Now To College

NOW TO COLLEGE

When classes began in the fall, we followed a predictable schedule. BUT, the summers during college were anything but routine. Two trips to Europe on Teen Tours were replete with adventures, including my dating Steven Ward. He was the London osteopath who pimped for European royalty, and palled around with Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice Davies, infamous call girls/prostitutes. He serviced the infamous Sir John Profumo, Member of Parliament, who lied to the House of Commons about his dealings and was ceremoniously expelled, throwing the English government into crisis. That summer, Steven took me for a weekend to the estate of Lord Astor which the Germans had occupied and luxuriated in during the war. I met Lord Astor in his library as he was bending over to peruse his books while enthusiastically scratching his derriere. Much time was spent at the charming swimming pool, bedecked with sophisticated, glamorously dressed and coiffed ladies wearing broad brimmed hats – while trading stories about horse races at Ascot.

At this gathering, I felt invisible in my Bermuda shorts, cotton shortsleeve blouse, white socks and sneakers. Also NO make-up, short stunted hairdo, and nothing to say. Despite my American naïve teenage personality, Steven took a shining to me, and we discussed the English healthcare system on which I had recently written a comprehensive report. He was homosexual, never threatening, and invited me several days in a row to sundry coffee houses, pubs, art galleries, rose gardens, and interesting neighborhoods. I had

no idea whom I was meeting, and disbelieved Steven’s allegation that he painted the portraits of many royal people – until I read, maybe ten years later, that he did in fact do just that, as well as committed suicide during the trial of John Profumo when no friend would defend Steven. Further biographical information about Steven Ward is available online.

Another summer, my friend Joan, a stranger called Jane, and I roomed together in a dorm called Wigglesworth Hall at Harvard Summer School. I signed up for two classes and attended each one precisely one time. (When my report card arrived with two ABS (for absent), my father said “I love the A and B, but what’s the S for??)

Meanwhile, all three of us roommates met new boyfriends. Our favorite activity was attending prize fights that summer. Unbeknownst to me, my two roommates lost their virginity that summer. I however did not participate as I kept hearing the voice of my puritanical mother whose purpose in life was that her daughter “not do THAT until you are married!” Our third roommate, however, abandoned her inhibitions, and became further radicalized as I learned later when reading the New York Times Magazine which featured the U.C. Berkeley riots in the 60’s – there was a big photo of Jane toting a large rifle over her shoulder. How she had evolved into a rebel astonished me – but then again, it WAS the 60’s.

The last summer in college was spent in Boston while my friend (to this day) Helaine and I got jobs (mine was in advertising and although I learned absolutely nothing about the industry, my boss propositioned me after declaring “You’ve got it, kid.”) I didn’t learn much then either except he was 30 years my elder and a sleaze.

Helaine and I lived at The College Club on Commonwealth Avenue, a stuffy residence in Boston for single people. We were the only residents under age 60. We ran around the halls in our underwear, and I remember at least once our running stark naked into the bathroom. We were bored, hot, ate prunes and dated guys. Mine was Larry, who wrote romantic poetry for me. That entire summer was a waste of time – BUT we were returning to college not any stupider than when we left for Boston.

During The School Year

Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts. Then, as now, all girls, excellent education, sprawling New England campus with gorgeous trees, a picturesque lake around which we biked daily to class, colorful botanical garden, imposing brick buildings, smaller house-type buildings with unusual names, and countless students and bikes and books and cheerful HELLOs. Memories are of freezing weather and mounds of snow, especially early mornings when we pedaled to class, having donned Bermuda shorts, knee socks, Shetland sweaters, camel hair coats and striped college scarves. On particularly frosty days, my mother telephoned before 8:00 a.m. to remind me to replace my everyday camel hair coat with my all-enveloping anklelength sheared raccoon fur coat, resembling the Siberian Cro-Magnon man at the American Museum of Natural History.

We studied wherever. My favorite hangout was a greasy hamburger joint where you couldn’t hear yourself think. For prolonged study, I favored the library reading room, a traditional carpeted, old-fashioned living room in which I sank into an overstuffed armchair and “binge read” the assigned novel of the week. In this library, there were no computers or machines to identify the whereabouts of specific books. Instead, we manually researched everything by alphabet, and studied while lined up at long tables in the reading room. Just us and books and lined notepaper for taking notes – simple.

I majored in political science and minored in art history. Among my favorite courses were Constitutional Law, Myth-Metaphor-and-Symbol, 19th Century English Literature, Medieval French History, Roman History, American Political Theory and Government. After graduation, when I ended up at a science museum, it was exciting for me to explore a completely new field.

Honestly, the best memories are the many weekends spent at Penn, Harvard, Yale, law schools, and New York City where the Plaza Hotel gave us student rates. I didn’t even mind the many laborious car and train rides. But I didn’t like Dartmouth so much as those boys were ALL horny. On the subject of Dartmouth, one Friday afternoon my friend Sue and I were picked

up by two Yale “men”; we piled our skis on top of the car and careened off to Hanover, New Hampshire. The big event was Dartmouth Winter Carnival, a “dream happening” in an isolated environment smothered in snow and freezing cold. Everybody ached to attend, and we were the envy of our school mates. But a few hours into the drive, I happened to look out the window and felt I was in a science fiction movie. The signs read Hanover, Cape Cod – only several hundred miles from our intended destination in New Hampshire! Back to Smith College we drove, much to the surprise of our “house mother”, an elderly woman “in charge” of all girls in our dorm. When she heard our sad tale, she wrote a most amusing piece for the Yale newspaper, commemorating the “brilliant” directional talents of Yale men. We kinda liked this elderly woman, Mrs. Bond, – she kept out of our business and served chocolate cake for birthday celebrations. The best of it – we were allowed to attend in our bathrobes.

My good-natured dad occasionally visited college, generously extending a dinner invitation to a few of my friends – yet never expected 8 girls, at times 10, as dinner guests. But he got a big kick out of treating us to Wiggins Tavern, a dark wood, low ceiling, warm New England style inn with a cozy fire burning and the best pecan biscuits in the universe. It still rates very high on my best restaurant list.

Attending an all-girls college had advantages and disadvantages. The good ones were that we could look like dogs during weekdays. The bad ones were that during the week, social life was non-existent. Many girls studied at night. By way of contrast, Helaine and I hitched rides at least two weeknights to the Calvin and Academy movie theatres. We gulped candy bars and escaped from school. Some nights, we hung out in “the smoker,” a pretty stucco room with a huge picture of a Buddha, in which you could actually smoke, fantasize about future marriage, and hang out with friends. Some girls played bridge, others congregated in someone’s bedroom to talk, but my little group of friends separated ourselves in the main from the larger group of girls in the dorm. I guess we were rule breakers, ‒ in fact, in four years, I only once attended a mandatory weekly early morning chapel. Daily room inspections were avoided by me as I locked my door and napped before dinner. Two of our group applied to Stanford for a transfer but were refused due to “bad behavior,” which meant smoking or hiding food in your room,

playing music too loud, staying out after curfew, dressing improperly, etc. While I did not have food, I did lean out my window many an evening, inhaling the smoke of a Camel ciggie.

As for the era of hidden – excuse the expression – sex, when “good girls” stayed out of bed but necked in cars, my friends and I had vicarious thrills afforded by previews of coming attractions. A fellow dormmate left numerous weekends for mysterious destinations. When she returned each Sunday night, the minute we heard her door open, we made a beeline for her room. There, we were rewarded with detail upon detail of her unusual experiences – which for us seemed like a lot of work yet yielding ample rewards.

Years later, I revisited Smith College for an interview relating to a journalist assignment (see Appendix) which was offered to me to cover a Scientific Expedition to Alaska. Although no salary was offered, I was treated to a luxurious cruise, twice daily lectures by top experts, and extravagant praise for my article. In preparation for the article, revisiting the dorm and the campus was deliciously sentimental, and I was impressed with new modern buildings, innovative courses, the varied student body, gorgeous new gym – none expected, all inevitable.

College Buddies

In closing, I honor the close bond that still exists with my college friends. Despite disparate lives, careers, and interests – the fact that we had lived together and did the same things and were essentially closeted in one environment lent a uniqueness, closeness and oneness that we don’t have with anyone else. I call it loyalty. Or maybe nostalgia. Or whatever – it feels good.

Paradise Pond