Setting the Stage for Lawrence’s Northern Campus
In 1978, Joseph Hopfensperger, a recently retired theater professor at Lawrence heard rumors that the University was thinking about selling its northern property, µþÂáö°ù°ì±ô³Ü²Ô»å±ð²Ô. Joe made it his mission to save it. It was his idea to use the land, the lake, and the lodge as a setting for adult seminars during the summer months — a stroke of genius that satisfied those suspicious of µþÂáö°ù°ì±ô³Ü²Ô»å±ð²Ô’s purpose and thrilled others who imagined its hidden promise.
Though Joe was a theater professor, you would never know it by his gruff exterior. All of five feet seven, built like a fire plug, Joe was an ex-navy man — a submariner to be specific — who chain-smoked and wore rimless readers and a pork pie hat. His voice was basso profundo and he spoke with the confidence of a street fighter, though I never heard him utter a foul word. He was polite, a gentleman and a perfectionist. Even prudish. But tough as nails.
I first met Joe when I applied for a summer job at µþÂáö°ù°ì±ô³Ü²Ô»å±ð²Ô in 1980. This was only the second year Joe was in charge of the 400-plus acre property, but the first year he was to hold seminars — two of them, to be exact, one right after the other. The job description was for Lawrence students who wanted to spend the summer in Door County cutting trees for firewood, giving tours of the Boynton Chapel, and serving as wait staff. I liked the Door County part. Sign me up! Other Lawrentians did not feel the same. I believe Joe had six people interview for six positions. He hired us all.
Work was not easy, but Joe didn’t care one way or the other. He believed these things built character and the best way to learn was by doing. The first day on the job, crack of dawn, he handed out leather gloves, hard hats, a batch of chain saws and told us to earn our keep and cut some cords. From there we changed into Scandinavian costumes and gave chapel tours. On odd hours and when required, we turned our attention to housekeeping and serving guests. Occasionally, Joe would invite us up to his lodge and regale us with stories of his friends, his days in the Navy and working in the Lawrence theater department. Joe wasn’t married at the time and never grew tired of proclaiming his favorite song was Living Alone and Loving it. His thyroid challenged dog, Cobber, was forever at his side keeping him company.
But boy did he love his seminar project, and he treated it like a theatre production. Every detail was accounted for. He auditioned chefs. He went through multiple drafts of a weekly menu, curated the guests, recruiting them because this was all brand new and he wanted it so badly to work. Without it, he felt, there was no future for µþÂáö°ù°ì±ô³Ü²Ô»å±ð²Ô. Breakfasts needed to be five-star. Place settings and table arrangements had to be impeccable, Thursday nights would be reserved for beef Wellington, Friday’s would be a traditional Door County fish boil (a skill the staff was required to master).
The experiment worked. The seminars stuck, not so much for the meals (though they helped) but because of the classes, which Joe also curated. It was an inspired idea come to life, and Joe made it work.
The last time I set eyes on Joe was around 2015. He was in his late 80’s by then and slowing down. He had long since retired as µþÂáö°ù°ì±ô³Ü²Ô»å±ð²Ô’s leader. Sitting across the main hall, he waved me over and then beckoned me to lean in closer so he could be heard. Something about µþÂáö°ù°ì±ô³Ü²Ô»å±ð²Ô, maybe? That magical summer way back when the seminars came to life? No. Joe had attended a play reading in Vail Hall the day before and he wanted to know, “Do they really have to say all those four letter words?â€
