I was beginning to get so tired in the evenings that when she returned from dance class feeling all romantic, I was simply too exhausted to do anything but snooze. She began to think I was not interested in her body. In truth, I was obsessed by her body. It was my own that was the problem.
At the end of next semester she plans to move to Hawaii, where there are better facilities to train for the triathion
(a combination of swimming, biking, and marathoning~. So, time is running out.
The reason I'm having trouble deciding is that new opportunities present themselves at every turn.
There's Roz, a divorcee who lives in Weston. She's bright, well read, and (for a change) a terrific cook. She's constantly asking me out to the house, which is where I find the single obstacle. Or- rather, multiple one. Her five kids loathe me. And I guess they'd have to be included in a connubial arrangement.
There are lots of other candidates too. But none of them seems to be quite right.
Perhaps it's- my fault, I guess my expectations are too high. I'd like to marry someone who enjoys sitting quietly
(without doing push-ups) and chatting about everything from politics to children. A woman who enjoys reading the same books and discussing them. -
- Most of all, I'd like to find someone as lonely as I.
Who wants a hand to hold and a grown-up person to love. Maybe that's too much to ask,
But I'll keep looking. -
THE CLASS 511
rom the "Milestones" section of Time magazine,. Janu1~'ary
4, 1983:
DIvORCED. George Keller, 47, Deputy Secretary of State,
and Catherine Fitzgerald Keller, 39, political activist; on grounds of irreconcilable differences; after nine years of marriage; no children.
THE
RE UNION
June 5-9, 1983
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. T.S. ELIOT
- CLASS OF 1910
T
hey began to gather on Sunday, June 5. Advance
reservations indicated that over six hundred members of The Class would be coming from every state and even Europe and Asia. Registration was at the Freshman Union, where they had all embarked on their great journey twenty-nine years earlier.
But who were these strange people-balding, bespectacled, overweight, and shy? How had they come to usurp the ball reserved for the firebrands of The Class of '58? The only clue was the badges that they wore on their lapels. Paradoxically, most of them were more frightened at the prospect of their return to Harvard than when they first arrived as undergraduates. For now there was one conspicuous item missing from their spiritual luggage-unbounded faith in their potential.
They were no longer like astronauts striding to the launch pad full of hope, ready to fly to the moon and beyond. They
were most of them weary travelers whose horizons ended at the office parking lot.
And for all their glittering achievements, their triumphal entries into the pages of Who's Who, they knew they had suffered the irreparable loss of what was once their most precious gift. Their youth.
The Class of '58 had come home as grown-ups. The great expectations that once had burned in them had been replaced by ghosts of old ambitions.
The secret word was compromise. Nobody said it outright,
but they all could sense it. Yet somehow it was comforting to see that everyone had aged. They had weathered all the storms of harsh reality, and here were seeking shelter in a place where they had once believed no rain could ever fall on them.
They were gazing at one another. Some too timid to
approach the old acquaintances they thought they recognized- but were too far away to read the badges.
And yet how different from the looks they had exchanged
- while waiting on line for that first dinner in their freshman year. They all were adversaries then. Independent, trusting only in themselves. The Union air had been suffused with feelings of omniscience and infallibility.
But now they treated one another with a new affection. There were no hierarchies. They were meeting for the first time as fellow human beings. For they were not there to worship. The Class had gathered to commune.
Gradually they could allow themselves to laugh. And talk
of football games and college pranks. The good old times when Ike was in the White House and all was right with the world. The reunion had begun.
e week officially began with a Thanksgiving and Memorial
Service at nine-thirty the next morning. Considering how few had attended the Baccalaureate
Service at graduation in 1958, it was remarkable how many were present in Mem. Church that balmy morning of June 6,
-
1983.
They all had studied the immense red book, the glorious compendium of their collective achievements. But the entries that had captured everyone's imagination were the dead. Eminence is no protection in a highway accident. Cancer does not hold a Harvard graduate in awe.
Perhaps they knew that this was the reason they had really come. To be with classmates once again at the midway point in their lives. And though the service was to honor the
departed, in so doing, they were all acknowledging their own mortality.
The church was filled only with members of The Class, their families, and.-their survivors. Classmates led the
service.
At one point the Reverend Lyle Guttu '58 offered some brief comments.
He emphasized that fear of death is universal~ But what
THE CLASS 517
lies beneath that fear is the terror of insignificance. Of
-not being remembered, not counting.
That is why we are gathered, for ourselves, as much as any other. That is why this building is here, to honor the sacrifice of Harvard sons who died in struggles to defend the dignity of man." -
He then commented on some of the deaths. One classmate had drowned while attempting to save a child. Another had been executed for leading an abortive revolt against the oppressive regime in Haiti. Yet another gave up his life to save more than a hundred hostages.
And finally he stated, "Quiet heroism or youthful
idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living-or that either can be fatal? We are here to remember our classmates. They are not
nameless. They are known. They were ours, and shall ever be." At this point, another member of The Class rose to read
the names of the departed. -
As he finished, the bells of Memorial Church began to
toll. Once for every name. The dull knelling profoundly shook those standing in the vast white-paneled church.
Forty years of vibrant life reduced to the reverberation of a single bell. -
We will all come to this. - -
AN DREW ELIOT'S DIARY
June 6, 1983
I. had been looking forward to the Memorial Service with
fear and trembling. I didn't think I would be able to keep my
emotions in check. And I'm sure I couldn't have, if I hadn't had the responsibility of taking care of - --a young son. Not my own, - of course (I don't have one anymore). - -The handsome, blond sixteen-year-old standing next
to me was Jason's oldest boy, Joshua, whom I'd invited to be present when we honored his father. -
While all about him tears were unashamedly flowing, he remained straight-backed and impassive. In fact, the only time he even opened his mouth was~ for the first hymn, "The Cod of Abraham Praise."
I was amazed that he even knew the tune. Although I
realized why, as soon as I caughtthe sound of his softly singing voice. While all of us were chanting the church text, he was singing it-in Hebrew. He told me later that it was a traditional Jewish prayer that, I guess, we Christians had appropriated.
He asked if this was especially for his father.
I answered that it was all for his father. Which, at least from my standpoint, was true.
To add to my aching- sadness, I could see some classmates looking at Josh and thinking he was probably my
son.
- Afterward, I introduced him to as many of Jason's buddies as I could find (there were so many). Every one of
them had something wonderful to say to him about his father.
I could see that this moved him deeply, and he was struggling manfully not to break down.
- As I put him on the train to visit his grandparents, I told him I hoped that he'd come back to Boston someday. He replied that it was his dream to go to Harvard- like his father. But, of course, he had to do his army service first.
-
I waited till the train pulled out, thinking how proud
Jason would be of the way his son was growing up.
Then I went and had a cup of coffee, since I had to meet another train in half an hour. My date for the
reunion.
Just as everyone predicted, this occasion is incredibly emotional-and it had only just begun. Thank heavens I had someone I love to share it with. And who loves
- me, I think.
Ever since Andy left "the Western world," Lizzie and I
have grown much closer. Somewhere along the line she realized I was trying hard as hell to be a loving father. And she started to reciprocate.
Now and then I take her to a football game. Some-
times I drive down to her school-right in the middle of
the week-and we go out for a good dinner. She tells me her problems. About the "creepy" men who love her and the
"groovy" ones she's trying to attract.
I started offering advice. And, to my astonishment, she likes it.
I knew that something good was happening when suddenly her grades, which had been good but not fantastic, started really picking up. In fact, she's gotten acceptances from all the colleges she applied to: Swarthmore, Yale-and Harvard.
Who knows, maybe shell opt to go to Cambridge, even with her father on the scene. And generations of invisible ancestors looking down. My Lizzie is a plucky girl and I'm really proud of her.
It's nice to know I'll have her hand to hold. -
C
ynics might argue that the Reunion Memorial Service was merely to remind Harvard men that, although they are mortal, the University abideth forever.
At any rate, the rest of the week was dedicated to the impressive demonstration of how much Harvard had done for them. And-with their financial munificence-would be doing for the ages to come.
First, President Derek Bok and Dean Theodore Lambros '58
led a symposium, "The Future of Harvard." Their message was that while most American universities were preparing for the twenty-first century, Harvard, with its greater vision, was already looking forward to the twenty-second.
Indeed, in one of his many witty responses during the question period, Dean Lambros said that it would not be Harvard's policy "to grant tenure to computers."
The alumni were suitably impressed. And-especially those