Reunion 2003 A Weekend To Remember Carleton College's class of 1953 remembers its roots

By Hal Higdon

During our 50th reunion, President Rob Oden seemed to be everywhere. He missed the Bird Walk Friday morning--but not much else. At one point when our schedules intersected, I asked President Oden how many speeches he would deliver during reunion weekend.

"Nineteen," he confessed.

Reflecting on my own busy schedule, it seemed I heard a half dozen of those speeches, beginning with the welcome Rob gave our class Planning Committee on Thursday afternoon to his address Saturday morning at Convocation during which we presented the college with $6,801,342 as class gift. The class of 1953 also set records for participation at a 50th reunion (105 individuals: 43.3 percent) and gift participation for a 50th class (63 percent). Most of the other five-year classes attending had similarly high figures.

"That is off the charts," said President Oden. At one of his previous colleges en route to being named Carleton's tenth president, the staff had been so excited at increasing gift participation to even 40 percent, they gave a three-day party, he claimed.

The Gould Legend

Reception with President Oden.

"Carleton will always be a part of you, and you will always be a part of Carleton" is the quote by Laurence McKinley Gould that we hear so often. Wearing a Gould-like red tie at Convocation, President Oden referred frequently to the man who served as president during our stay on campus, specifically his legendary ability to control the weather. Those of us who graduated in 1953, however, deny that legend, recalling that Graduation was moved indoors because rain the day before turned the Bald Spot into mush. Roberta Skelton remembers rain starting to fall as her point in the procession approached the chapel: "We broke ranks and ran for the door to stay dry."

"After I arrived on campus last year, staff and alumni often asked whether I would be able to match Dr. Gould in his ability to control weather," stated President Oden. "At first, I denied any such ability. But after enough people asked, I decided this might be a requirement for being president at Carleton. So I now do temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction--and I'm working on cloud cover."

The line got a laugh, but while President Oden's skill at climate control has yet to be fully tested, certainly nobody had to open an umbrella at Reunion 2003. Daytime temperatures from Thursday through Sunday were in the 80s, nighttime temperatures somewhat cooler. No rain, and if there was a cloud in the sky, I missed it. Rob's job seems secure.

In fact, when Sue Sparling Grieff led us on a Bird Walk through the Cowling Arboretum, even the mosquitoes stayed away. After a Thursday night dinner speech by retired Chicago Tribune theater critic Richard Christiansen that proved both short and insightful, several dozen of us arose early on a Friday morning to follow Sue on trails through the Lower Arb and along the Cannon River. We paused frequently to regard geese, blue heron, chimney swifts and tree swallows through our binoculars. We heard a pileated woodpecker banging away and a red-eyed vireo signing--but failed to see them. Most of us were talking so much to each other, renewing old acquaintances, that we probably scared away many of the birds before we got within viewing distance.

And although there were lectures Friday and Saturday afternoons on everything from the court system in Alaska (Chuck Cranston) to strategy in the nuclear age (David McGarvey), the most popular attraction was talk. Talk with roommates. Talk with guys and gals we might have dated. Talk with classmates we barely knew and wished now we had known better. Am I the only one who now wishes he had kept a diary of his four years on campus?

Squinting at Nametags

Our four years may not have been happy for all. Several classmates confessed to me that they had struggled during their time on campus (or in one instance, even had been asked to leave). Not all of us were popular. Not all of us achieved success in life. (One classmate, now deceased, even went to prison.) Still, once the weekend began and everyone began greeting each other, squinting at nametags (thankful for their large letters), angst vanished. "It was a blast!" said George McGill, who admitted he almost had skipped the party.

Friday at dinner, John Nutting led a remembrance for the deceased. Sadly, one classmate, whom I had tried to recruit during a telephone campaign last fall, died only a few days before the weekend. My freshman roommate died several decades ago. Gone are other friends, close and distant. We are at an age when bad things sometimes happen. I regretted that another roommate and a former girlfriend stayed home. Each had good reasons, but will I get a chance to see them again?

Sometimes, it is best to live in the present rather than in the past or future. Following the evening's activities that included the opening of an alumni art exhibit, my wife Rose and I retired to our room on the top floor of Watson Hall. Because I had registered online early, I was able to get a room facing Lyman Lakes. We watched the fireworks from our beds before falling asleep. One of the perks of being an alumnus staying on campus is that you don't have to leave after kissing your best girl goodnight.

Saturday in the Arb

Saturday morning, I was up early to do what I do best: run. A dozen of my classmates and a handful of alumni from other years plus President Oden also appeared in a run/walk billed as "Saturday in the Arb with Rob and Hal." I designed the race T-shirt that featured a variation of the famous Georges Seurat painting, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.

While we all respected Laurence McKinley Gould for being second in command of Admiral Byrd's 1928 South Pole expedition, I take particular pride in the fact that Carleton's new and current president is a runner. His first day on campus last summer, Rob ran 16 miles. "I got lost," Rob confessed to me.

"Rob," I told him. "You're the one we've chosen to lead the college through the millennium. You can't get lost!"

The 5-K started and finished in front of Northfield's Middle School. After four or five blocks through residential streets, we ducked into the woods: a narrow trail, uneven, rolling, reminiscent of many happy cross-country runs a half century ago. Every so often I caught a glimpse ahead of Lou McMurray, my sophomore roommate. Throughout our years in college together, I was the better runner, but during a workout on the track two days earlier, Lou seemed now to have the edge. Nevertheless, in the second mile of the race I found myself narrowing the gap between us. Crossing a grassy field, I pulled even, then ahead, but finally decided it would be more fun to finish together. We crossed the line holding hands overhead, barely in front of Chuck Howard's wife, Anita, a power walker!

Behind were other classmates, some of them in their first organized race. "We had a wonderful walk," said Jean O'Connor Fuller, a horsewoman during our college years, who crossed the line with my wife and her husband: Jeano headed immediately for the table where they were passing out bananas. Obviously, she had her priorities correct.

Tams and Hats

Rob finished before us and rushed off to dress for the Alumni Convocation later that morning. The next time we saw him was during the procession. By then our class had donned red tams, similar to the one sported by Dr. Gould on the cover of the book he wrote about Byrd's Antarctic expedition, Cold. The purpose of the Convocation was to give awards to distinguished alumni, which included Mary Balzer Buskirk, Hollis Caswell, Harold Klepfer and David Sipfle from our class. I walked into the chapel with Mary, a fellow art major, and told her how much I enjoyed the slide show she gave the day before featuring her weavings, several of them commissioned by corporations, including IBM. Since I have a sister-in-law whose husband once worked for IBM in Poughkeepsie, New York, I wondered if I could view her weavings the next time I visited that town. Alas, with the downturn in IBM's fortunes, many of its offices have closed, and Mary, sadly, doesn't know where many of her weavings now hang.

"Don't worry, Mary," I consoled her. "Two hundred years from now, some archeologist will discover them in an underground vault, and your work will wind up in the British Museum, just like the Elgin Marbles."

Although the class of 1953's gift was significantly higher than that of the class of 1978's 25th reunion gift, and our tams trendier than their floppy hats, that class upstaged us by presenting their gift to President Oden in a piñata, offering him a bat to break it open. It took Rob three swings. "Next time, they should offer him a cork bat," commented one classmate. During Convocation, our class stood to sing a second verse to the Alma Mater written by Norman Johnson. An additional gift to future students was a wooden bench positioned in front of Scoville Hall, the library during our stay on campus. And, yes, I did take time to sit on it briefly.

Dead Right

Another luncheon, more lectures, a quick nap. Because the 50th reunion class is the wheel that receives the most grease, Saturday evening we headed to Nutting House, the traditional home of Carleton presidents for a reception on the lawn with Rob and his wife Teresa. Rob's luck with the weather held. He told a story about meeting with a group of students soon after arrival in Northfield and asking them to identify the finest place to live on campus. Not too surprisingly, most suggested the new town houses located near Davis Hall, where males lived our freshman year.

One student, however, raised her hand and said: "I suspect the finest place to live is Nutting House."

Rob's comment: "How perfectly Carleton: interesting, unexpected, creative, smart--and dead right!"

Knights entertain at Haywood luncheon.

We moved to Great Hall, still undergoing remodeling. While attending a luncheon there for Haywood Society members, I noticed masking tape on the ceiling designs, but that hardly impeded our enjoyment. During planning committee meetings, considerable debate focused on what to wear for various events, particularly Saturday night's "red tie" dinner. Some people resisted anything that smacked of a dress code. I told several women on the committee. "Don't tell me you didn't sit around in Nourse, Gridley or Evans on Saturday afternoons worrying what your friends and everyone else would wear that night."

Most important, I felt, was communication. Because I was keynote speaker and in keeping with my persona as Larry the Penguin, I warned everyone in advance I planned to rent a tuxedo--although I certainly didn't expect everyone else to do the same. Nevertheless, I noticed that most classmates did dress up: males with red ties, females with red scarves. Rose wore a long, red gown. Before my speech, I asked all the spouses of those on the Planning Committee to stand and take a bow. Our committee had been working together three years, almost as much time as we had spent together on campus a half century ago. All that for a three-day reunion!

Last Dance

The title of my speech was Carleton Taught Me To Think, during which I crammed fifty years of world and personal history into thirty minutes. I did this mainly so I could get to the dance floor. How many pleasant memories are centered on Saturday-night dances in Sayles-Hill, ending with the classic Ellington tune, In My Solitude, then a quick walk across campus ending with a kiss--although sometimes that kiss was delivered standing in a snowdrift.

Nancy Hoel Thorp's husband Ralph had located a Big Band of older musicians that played music from the era before rock 'n' roll: Glenn Miller's String of Pearls. Benny Goodman's Sing, Sing, Sing. Shearing's Lullaby of Birdland. My first date with Rose had been to a George Shearing concert on the campus of the University of Chicago, when I was in graduate school. It was late. We were tired. It seemed fitting to end the night with that.

But Nancy wouldn't let us leave! "They're going to play In My Solitude," she insisted.

In my solitude you haunt me
With reveries of days gone by
In my solitude you taunt me
With memories that never die

And so we danced one last dance.

The reunion was not yet over. Sunday morning we honored Dick and Jane (Larson) Scott, who at previous reunions had hosted us at their Northfield home. We breakfasted this time at the Nourse Tent, because the Scott house could not accommodate the large numbers at our 50th reunion. Dick joked: "Five years from now, we'll have you back at our home." Funny remark, but underneath lay the darker reality that five years from now, so many of us will not be back.

I had planned to attend the Alumni Remembrance Ceremony at the Chapel, but somehow possessed neither the strength nor the will to do so. We packed and loaded bags in our car, noticing that classmates seemed to be moving around each other so they wouldn't have to offer a third or fourth good-bye, then offer a fifth or sixth before driving off. I claimed several old-time photos that had been displayed in the lounge. We thanked the students who had provided transportation and guidance during our stay on campus. (Did we ever look that young?)

Driving out of town, we passed the sign identifying Northfield as the land of "cows, colleges, contentment." Almost immediately, a raindrop hit our windshield. Then another drop. It began to rain. That afternoon, as we visited our daughter in the Twin Cities, there were tornado warnings.

I visualized President Rob Oden, his nineteenth speech completed, relaxing on a sofa in Nutting House, thinking: Maybe I can control the weather!

Hal Higdon lives in Long Beach, Indiana. During the period leading up to the 50th reunion, he managed the class website. More of Hal's writing can be found on his own popular website: www.halhigdon.com. He can be contacted by email at halhigdon@comcast.net.

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