familiarity, and a growing circle of friends transformed the entire experience. Suddenly college wasn’t just school—it was life. My days were built around classes and labs, but my nights started to feel like my own. Our floor developed a personality, a heartbeat, and a sense of belonging that made even the most stressful week feel bearable.
And sometimes the center of all that energy—especially on the weekends—was the Cessna floor parties.
Every dorm floor has its quirks, its characters, and its routines. But Cessna felt like a small village. You always knew who was in their room studying, who was on the phone (back when phones still had cords), who was napping, and who was ready to stir up something fun.
At the center of the floor was the den, our version of a communal living room. It wasn’t much by today’s standards—some worn-in chairs, a table or two, and just enough space to gather a crowd to watch the latest episode of M*A*S*H, Muppets, or WKRP in Cincinnati. But on party nights, with the music cranked up, people packed shoulder to shoulder, and conversations competing with laughter, that little den pulsed with the kind of energy that made it feel twice its size.
And just outside the den was this little common area between the elevators—a small square that was never designed for socializing but somehow became one of the best mingling spots on campus. People gathered there with drinks in hand, laughing, telling stories, checking who had just stepped off the elevator, and deciding whether the night would be a den party, a room party, or a quick trip to one of the bars in town.
The hallways themselves—usually just a path from point A to point B—became overflow space. Since the communal restrooms were located off the hallways, there was always a steady stream of people coming and going. On the bigger weekend nights, you'd see people leaning against the walls, sitting on the floor, giving each other updates from class or life, catching their breath from the dancing inside the den, or simply soaking in the atmosphere.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t fancy. But it was ours.
And then there was our room. Room 4069.
Phil and I stumbled into becoming “a thing” on the floor, party-wise. We didn’t plan it. We didn’t brand it. There was no sign-up sheet or rotating schedule. But over time, our room developed a reputation.
We threw good parties. Correction. Great parties.
Maybe it was the way we arranged the room so you could squeeze in more people than seemed physically possible. Maybe it was the playlist we always had going. Maybe it was the JBL speakers. Maybe it was the Little King ale beers "smuggled" in from Cincinnati. Maybe it was just timing. But whatever the reason, our room became a magnet on party nights. People from the den would migrate into our room, and people from our room would spill into the hallway, and before long you couldn’t tell where the party officially was anymore—because it was everywhere.
Those nights were full of energy—music blasting, the floor vibrating, laughter bouncing off the walls, and the constant buzz of people popping in to see what was happening. If you didn’t know better, you’d think our room was the center of campus social life. And in our little corner of Ames, for those couple of years, maybe it was.
But no memory of those years is complete without talking about Thumper.
Thumper wasn’t just a drinking game. It was a spectacle. It was interactive theater, a comedy show, a social experiment, and a rite of passage all in one. The setup was simple: everyone sat around a table, each person with their own “sign.” You could choose anything—something silly, something clever, or something just questionable enough to get the whole table roaring. Since this is a PG article, we’ll just say the signs were… inventive.
The rest of the game relied on rhythm. Everyone thumped the table—hands pounding, building energy, setting a beat.
"What's the name of the game?"
"Thumper"
"How do you play it?"
"Signs"
"What kind of signs?"
"Dirty Signs"
Then someone would flash their sign, followed by the sign of another player. That player would then flash their sign and the sign of another player. And so on and on it went. Chaos, laughter, and a flurry of hand gestures would break out as people tried to keep up.
The moment you messed up? That’s when the real laughter began. And you took a drink and led the next cycle.
And here’s what made Thumper more than just a silly game. It had a gravitational pull. People heard the pounding from down the hall and suddenly wanted to know what was going on. More and more students crowded around our doorway—peeking in, trying to get a glimpse of the ridiculous signs, cheering when someone nailed a sequence, groaning when someone broke the rhythm. Sometimes we had so many people watching that it felt like the entire floor had crammed into our little space.
The table thumped so loudly I’m surprised campus security didn’t wander up the stairs to check on us. But in those pre-social media, pre-smartphone days, it was just good, clean (okay, clean-ish) fun. Nothing recorded. Nothing posted. Just memories preserved in the minds of everyone who was there. I certainly have a couple of memories:
Memory #1. I was in control of the playlist and volume. On one particular night, I was playing Rush's "Moving Pictures". As the night was turning into early morning, I remember "slowly" turning up the volume to match the energy of the room. At one point, I distinctly remember trying to turn the knob clockwise and having it pegged at max volume. How could that be? I was sitting right next to the speakers!!!
Memory #2. Larch Hall also housed the Cyclone basketball team because Hilton Coliseum was right across the street from our dorm. Many a morning you shared an elevator with someone who was 6'11". On this particular night, we were graced by the presence of Ronnie Harris, one of the point guards, joining in on the fun. He had a mission of trying to get Phil's wife-to-be, Beth, to mess up. But Beth was on to him, and it did not happen. In fact, it was Ronnie who ended up having a little too much to drink that night.
No article about finding my groove would be complete without a shout-out to a few of the legendary bars in Ames—and, of course, the fraternities. While Cessna Hall hosted its fair share of unforgettable nights, we didn't spend every weekend confined to the dorm. By junior year, we'd become regulars on Welch Avenue, making the rounds to the places that defined Iowa State's nightlife. These weren't sleek cocktail lounges or trendy brewpubs. They were blue-collar college bars filled with cheap pitchers of beer, sticky floors, neon signs, loud jukeboxes, and the unmistakable feeling that almost anything could happen before last call.
- The Cave-In – If you were hoping to meet sorority girls, this was the place to be. 'Nuf said. It always seemed to have the right mix of music, energy, and people to keep you coming back.
- Grand Daddy's – A lighted dance floor, a spinning disco ball, booming speakers, and a crowd that came to dance. It was impossible to stand still once you walked through the door.
- The Lucky Q – Home to heated foosball battles and one of the greatest college bar traditions. Whenever North to Alaska came on the jukebox, the entire bar would raise their glasses, throw their arms around whoever was standing nearby, and sing every word at the top of their lungs.
- Cy's Roost – Famous for FACs (Friday Afternoon Club), where students gathered after their last class of the week to officially launch the weekend. By late afternoon, the place was already buzzing with laughter, pitchers of beer, and plans for the night ahead.
- The Billboard – It checked every box a college student cared about: close to campus, inexpensive drinks, great music, and a relaxed atmosphere where you were almost guaranteed to run into someone you knew.
- Fraternity Parties – Simply the gold standard of college parties. The fraternities knew how to do it right. Bigger houses, bigger stereos, bigger crowds, and enough resources to create parties that people talked about long after graduation. If you wanted an unforgettable Saturday night, chances were it started at a fraternity house.
These places weren't just bars or party houses—they became landmarks in our college story. Years later, I probably couldn't tell you what I drank on any particular night, but I can still remember the music, the laughter, the friendships, and the feeling that, for a few hours, there was nowhere else in the world we would have rather been.
When I think back on Iowa State, I of course appreciate the education I received. The classes, the math, the labs, the problem-solving—all of it shaped the direction of my life. But the living I learned in college was equally important.
I learned how to build friendships.
How to let go of stress.
How to laugh at myself.
How to be part of a community that wasn’t assigned to me—I chose it, and it chose me. Most of my closest friends are now 40+ year relationships started at ISU.
Those parties in Cessna, those nights in the den, those spontaneous gatherings in our room were the glue that held everything else together during the tough stretches. They were the moments that reminded me that even when life is full of pressure, deadlines, and challenges, it's good to live it up a little.
Then, between my junior and senior years, another opportunity arrived. It was time to leave the classroom behind for a few months and discover what engineering looked like in the real world. An internship with Weyerhaeuser in Tacoma, Washington, would give me my first taste of corporate America and show me how the concepts I had spent three years studying could be applied on a scale I had never imagined. That summer would become one of the most influential experiences of my college years.