John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
The January wind whipping across Westminster College’s campus in 1980 was bitter enough to make any high school senior question their life choices. My buddy Carl and I had driven two and a half hours through the dead of winter to visit the small liberal arts college – him seriously considering it for fall admission, me just along for the adventure. Neither of us knew then that we’d both end up somewhere completely different or that 40 years later, the biggest factor in college choice would shift from academic fit to avoiding crushing debt.
Carl and I were an odd pair of college tourists that winter. He was earnestly exploring several private colleges, including Westminster and the College of Wooster, where his brother Mark was already enrolled. I, on the other hand, had pretty much settled on Ohio University, tagging along more for the road trip than any serious college shopping.
Our different approaches to college selection reflected more than just personal preference. Carl was dead-set on the idea that small liberal arts colleges gave you a better education than big state schools – a belief I’m pretty sure his parents drilled into him. I wasn’t sold on that idea (still aren’t, to be honest), but I didn’t see much point in arguing about it. Whenever it came up, I’d just shrug and say, “Well, state school is what my family can afford.” Carl, being a good friend who understood our different financial situations, would always let it drop.
Westminster’s campus had that small-college charm going for it, nestled in New Wilmington, Pa., just a few miles over the Ohio border from Youngstown. The staff pulled out all the stops for us prospective students. We got the deluxe tour package, including a behind-the-scenes look at their radio station – which particularly excited me as a future radio-television communications major. They even showed us what passed for nightlife on campus, though being in a “dry” county limited those options considerably. The full experience included an overnight in a real dorm room, complete with scratchy sheets and mysterious stains on the carpet.
The next morning’s meeting with the dean of students threw me a curveball I hadn’t seen coming. Turns out they weren’t just interested in Carl; they wanted me, too. While my grades weren’t exceptional, I had managed to squeak into the top 10 percent of my class and had padded my application with enough extracurriculars to look impressive on paper. Plus, I could clean up nice when needed. We left his office with firm handshakes and a sincere invitation to join Westminster’s class of ’84. Carl applied and was accepted a few weeks later, but I stuck with Ohio University.
Life has a way of laughing at teenage plans, though. Neither of us ended up graduating from our chosen schools. Carl transferred to Ohio Northern after his freshman year, and I jumped to Bowling Green a year later. In one of life’s little ironies, we ended up at schools barely 30 minutes apart, yet somehow never managed to visit each other’s campus. Go figure.
These days, I find myself spending time at Davidson College, which I’ve adopted as my “pseudo mater.” There’s this rule (I totally made up) that if your actual alma mater is more than 500 miles away, you get to claim a local school to root for. Davidson’s only 15 minutes from where I live now, and it’s one of the priciest colleges in the country, running about $50,000 a year. Walking those manicured grounds, watching students hurry between classes, I can’t help but think about how different things are now compared to my college days.
That difference becomes stark when I consider the current student loan forgiveness debate. My entire first year at Ohio University – room, food, tuition, books, everything – ran about $3,000. That wasn’t pocket change in 1980, but a working-class family could manage it with careful budgeting. Today, that amount would barely cover textbooks for a semester at many schools.
Yet I find myself troubled by one aspect of loan forgiveness: What about the students who made financially prudent choices? The ones who had the grades for prestigious schools but chose more affordable options? If I were one of those students who passed up their dream school to avoid massive debt, I’d be pretty frustrated seeing others get their six-figure loans erased.
Looking back from 2025, that frigid January day at Westminster feels like a visit to a different world – one where college choices hinged more on fit than finances, where a working-class kid with decent grades had many educational options, and where student debt didn’t threaten to become a lifetime burden. Maybe instead of debating loan forgiveness we should be asking why college costs shot through the roof in the first place. But hey, what do I know? I’m just a guy who got lucky enough to go to school when it didn’t cost an arm and a leg.