1974 Annalist's Letter
“Forever Young”
Dear Members of the Hamilton and Kirkland Nations and Honored Guests:
Hamilton has and will always be a college of traditions. Some, like freshman beanies and Saturday classes, were gone before we arrived. Others that we enjoyed, such as Monday morning Chapel and houseparties, are long gone as well.
However, there are two traditions that have remained and are dear to many alumni: Reunion Weekends and the reading of the Half-Century Class Annalist Letter. I am deeply honored to have been chosen to be the annalist for the Hamilton Class of 1974. This is my second attempt to speak on behalf of Hamilton ’74. I first spoke on Class & Charter Day 1971.
This is also the second time I am speaking formally in the Chapel. The first was on my wedding day some 44 years ago. I was a bit nervous that day, even more than today. My best man, our classmate Marty Kane, took me aside and came up with the following advice. “Meat, don’t screw this up!” Those words have never left me, and I will do my best to follow them this morning.
This letter is dedicated to our classmates who have left this world. Boys, we miss you all and wish you were here today.
But how to start? As an avid student of -Pro-fessor David “Spoolie” Ellis, I shall take a brief detour before I talk about our class.
Why have we returned 50 years after our graduation?
Well Hamilton has always been special to its alumni. In his Class & Charter Day address in May 1956, Professor Robert “Bobo” Rudd, Class of 1909, asked the seniors to imagine being present for their 50th reunion in 2006. What would make them return? Would Hamilton still be there?
Bobo spoke of the three elements he thought were responsible for the continuation of the College: good old-fashioned Presbyterian prayer, trustees who grub money, and sentiment. Now Bobo may have been kidding about the prayers, but I am sure that President David Wippman has, at times, sought at least divine guidance if not divine retribution.
Our trustees, past and present, have never grubbed for money but have thankfully been quite successful in obtaining funds for the College. The College’s endowment when we arrived on campus was about $23 million. Today it is well over a billion.
As to sentiment, Bobo spoke movingly of reunions, of alumni such as himself returning to “look in the grass for the golden dice with which they played in their youth.”
Asa Benedict, annalist for the Class of 1872, though perhaps wrote the best statement regarding Hamilton reunions. “Age slipped away as a garment and youth came back.” My classmates have returned this weekend to celebrate friendships of more than half a century, to remember magnificent professors, and to roam the grounds we trod as boys morphing into men.
I remain bound by the College’s Honor Code and acknowledge the help of many in preparing this address. I owe a large debt to Jeremy Katz, the College archivist, the 150-plus previous annalists, and my many classmates who responded to the reunion survey. However, your memories are suspect. Far too many swore they spent all their time in the library, drank one glass of UC during the four years, and on weekends, rescued kittens from trees. Gentlemen, I hacked into your permanent College records and those tell quite a different tale. For the three of you who honestly responded to the survey, well you’ll soon be sorry you did.
I will speak today of a Hamilton long gone, remembered by many of us present as a warm and welcoming place. But others have different memories. Hamilton College in the 1970s was not particularly welcoming to those who were not white, not straight, and who did not enjoy a social culture based in large part upon drinking. Add to that the stress of a rigorous academic environment and geographic isolation and nearly all of us struggled at times to find our place. This a reminder to us all, that as great as Hamilton is, it can always be better.
Now to paraphrase Pete Townshend, who we, H’74, were. Well, we were not children of the quiet 1950s but rather of the turbulent 1960s. We lived through the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy and Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. We saw American cities from coast to coast burn during civil disturbances. Our hope that Lyndon Johnson’s “Great Society” programs would create real change was extinguished by an ugly, needless war in Vietnam that tore apart our society and made many of us deeply distrustful of government in all forms. In the spring of 1970, students at the Jackson State and Kent State universities were murdered for attempting to exercise their right to protest. Campuses across this country exploded, including the two on this Hill. Classes and exams were cancelled, and College administrators were not certain what the fall would bring.
However, the summer of 1970 was far calmer than past summers. The country seemed to take a rest. As for my classmates, many of us couldn’t wait to start our college experience. The Sterile Cuckoo had been released in the spring of 1970, and the Hamilton College shown in the movie seemed too good to be believed; lots of beer, lots of women, and apparently few classes. The reality, however, was a bit different.
We were not a diverse class as the term is understood today. We were nearly all white, almost all from the Northeast. Mike Bordy was a curiosity; he was from Kansas. About two-thirds of us attended public high schools. The rest were prep school graduates. All of us were privileged and we knew it. We were deferred from the draft because we were college undergraduates.
Unlike today’s first-year students, we were not met by a mob of cheering upperclassmen as we drove up College Hill Road. We got our Dunham keys at Buttrick Hall, were told where to pick up our sheets and towels, and that was it for a greeting. We brought with us portable typewriters and slide rules. A few of us had stereos and massive record collections. Most had a blazer or sport coat and a tie or two. Some of our mothers had thoughtfully packed stationery and stamps so we could write home.
We were strangely overconfident. Weren’t we the best and the brightest? Not really. Sid Bennett had to go to the waiting list to fill our class. Over 30 percent of those who applied were admitted. Many of us had cruised through high school and never had been academically tested. How tough could it be? Perhaps we should have read the course catalogue more carefully.
Our first days were spent taking placement exams and meeting with our advisors to create our class schedules. For most of us the placement exams were easy, and we continued to believe that Hamilton was not going to be that tough. However, there were exceptions. One poor classmate drew Professor Gene “Mean Gene” Lewis as his advisor. The meeting went as follows: “Well you must have really hated German in high school; mathematics is out of the question for you. I can’t urge you strongly enough to take English 11. Good luck, son, you are going to need it.” As our classmate tried to leave the office without collapsing, he received one more bit of information, “Your work study job will be in Commons washing dishes, Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday brunch.” Welcome to Hamilton College. He almost left then and there. Little did he know that would be one of the better days of his first semester.
Almost all of us were housed in Dunham dorm. Dunham was a structure modeled on 1950s Scandinavian medium security prisons. Of course, the Hamilton trustees decided to eliminate the frills. Cinder block walls, bunk beds from World War II barracks, and well-worn desks greeted us. The showers were communal. The outside world was contacted via payphones; one for every 40 freshmen. Little did we know that what a huge role Dunham would play in our Hamilton experience and how many friendships started there.
In Dunham our resident advisors gave us important advice such as, “If you are going to do something stupid, don’t get caught” and “Stuff a wet towel under the door.” There were very few Dunham rules, and some RAs were barely seen. One RA stood out, Tom Vilsack ’72. He was approachable and friendly. He seemed destined for greater things. But with or without our RAs, we figured out how to get along with each other, sometimes rearranging rooms and roommates to make things work.
Nicknames were plentiful in Dunham. Some were benign — “Hoops,” “Shorty,” and “the Old Man;” some more colorful, “Tuna,” “Mental,” “Dancer,” and “Wally Gator.” Others were darker, “Mad Dog” and “Syph.” There was one, of course, much worse.
In our first semester, more lies were told in Dunham than in the rest of the United States combined. Almost all were in one of two categories: how much we drank in high school and our dating prowess. Well, the amount of vomiting in Dunham proved our lack of experience with alcohol, and our awkward attempts to court the Kirkland women proved we were much more like Jerry Payne than Warren Beatty.
There were sounds unique to Dunham as well: the buzz of Frisbees as they were banked off the cinderblock walls and the smack of a tennis ball against the fire doors. One classmate, Brian Buchanan, shouted out his window “Robespierre,” every day at 11 p.m. Why? Who knows.
Music was played every hour of the day, often through speakers as tall as our shortest classmates. But what music: the Stones, the Dead, The Doors, the Airplane, The Who, Led Zeppelin, The Moody Blues, Janis, Jimmy, and some new guy named Elton. Some of us had extensive record collections, and we read album liner notes as carefully as the texts assigned for English 11.
There was one occasion during our freshman year when living in Dunham worked, sort of, to our advantage. Word got out that the UC brewery was having a tasting party in the basement of ELS. The beer was free! Say no more to thirsty and bored freshmen. Well, there was just one problem. The beer being tested was Maximus Super, aka Super Beer. It had a ABV of 9.5%. The beer we drank, UC, maybe hit 4.2% on a good day. So, two Super Beers were the equivalent of five UCs. Within a couple of hours classmates were being dragged back into Dunham and placed in the bathrooms for the inevitable hour of reckoning.
Was this beer-tasting a College-sanctioned affair? Of course not. The brewery just called the ELS social chair asking if ELS wanted to host a party with free beer. No need to bother the dean of students with that. The order of the day on campus was to beg for forgiveness rather than to ask for permission. And we soon became very good beggars.
Second only to dismal Dunham dorm was the weather. No one told us that Clinton had yet to emerge from the Little Ice Age. After a few nice days in September, the rains started, soon replaced by something called “Lake Effect Snow.” Glaciers began to accumulate on top of the red shale paths. Falls were frequent as the paths remained under-sanded and unsalted. After large snowstorms, classmates jumped out of third-floor Dunham windows to combat cabin fever. Eventually it stopped snowing, a day or two before graduation, and beautiful weather graced a deserted campus.
Then there was the food. We had a choice of three dining halls, but most of us ate in Commons. The food was uninspired most nights and occasionally, dreadful. The unfortunate night that Commons served fried liver and semi-thawed frozen perch, a massive food fight ensued. A volley of food flew, much directed at the large portrait of James Soper, a benefactor of Soper Commons. Oh, the humanity! On a handful of occasions, a special menu was presented — “Steak Nights,” so to speak. While better, those nights did not offset the suspect cuisine served the rest of the year.
The first few weeks were a blur as we settled down to attending classes. These classes included, much to our surprise, physical education requirements. We learned we had to find our “carry-over” sports: tennis, ice skating, squash, and golf. Squash was a mystery to many of us; we knew it perhaps as a vegetable but not as a sport. We also had to pass a swim test. None of us drowned but some came close.
As frightening as the swim test was, our first academic exercises were far more horrific. The first papers and tests included bunches of C’s and D’s and a few F’s. Wait, we were the best and the brightest! It turned out we really weren’t that special, and the professors were determined to prove it to us. Notations on our papers and exams included, “Is English your native language?” “Did you read any of the assignments?” and my favorite, “Perhaps you would feel more at home at Mohawk Valley Community College.” Such comments today would result in a campus uprising. But such was our lot as poor freshmen.
Why were we being tormented in this fashion? Well Jim Gibson figured it out some years later. Jim wrote, “We were academic Marines. In boot camp the Marine recruits are reduced to nothing and then built back up. Many of our professors used the same approach as Marine drill instructors.” It was memorable but not fun.
Once we were sophomores, we thought we had it made. While we were lightly supervised during our freshman year, we were on our own when we returned as sophomores. True, if you lived in a fraternity house, the older brothers might try to set an example, sadly usually bad ones. If you lived in a dorm, you were left to your own devices. As Hamilton Beck put it, “We were treated like adults even when we acted like little boys.”
We had to study very hard. Grade inflation was decades away from Hamilton, and we had to put in many hours to earn a C. An A for most of us was like the Holy Grail for the Knights of the Round Table; an object of worship but seldom seen by mortal men. The rigorous grading left some scars; more than a few classmates mentioned it in their surveys. Yet nearly every survey respondent mentioned how one or more professors made a significant difference in his life. It wasn’t just the usual suspects either — 76 professors, 66 from Hamilton and 10 from Kirkland were mentioned.
What was it about these professors that so inspired us? Well, many were born to teach: George Nesbitt, Thomas Johnston, Fred Wagner, Austin Briggs, Ed Barrett, Sidney Wertimer, Bob Simon, Russell Blackwood, John Anderson, Don Potter, Jim Ring, Ed Lee, David Ellis, Robin Kinnel, to name a few. Their enthusiasm for what they were teaching motivated us at least to reach for the mythical A.
These professors wanted us not just to be better students but better persons. They understood perhaps better than we did that not all of us were destined to be Phi Beta Kappa. However, that was no excuse for giving anything less than a maximum effort in the classroom. Of course, even giving the maximum effort did not result in being awarded an A. George Baker recalls a conversation he had with Sid Wertimer about George’s less-than-stellar grades in economics. George explained to Professor Wertimer that he worked very hard on those courses. Sid looked at George and said, “Well, Mr. Baker, are there courses you are doing well in?” George replied, “Why yes, government and history.” Sid replied, “Well then …” and went on his way. In a matter of seconds George no longer was an economics major. Another side of Sid was shown to Dave Shapland, who was recruited by Sid right out of the Alumni Pool to be an economics major.
Of course, there were professors who could be extraordinarily kind to us in and out of class. Fred Wagner invited students to his home to listen to his collection of recordings of the plays we were studying. Don Potter would have students over for a pancake breakfast before taking them to an all-day field trip in the Adirondacks. David Ellis, Jim Traer, and others would have students over for lunch or dinner. The food and conversations were always excellent. Our professors came to our athletic events, theatrical productions, and art exhibits. Many were avid readers of The Spectator. Some were known to pen letters to the editor if they thought our stories were less than 100 percent accurate. Some even visited the Pub and were kind enough to spring for a pitcher or two.
Eventually, most of us got on track academically, but it was never easy. Many a pre-med became a pre-law or pre-MBA after Organic Chemistry. Thank you, Dr. Kinnel. Those who remained as science majors recall long afternoons in the labs. Cosmo Castellano, aka Cos, recalls being stuck in the Science Building while he could hear students outside on the quad enjoying themselves. Oh well, no one ever said it would be fair, Cos.
Now many of us arrived at Hamilton quite excited that Kirkland College was across the street. The only problem was that the Kirkland students weren’t all that excited about us. We were freshmen, the lowest on the pecking order. We tried to get things started by marching on Kirkland early in the semester. Led by our bagpiper, Mike Heller, we marched confidently onto the Kirkland campus only to be met with gross indifference. Like many of our visits to the “Land,” we had failed to define a clear objective. We soon learned that Kirkland was much, much different than Hamilton. But for the purposes of this address, you only need to remember three things: We called our president, “Dr. Chandler;” our Kirkland classmates called theirs “Sam.” They had evaluations; we had grades. And they were always to be referred to as the Kirkland women, never upon pain of death as the Kirkland girls.
Now, biology triumphs over all and we continued to visit Kirkland. On occasion a few of us might go over to see a couple of our Kirkland classmates in their rooms. One problem. Other guys had arrived before us. No not the dreaded Hamilton upperclassmen like Doc Reisman ’72. No, it was James and Jackson, Taylor and Browne, whose posters were found in every Kirkland room we entered. How could we compete with those two? Their lanky frames, long flowing locks, soulful eyes, and the poetry of their songs set a standard we could not meet.
While many of our initial attempts weren’t quite as successful as hoped, many relationships blossomed. Some only for the duration of a houseparty weekend; some far longer. As of this morning, 20 H/K marriages from our classes continue to thrive.
We were a couple of decades removed from the Internet, so we had to attend Monday morning Chapel to get the College news for the week. Chapel was where we often received a scolding from the dean of students. The rest of the session was composed of brave souls getting up to announce various events. These persons were often mercilessly mocked despite the best efforts of the Chapel manager to maintain order.
On one memorable occasion, Chapel was interrupted by a female streaker, clad only in a ski mask. Jim Kennedy as the Chapel announcer had the best view. This occasion was first referred to in the annalist’s letter for the Class of 1934, authored by Jim’s father, Daniel. Daniel had received a letter from Jim and was so struck by it that he included it in his letter. The following is borrowed from Daniel’s letter:
“From their midst she came, clad perhaps in a smile, ski mask effectively concealed in any expression her visage might have betrayed. But other than the mask, nary a stitch stood between the voluptuous visitor’s considerable assets and the dumbstruck, albeit delighted stares of hundreds of Hamilton men. In truth, she may have been wearing shoes, but no one was sure.”
The Bristol Mail Center was our real link to home. We checked our mail at least twice a day hoping Mom had responded to our request for money or that Marcia from Skidmore had sent a note saying yes, she would attend houseparties. Even better than letters were the cards saying there was a package waiting for you. Cookies from Grandma. Yes, there is a God!
We were determined to be the class that was going to be different. To prove it, we all dressed the same, including many of our Kirkland classmates, in blue work shirts, jeans, and work boots. Except of course for the ADs who were resplendent in their alligator shirts, creased chinos, and carefully tied sweaters draped around their necks. It was rumored they ironed! But even among them there were exceptions. The late Joe Weimer wore bib overalls like no one else ever could.
The small size of Hamilton prompted many of us to try things we would not have been able to do at a larger college or university. Write a column or a music review for The Spectator? You’re on. Interested in student government? Collect a handful of signatures and you are on your way. If you wanted to save the environment, there was a club for that. Aspiring actors could become members of the Charlatans or the Alexander Hamilton Players. Join the Outing Club to borrow a backpack, tent, and sleeping bag, and head out to the Adirondacks. These groups were mainly entirely run by the students. Success or lack thereof was up to us. Now, there were a few guidelines but too few to really matter.
Some classmates became DJs for WHCL. Glen Gilbert recalls he had perhaps six regular listeners, two of whom may have been sober. Dave Stimson had a 7 a.m. morning show, a drive-time slot, except none of his listeners was driving. David would enliven his shows by interviewing campus celebrities. Strangely these interviews often resulted in death threats being made against David and his guests. Page West managed to lock himself out of the studio and had to seek help before the first side of the LP was done.
Jim Kennedy, Joe Weimer, Dan Ruff, Matt Schaeffer, Jim Peskin, Steve “Tuna” Flores, and others were active in theatre. Many of our classmates sang with the Choir or played in the Brass Choir or the Jazz Band. In June 1972, the Choir left for a six-week European tour. Sadly, no stories about what happened exist as Brad Caswell noted, “What happened in Choir, stayed in Choir.”
Many of us at one time another wrote for The Spectator. There was nothing going on at the two campuses that the paper didn’t cover. Students and faculty read it and often wrote long letters to the editor about various issues. Occasionally there were op-ed pieces like the one penned by our Kirkland classmate Missy Fast. Missy wanted the jungle hockey players to know that she and a few others were going to make jungle hockey co-educational, and we better keep our heads up. She wasn’t kidding.
Now not everyone was a fan of The Spectator. Fred Bloch found this out when he was summoned to a meeting with Coleman Burke, chairman of the Board of Trustees. Coleman was incensed with Fred for revealing that the trustees had selected Joseph Sisco to be Hamilton’s next president. Fred thought the Hamilton community had a right to know who would lead it. Coleman screamed at Fred that he had committed the most egregious act ever by a Hamilton student. But Fred held firm.
Many of our classmates were student-athletes. It would be fair to say that except for the swim and cross-country teams, the early ’70s were not the golden age of Hamilton athletics. This was particularly so for the football team, which managed to win only five games in our four years. However, this record did not prevent one of our classmates, Jeff Hewitt, from being signed as a free agent by the Dallas Cowboys.
While the basketball team would be destined for greatness soon after our departure, it was very much a work in progress during our years. Our classmates Ernie Found and Craig Fallon fought hard in every game, but we often were on the wrong end of the score. Coach Tom Murphy, who arrived with us, survived a first season in which the team won one game. He went on to become one of the most successful coaches in D-III basketball.
Hockey was the sport most mentioned in the responses to our reunion surveys. It was something about the old Sage Rink with its overhanging balconies that brought out our inner rage. Bob Forrest wrote, “Introverted English majors became snarling beasts once they entered the rink.” We had beasts on the team as well with Steve “Mad Dog” Malcolm crushing every opponent in sight, Defenseman Jim Rishel obliterating opposing forwards with his signature hip checks, and smooth skating forward Bennie “Moose” Madonia regularly splitting the opposing defense to score a goal. None was greater than the one Moose scored in overtime to beat Colgate in their own rink our sophomore year. It was the first time we had beaten Colgate since 1925.
Not only was there action on the ice, but there was action in the stands as well. The overhanging balconies invited students to make unkind comments to opposing players. During one game Bob Hanek had the misfortune to stand next to a particularly obnoxious fan. The fan said something so mean to an opposing player that the player tried to slash him. His missed and hit Hanek’s shin drawing blood. Bob Webster, standing on the other side of Hanek, immediately signaled high-sticking and put up four fingers for a double minor. Sadly, the ref ignored Bob and the game went on.
The swim team, led by Coach Eric MacDonald and a manager who possibly was a member of the Russian royal family, rarely lost a dual meet. Now it is true that Coach MacDonald used training techniques that today are banned by NESCAC, the NCAA, and the World Court at the Hague. But he produced winners.
The greatest feat on a Hamilton playing ground, however, was not performed by one of our team members but by one of our musicians. Bob Allers was attending a football game against Union. Things weren’t going well for us. Every time Union scored, its supporters fired off a cannon. Well, the repeated cannon fire got to Bob, and he left the stands to take out the cannon. As Bob crossed the field the game stopped. Jim Kennedy and his merry band of cheerleaders dropped their megaphones. Ken Marten and Doc Pirodsky sat slack-jawed in the press box. English majors in the stands began to spontaneously recite Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.”
As Bob neared his objective, we could see Dean of Students Gordon Bingham in full flight attempting to intercept Bob. In our time deans of students were selected in part for their ability to quickly dash from dorm to dorm and fraternity houses to prevent us from doing the stupid things we were wont to do. Sadly, on this occasion, as most, Gordon was a step too late. Bob reached the cannon only to be struck down by the wussy Union cannoneer. Bob avoided death, just receiving a glancing blow that sent him to dreamland. Gordon then arrived to drag Bob to safety.
The arrival of Kirkland greatly changed the social norms at Hamilton. Young women were on campus every day of the semester, not just on houseparty weekends. The Kirkland students could and did enroll in Hamilton courses, and we could take courses at Kirkland. But venues for large-scale socializing remained mostly in the control of the 11 Hamilton fraternities. The trustees recognized this near monopoly had to change but as of our time had taken no action. True, the Bundy Dining Hall could be used, and was, by campus groups wanting to host a beer and band. We fondly remember Jeff Grabell presenting beer and bands for George McGovern.
At Kirkland, there was the McEwen Coffeehouse. The HK students running it managed to book some well-known folk singers as well as those on their way up. One of those, Don McLean, appeared on Tuesday, Nov. 10, 1970. Seventy-five cents got you in to see Don; the change from your dollar got you coffee and a brownie.
The College operated a pub, located under Commons. Perhaps it was meant to keep us on campus. It was not anything like today’s Little Pub. It was small and often overcrowded. The beer selection was limited: UC, Genesee Cream Ale, and for the swells, bottles of Heineken. It is possible that soft drinks were sold as well. Dining options were bagged popcorn and beer nuts, perhaps with a Slim Jim or two. We, of course, loved it. It was our version of Rick’s American Café. All were welcome, fraternity members, Kirkland students, grinds, even professors. It was as many classmates recalled, a place to relax and have a cheap beer.
There was nothing quite like entering the Pub on a snowy January or February evening, the smell of damp wool coats intertwined with other smells common to the Pub: stale beer, cigarette smoke, Brut cologne, and musk perfume. The jukebox might be playing “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” by Three Dog Night or “Layla” by Derek and the Dominos. You felt sheltered from the winter and academic storms swirling outside.
About 50% of our classmates belonged to one of the 11 fraternities on campus. Fraternities offered better food, organized social activities, and a sense of brotherhood. They also offered opportunities for employment and leadership. Houses had social chairs, rushing chairs, stewards, treasurers, and presidents. They were far from perfect; many a house president received a note in his Bristol mailbox directing him to see Dean DePuy or Dean Bingham. The president would then attempt to defend the less-than-stellar behavior of his brothers. Luckily, there were no cellphones in those days, so we often were able mount at least a feeble defense. Still, Hadley and Gordon seemed to know an awful lot of what had and what was about to happen.
The fraternities were relatively generous in opening their “jukers” and houseparty beer and bands to nonmembers and Kirkland students. Many of us have fond memories of sloshing through a couple of inches of beer in the Psi U basement or attending the legendary Chi Psi Saturday morning Gin and Juice. “One to drink and one to throw.” Don’t ask!
Were there drugs on campus? Yes, there were. Did some of you use them? Yes, you did. Most of the time such usage was out of sight, only bursting into public view during the outdoor celebration known as Fanguitos. The use of drugs on campus was frequently mentioned in The Spectator. Somewhat surprisingly Dr. Death Roe from the Health Center and Dean Depuy were quoted as saying they did not view marijuana as a dangerous drug. Wow, were they way ahead of their time!
Most of the time the administration seemed to tolerate our drug use. There were limits. On one occasion the State Police raided, of all places, ELS and arrested two members for selling drugs. We were stunned! ELS was supposed to be setting an example for the other 10 houses.
To be honest, alcohol abuse was the greatest threat to campus peace and student health. Stoned students might clean out Commons’ brownie supply, but they were far less likely to damage property and each other than students who had drunk more than was good for them. But alcohol was legal, and the drinking age was 18. We could and did keep beer, wine, and spirits in our rooms. The fraternity houses went “on tap” many weekends. A keg of UC cost $8 if you picked it up at the Brewery; $10 if delivered. The Spectator contained ads for local establishments offering Happy Hour Specials. Offers of 15 cent drafts and $1 pitchers led to early evacuations of the library on Thursday and Friday afternoons.
A unique part of our time on campus was Winter Study. The concept, stolen from Williams, was that the two semesters could be broken up by having students take one “intensive” three-and-a-half-week course during January. It made some sense; the athletic teams had always continued to compete in January, and a slight shortening of the two semesters might be beneficial to all. Well Winter Study was certainly beneficial to us. It was pass/fail and the course selection was seeded with many classes taught by visiting lecturers, many of whom did not assign much work.
Travel was possible. Fred Hirsch and George Baker have shared many stories about a Winter Study in the former USSR. Sadly, none can be repeated here. Other classmates, like Robbie Keren, wrote movingly of the London theatre program. Robbie may have nearly frozen in his London digs, but he saw an amazing number of productions. Some more adventurous classmates took advantage of exchange programs with Wells and Skidmore, the so-called promised lands. While expectations usually exceeded reality, good times often were had by all.
By senior year, Winter Study had become the time to start grad school applications and/or perfect one’s jungle hockey game. Sadly, Winter Study disappeared a few years after we graduated, ended by the faculty who apparently did not have as much fun as we did during January and who astutely concluded that many of us were not using the month to improve our scholarship.
Far fewer students had cars during our time on the Hill and so Clinton became our go-to place for shopping. You could walk or hitchhike down into the village and obtain needed supplies. Yes, dear younger alumni, we hitched everywhere. The ’70s for the most part was a safer, gentler time. We of course have never let our children hitchhike anywhere.
Allen’s Hardware sold ice skates and hockey sticks; there was a pharmacy, a liquor store, and two grocery stores. There were two bakeries, Holland Farms, next to Don’s Rok, and Jake’s. Many of my classmates recall visiting Jake’s in the wee hours of Saturday or Sunday morning to get a loaf of freshly baked raisin bread or a dozen cookies and getting apple cider at the Clinton Cider Mill. For dining you could get a pizza at Tony’s or Alteri’s. If your parents were in town, you might suggest they take you to the Alexander Hamilton Inn, which was the “smooth” place in town. Much like our campus, Clinton too has changed. Only the Cider Mill, Tony’s, Alteri’s, and the Rok remain.
Suddenly it was May 1974, and we were done. Scarred but undefeated, we lined up in Sage Rink to receive our degrees. Then off to the real world in 212 different directions.
And so here we are. We are no longer the boys of late summer 1970 but men in our early 70s. We are grateful to be here this weekend and deeply thank all those from the College who made it possible.
But there is one problem with our 50th reunion. It is a 50th reunion! One might ask, where do we go from here? I offer guidance from the two poets Dylan. Yes, thanks to a liberal arts education, I know there is more than one. First from Dylan Thomas’ “Rage.”
“Do not go gentle into that good night. Old age should burn and rave at close of day. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
And from Bob Dylan’s “My Back Pages:”
“Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.”
We were, we are, we will always be,
Hamilton ’74!
Thanks, boys.
Ed Watkins came to Hamilton from Amityville (N.Y.) Memorial High School. On College Hill, he got to know many of his classmates through residing in Dunham and his work in Commons and the Bristol Mail Center. A member of TKE, Ed served as president his senior year while also taking on the role of president of the Inter-Fraternity Council. He also wrote a sports column, “4th and 22,” for The Spectator.
Following Hamilton, Ed attended Albany Law School before accepting a temporary job with the New York State Department of Social Services. Forty-one years later, he retired from the NYS Office of Children and Family Services. His areas of expertise were the establishment and regulation of assisted living facilities, shelters for homeless families and individuals, and child day care programs. Ed was an active member of the former American Association of Public Welfare Attorneys, serving as its president from 2014 to 2015.
Ed has been married to Catherine Marie Fahey K’78 for 44 years. They have three children and three grandchildren.
