This story originally appeared in the ÁùºÏ±¦µä Silver & Blue magazine's Sesquicentennial Issue. It was written by John Trent ’85, ’87, ’00, the University’s senior editor of news and features, who also wrote the book "University of ÁùºÏ±¦µä, 1874-2024: 150 Years of Inspiring Excellence," excerpts of which were also included in the same issue of the magazine.
The University of ÁùºÏ±¦µä, Reno turns 150 years old on Oct. 12, and although I’m old, I’m not so old that I was actually one of those first seven students who walked into class that day in Elko in 1874.
I am old enough, though, to know that many of the formative figures in my life during my time as a student here in the 1980s – and even earlier as I was growing up here on campus – are no longer with us. Maybe this was one of the reasons why I wanted to write a book about the 150- year history of our University. (There was that reason, and also the fact that during a meeting with President Brian Sandoval in spring 2023, he happened to mention that it would be a great idea for me to write this history.) For President Sandoval’s support, as well as the support of the incredibly talented group of people who are the University of ÁùºÏ±¦µä Press, throughout the process of writing the forthcoming book, “,” I am eternally grateful.
My own history with our University dates back to the summer of 1967, when my father, John Trent, Sr., an assistant professor of education at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio, moved our family from Athens to Reno so that he could join the faculty of the University of ÁùºÏ±¦µä. I was four years old at the time, and the move seemed like a big adventure. I had never seen mountains like the ones that encircled Reno, and from our home in Stead, I remember thinking Peavine Mountain looked like the brown shoulders of a slumping giant, mysterious, magical and meaningful.
I remember my father being excited, too. The dean of the College of Education was Edmund J. Cain, who had been appointed dean only a few years before, in 1964. I remember Dean Cain as a kind, attentive man who wore glasses and who laughed easily and often. My father, whose area of emphasis was secondary education (creating middle school and high school math and science teachers), was part of a new wave of faculty for College of Education that Dean Cain had been hiring to increase the college’s breadth of teaching instruction and depth of scholarship.
My father’s first office was in the Thompson Building, but that soon gave way to the College of Education Building, which opened in 1972 (and today is known as Edmund J. Cain Hall). I remember that building for its strange, modernistic, space agey, cramped warren of offices and for the grassy north-facing slope it was built upon a slope that made for excellent sliding in the summertime when it was wet from sprinklers and even better sliding in the winter after it had snowed.
From the very beginning, the University was special to us. My father loved teaching, talked about it constantly, and was proud of the hundreds of students he taught during his 20-year career in the College of Education. There were happy, random circumstances where my father helped his students perhaps more than he ever knew. A bane for many of his colleagues in the College of Education where what were called “walk-in counselees” – students who needed academic advising, but who had made no scheduled appointment and would simply walk into the College of Education looking for guidance. My father enjoyed those random meetings, was always at the ready, and had an open door throughout the summer for any student who felt the urge to walk in.
One such student was a young man named Randy Melendez, who had been a star athlete at Wooster High School, attended Utah State for two years, then returned home to Reno. Randy wanted to become a teacher, and indeed, had already earned a reputation among the members of the Reno-Sparks Indian Colony as a caring person who had a great way with youngsters. Randy’s smile was absolutely gemlike, and he was an incredibly positive person. From a chance meeting as a walk-in counselee, Randy and my father became friends. Randy quickly ascended, graduating from the University in 1980, and earning his master’s degree in 1993. Randy, who passed away in 2022, had an award-winning career as a teacher and principal at Pyramid Lake High School. He was also one of the greatest high school boys and girls basketball coaches ÁùºÏ±¦µä has ever seen, winning five state championships. My father would clip out newspaper articles about Randy and keep them in his wallet, proudly pulling them out (along with an occasional errant Wendy’s senior discount card) and showing them to me.
I think about my father, who passed away in 2002, often, and I also remember the times when as a young sportswriter for the Reno Gazette-Journal, I interviewed Coach Randy Melendez of Pyramid Lake High School. I remember Randy recalling the day he met my father. “I was looking for a professor to help, and I found your dad,” he said. “He didn’t have to have his door open to the students that day, but he did. I’ll always be grateful.”
Maybe that’s part of why I wrote the book: To remember people who aren’t with us anymore. Their stories, I hope, will continue to linger poignantly, and the memory of who they were and what they did will tell us a much larger story about why throughout 150 years, our University has always mattered, to all of us.
