The New York Times crossword puzzle, published daily since 1942, is a popular and widely recognized feature of the newspaper. One particular clue in a recent crossword puzzle attracted the attention of many crossword enthusiasts and sports fans alike. The clue read "Collegiate beaver mascot" and had a five-letter answer. The answer to this clue was "Benny". Benny the Beaver is the beloved mascot of Oregon State University, often referred to as "Beavers" or "OSU Beavers". Oregon State University is located in Corvallis, Oregon, and has a long-standing tradition of using the beaver as their official mascot.
As I stirred the mixture together with my own finger, I realized that this concoction was the red "lipstick" she wore every day. I was impressed by her creativity, her magic. But I also felt tricked.
We might believe that the seat of speech without considering ventriloquists and flatulists has no need for the assistance of hand gestures when it comes to expressing emotions and sensations. 38 with fingers spread, to wave one s hand in front of one s mouth as if to fan it A way of indicating that a dish is too hot or too spicy and is burning one s mouth.
Oregon State University is located in Corvallis, Oregon, and has a long-standing tradition of using the beaver as their official mascot. The choice of the beaver as a mascot stems from the animal's importance in the state's history and economy. Beavers played a vital role in the development of Oregon, as they were hunted for their fur during the early days of the fur trade.
Touching lips with the witch
By Katie Bennett
Illustration by Vera Blossom
Gwen swept through the hall of our middle school in a long black cape. She'd flipped up its hood, and the way it framed her pale face made her skin glow royally. She was both Queen and King, stomping commandingly in her knee-high combat boots. She didn't look at any of us, but straight ahead, shoulders set. She wore red lipstick like a woman.
Everyone cleared a path. Boys covered their mouths to muffle their laughing (at least the more polite ones did). I remember pressing my shoulder blades into the wall to get away from her. But my neck jutted out to take a closer look.
The day before she had simply been "Gwen," the large girl in faded Gap jeans and a pale pink T-shirt. Even though she towered over us, we barely noticed her. Her skin blended into the ceiling. Now she was "Gwendolynne," as I'd soon learn through poetry club. The name reminded me of medieval women in long velvet dresses who wore crowns made of bramble. Beautiful women, faces lit by a hearth. But also deeply sad women, dying in childbirth or locked in a tower. History that, if touched, would prick my finger, like Sleeping Beauty. Gwendolynne, a living fairytale in Mullica Hill, New Jersey.
I was 11, a newly-minted middle-schooler. I wore boys’ jeans that my dad bought me in packs of three from Costco and eggplant-colored turtlenecks from L.L. Bean. Yet I wanted to be pretty, like Lizzie McGuire or Liv Tyler. I just didn't know how. I sometimes wore my mom's silver hoop earrings and gold scrunchie. I sometimes applied sparkly pink lip gloss from CVS, even though a minute later I'd accidentally lick my lips and eat the bitter, strawberry-flavored goo. I noticed the older girls, the seventh and eighth graders, in their tight camis, cream-colored like their skin, with a built-in bra that created a shelf out of their small breasts. I noticed the way boys leaned toward them, almost to the point of falling.
Gwendolynne, an eighth grader, was not one of those girls. She wrote in her velvet purple diary while leaning against her metal locker. Her face was stoic, set, yet it would crack open with light as she laughed with her group of girlfriends. Those times I’d smile, too, but then I'd catch myself and hurry down the hallway.
Poetry club met after lunch on Fridays. The teacher who led it wore a gold hoop earring and had colorful Grateful Dead bear tattoos on his forearm, below the sleeve of his rolled-up plaid shirt. We called him "Teacher Chris" (it was a Quaker school, and we addressed all of our teachers by their first names). Teacher Chris let us sit on the tables and listen to our CD players and chat. But we worked, too, because we wanted to, heads bent over our spiral Mead notebooks. For inspiration we’d peek out the window at the nearby Quaker cemetery. We’d watch the leaves fall wetly onto the gravestones.
My friends and I sat at our own table, Gwendolynne and her friends at another. But after a few months the groups melded together, because despite our slight age difference, we were all the same in important ways. Our bodies were larger and more curved than the girls in the tan camis. We were more turned toward each other than toward boys. And we carried diaries rather than purses.
Maybe I asked Gwendolynne about her cape, but one day she told me about her religion, Wicca. "People think it's scary but it's really about nature and plants and stuff." She said Wiccans proudly referred to themselves as "witches," but they didn't ride broomsticks or put curses on people.
Up close I noticed she had little hairs, almost see-through, on her cheeks, and a dot of lipstick on her tooth. Her necklace, a large pointy pentagram, dangled ominously from a black string.
I was more interested in listening to her than I was the pastor of my church, an old man droning on about men named Matthew and Paul and Job. I wanted to sit under the trees at night like Gwendolynne said she did. I wanted to light candles and tell them my dreams.
Her poems were the best in our school. My favorite of hers was "Sonnet #9,832," which opened with the lines: I did not hear the cry of soaring birds/ And yet I felt their presence in my heart. I imagined a little blue bird nestled safely in the pink tissue of her heart. I imagined it singing a private song for her. And this bird is why she didn't crack when boys made fart noises as she walked past, and hardly flinched the time a second grader screamed from fear while looking at her.
I was beginning to gain a reputation as a real poet myself, after Teacher Chris read my poem inspired by The Outsiders at assembly. Gold chips off quickly/ Soon it will all be chipped off and the adult will be fully/ Exposed. After he read that, Gwendolynne was even nicer to me.
One day she invited me over to her house, and I accepted eagerly, honored to be picked. But afterwards, I walked through the hallway and came across Alexa and Charlie. I somehow knew they'd been dating for about a week (even though we didn't talk) and that it was serious. Alexa wore a ribbed white tank top known as a "wife beater," and her jeans were so low-slung that I could see a strip of her bare skin stretching all the way around her midriff, like a peach-colored belt. Charlie shoved her against the water fountain as they made out. My chest ached and my skin itched. Suddenly it was clear to me that I wanted my own heated moment, that I wanted to be ravished and bewitched. And that I would need to show my stomach, or my shoulders through the straps of a tan cami. I’d need to be one of “those” girls.
I yanked at the collar of my turtleneck, ran my hands through my hair, and applied more strawberry lip gloss. I thought of Gwendolynne's invitation, regretfully.
When my mom pulled up in front of Gwendolynne's house, I was disappointed to see that it was a normal development house like mine. I expected a witch to live somewhere old and dark, with a rusted weathervane on the pointed roof and gargoyles leering above the entrances. Her house had tan siding and a tricycle tipped on its side in the grassy front yard.
Inside, Gwendolynne's young twin siblings were screaming and clinging to her mother's hip. Her mother looked just like her, but was wearing a pantsuit post-work and no makeup. And she was larger than Gwendolynne in every way, her long blond hair hanging almost to her butt, her feet making the ground rumble with each step. I thought, anxiously, So this is the woman she will become.
Gwendolynne had prepared an activity. On the kitchen counter sat a jar of Vaseline, a packet of Kool-Aid, two small bowls, and two tiny plastic containers with screw-off lids. She said we were going to make lipstick. With her bare finger she scooped a wad of Vaseline into my bowl, then sprinkled half the Kool-Aid packet on top of it.
As I stirred the mixture together with my own finger, I realized that this concoction was the red "lipstick" she wore every day. I was impressed by her creativity, her magic. But I also felt tricked.
Gwendolynne graduated 8th grade and went on to a Catholic high school. I pictured her in a uniform, her skirt hanging dutifully to her knees, her starched white shirt buttoned to her chin. It made me unbearably sad. I thought of the last lines of "Sonnet #9,832": I stood in awe and sadly watched them leave / And now I only wish they'd taken me.
The next year Teacher Chris said he'd heard from Gwendolynne, and that she was still writing "darn good" poems. I felt the old twinge of jealousy, of healthy competition. I wrote in my diary every night. I wrote ten poems a day, poems about slipping down a tube, plastic jewelry, and hoping for a peaceful end to the war in Iraq.
In high school I wore thick black eyeliner and Doc Martens. I stomped through the halls, thinking of Gwendolynne in her own boots. I told myself I didn’t care if a prep school boy picked me, but I was still crushed when I wasn’t asked to prom.
I prayed for my own blue bird. I thought of Gwendolynne, murmuring to herself by her locker, “like a crazy person.” But I'd always wanted to know what she was saying.
Katie Bennett is a writer and musician from West Philly. She’s a mentor for PEN America’s Prison and Justice Writing Program and she writes a monthly newsletter about personal ghosts, feminist lit, and creative process. You can follow her on Instagram @katiepbennett.
The state's nickname, "The Beaver State", also reflects this historical connection. Benny the Beaver made his first appearance as the university's mascot in 1952. He is depicted as a friendly and energetic beaver, often seen wearing the university's orange and black colors and sporting the OSU logo. Benny is a beloved figure on campus and at sporting events, rallying the crowd and boosting school spirit. In recent years, Benny the Beaver has also gained recognition beyond the boundaries of the university. In 2011, Benny was named one of the top 10 mascots in college football by The Bleacher Report. He has also been featured in national media and has a significant presence on social media platforms. The inclusion of the "Collegiate beaver mascot" clue in The New York Times crossword puzzle highlights the cultural significance and popularity of mascots in college sports. Benny the Beaver's presence in the puzzle not only delighted Oregon State University alumni and fans but also exposed a wider audience to the school's unique mascot and its connection to the state's history. The crossword puzzle clue also demonstrates the importance of pop culture references and current events in constructing crossword puzzles. Editors and constructors of crossword puzzles aim to engage solvers by incorporating clues that encompass a broad range of topics, from history and literature to sports and popular culture. Overall, the "Collegiate beaver mascot" clue featuring Benny the Beaver in The New York Times crossword puzzle served as a reminder of the diverse and intriguing world of mascots and their role in college sports. It not only entertained crossword enthusiasts but also shed light on the rich history and traditions of Oregon State University..
Reviews for "The Power of the Puzzle: How the Collegiate Beaver Mascot Captivated Crossword Enthusiasts"
1. Jessica - 1 out of 5 stars - I found the "Collegiate beaver mascot" crossword puzzle to be incredibly frustrating. The clues were vague and obscure, making it nearly impossible to solve without hints or outside assistance. Additionally, the theme of the puzzle was unclear and did not seem to connect to the title. Overall, I was disappointed with this crossword and would not recommend it to others.
2. John - 2 out of 5 stars - As a crossword enthusiast, I was excited to tackle the "Collegiate beaver mascot" puzzle. However, I was quickly let down by the lack of creativity and overly repetitive clues. It seemed like the author ran out of ideas and resorted to recycling the same types of clues over and over again. The puzzle lacked originality and left me feeling unsatisfied. I hope that future puzzles in the New York Times crossword series will be more engaging.
3. Sarah - 1 out of 5 stars - I couldn't understand the logic behind the "Collegiate beaver mascot" crossword. The clues made no sense and did not lead to the correct answers. It felt like the puzzle was intentionally trying to confuse and frustrate me. I ended up giving up halfway through and just looking up the solutions online. This was a waste of time and definitely not worth the effort.
4. Michael - 2 out of 5 stars - I have been a fan of the New York Times crossword for years, but the "Collegiate beaver mascot" puzzle left me disappointed. The clues were too obscure and relied heavily on niche knowledge or trivia. It felt more like a test of random facts rather than a puzzle that required logical thinking and problem-solving skills. I prefer crosswords that challenge me intellectually and stimulate my mind, but this one fell short.