That first issue is astounding. Not only has the class given voice to the students and staff in their school, but they’ve tackled very real–and often difficult—issues that high school students face all over the nation. In that first issue, student writers talk about what it’s like to be the new kid in class, to be black at Seaside, to be gay. One former student writes about her addiction to alcohol. Another about his success with a new academic program at the school. They explore graffiti and delve into the controversial discussion of whether it is art or vandalism. One writer takes on depression.

In Green’s email to me this morning, he writes: “I want to thank you for providing us with those materials—they have helped us immensely with both our writing and our design… thank you so much for providing us with a source of inspiration.”

Now, Denison Magazine has won a number of awards in its time, and we’re very proud of those. But I have to say, I’m more proud of the fact that Denison Magazine could have had anything to do with the remarkable work of these students.

Professional writer and photographer, Lisa Waterman Gray ’77, spent two years researching and writing An Explorer’s Guide: Kansas, released in June 2011 and featured in the recent print edition of Denison Magazine. She drove more than 13,000 miles, and spent more than 100 days traveling and taking more than 4,000 photographs. A hundred buffalo followed a pickup truck that Gray rode in in southwestern Kansas. She drove the last 13 miles of Route 66 in the southeastern corner, viewed Colorado from Kansas’s highest elevation in the northwest, and walked a Yellow Brick Road in south central Kansas. We asked her to show us a snippet of her research for the book, so here she documents her trip through tornado alley.

I awoke on May 10, 2010 in a casually elegant room full of rustic antiques. Broad windows framed country quiet, and chilly, dreary weather cloaked the landscape. Forecasters in south central Kansas anticipated severe storms and, despite living in the state for 25 years, the thought of driving alone through unfamiliar territory and unsettled weather had my stomach doing flip flops.

Breakfast provided a brief respite inside the beautifully renovated barn of a Winfield B & B. After savoring light-as-air crepes, plenty of coffee, and pleasant conversation, I hurriedly filled my water bottle and re-packed the car. Cool spring rain spit and sputtered as I checked my itinerary and returned to the road.

I briefly toured an 1885 mansion-turned-B & B, decorated in period finery, and then headed towards a rural B & B, beneath an ashen sky. After touring the sprawling home I left hastily, looking upwards again as my stomach tightened. Gravel gave way to paved road, and I relaxed a bit.

Then a high-pitched, screech arose from the passenger wheel well and I pulled over, hoping it would stop. After several quiet minutes the screeching returned and I prayed to reach town safely. Rain fell harder as roadside assistance towed my car to a local repair shop. They found nothing wrong and the noise stopped, but I gladly paid for peace of mind.

After briefly touring a handful of businesses in Winfield’s downtown area, I set my GPS for tiny Sedan. Along the way, I hurried through restaurants, shops and a museum, in Arkansas City.

Severe weather warnings kept my stomach in knots and hands glued to the wheel as I entered open countryside. Years earlier, our family had driven directly beneath a tornado as it skipped across sunset-drenched prairie, after tornadic activity had devastated the nearby small town of Andover. But, this time, I was alone. If I got into trouble, would my cell phone work? How would anyone know where to find me? I gulped down my fear, breathed deeply, and kept driving, eyes riveted to the landscape.

‘Popcorn’ clouds had turned green-gray. An eerie inversion between cool and warm air filled an isolated valley where no other cars were visible, and I constantly scanned the horizon for tornadoes. No birds or animals appeared and the world was oddly silent.

I finally met Sedan’s town ‘ambassador’ in mid-afternoon and followed her car to a beautiful cabin at a private ranch, but none of the lights worked. A text message told my host that all power had also gone out downtown. “Do we have an alternative for lodging?” I asked, knowing that severe weather still permeated the area. “I can’t imagine staying alone, in an isolated cabin, without any power.”

Within minutes, we were headed towards a new hunting lodge with concrete reinforced walls, owners who lived next door, and a backup generator. I had Internet access, a cooler full of snacks, some unopened wine, and cable television. An F-1 tornado had traveled through one highway intersection less than an hour after I passed by, and the weather system I’d fled for the better part of the day had wreaked havoc around Oklahoma City.

But I’d come through okay and slept well that night. A bright and beautiful morning followed – the silver lining behind tumultuous weather in tornado alley. If I could handle the previous 24 hours of Kansas travel, I could handle anything.

Parajón met Joan during a Bible study, and only hours after his Denison graduation, they married at the First Baptist Church of Granville. The couple, of course, returned to Nicaragua, where Parajón took the lessons learned from Wyse and passed them on by personally mentoring members of the younger generation and helping them make contacts to secure scholarships for high school and colleges in Nicaragua and the United States. Parajón received many awards for his life work, which you can read about in the current issue, and he helped found many organizations to make the world a better place—organizations like Prestanic, a Nicaraguan microfinance non-profit organization aimed at helping families overcome poverty, CONAR (Nicaraguan Committee for Assistance to Refugees) in cooperation with the United Nations, and different projects associated with the First Baptist Church of Managua during his tenure as pastor (1984-2010).

Many thanks to the Parajón family for sharing such wonderful stories about Gus. It’s clear he made a difference in this world and will be greatly missed.

Martin’s good deeds were never broadcast, unless it was accidental. Like the time Martin, on one of his tours of India, was bombarded and hugged by several children in one of the villages he was visiting with colleagues. “Jim was embarrassed and gave no explanation,” said Woodyard. “Later some learned from a village elder that Jim was financing the education of more promising children in the village—enabling them to go elsewhere for their education.”

In the classroom, it was all academics. Martin, always in coat and tie, dealt with students in the classroom at a distance, always putting intellectual discussions above anything else. “The podium,” said Woodyard, “was always between him and the student.” Yet students had great affection for Martin, likely stemming from meals he made for them when he entertained the younger generation in his home.

Martin died on Sept. 16, 2011. He was 94.

“Ed, have you got any kids at that college who can do drayma?” It was Harry Byrd Kline, the school assembly booker out of Dallas, Texas, talking. Ed had met him at the International Platform Association convention at Lakeside, Ohio.

“Oh yes,” said Ed. “I have a young couple who will be the next Lunts.”

“Well. Do they have a show?”

“Oh yes,” said Ed, and waited.

“Well. What kind of a show? It has to be educational for me to book it in the schools.”

“Oh, it’s educational. They do Shakespeare, you know, Hamlet, and they do Queen Victoria and Prince Albert and those poets the
Brownings. And Mark Twain.”

“How long is the show? I need fifty minutes.”

“That’s just how long it is. It can be longer or shorter.”

“Well, I can offer them thirty weeks in the schools in Texas and Oklahoma and I’ll pay them two hundred ten dollars a week plus fifteen dollars for gas and oil. Do you think they might be interested?”

“I think they might be.”

“What are their names?”

“The Holbrooks. Hal and Ruby.”

When Ed finished performing this conversation for us, he said, “If you and Ruby are interested, you can use it as Hal’s senior honors project and have a show ready by next fall.”

Ruby and I talked it over and then we dove at it. We would get paid for acting? A miracle. We figured Ruby could make the costumes. Growing up in Newfoundland, you learned to use a sewing machine because you made your own dresses. The closet scene between Hamlet and his mother, the one I had done in Cleveland, would fit in, along with scenes Ed had suggested: the shaving scene from Victoria Regina in which Helen Hayes had scored brilliantly in the mid-1930s; the ring scene from Maxwell Anderson’s Elizabeth the Queen, which had provided another triumph for the Lunts in 1930; a scene between Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, which I would attempt to write; and a sketch Ed gave us by Mark Twain called “An Encounter with an Interviewer.” “This will give Hal a chance to play old in one scene.”

Meanwhile, I’d signed up for the directing course, and my production of Hedda Gabler was to come first. The way you got a passing grade in the directing class was droll and unique. Ed gave you $100. With that you had to cast the play, design and build the scenery, light the show, advertise it, and print and sell tickets as well as direct it. You ran two nights in Denison’s “off- Broadway” Studio Theatre and to get a passing credit you had to give Ed back the $100. I went for the best actors I could get—Dick Welsbacher for Judge Brack; Henry Sutton for Tesman; Martha Prater, a rather plain but spirited girl, for Thea; diminutive Pat Cessna as Aunt Juliana; and Ken Telford, the Adonis of Much Ado, for Eilert Lovborg. There remained Hedda. Martha Harter was tall and willowy, with a mane of hair flowing back from a nearly classic face with high cheekbones. I didn’t know if she could pull the role off, because she simply hadn’t had a chance to show that kind of speed yet. I cast her and prayed. I knew only one thing for sure: she would wear red.

The 1890 translation by Edmund Gosse was so stiff and formal that I did some doctoring and wound up retranslating some of his translation of Henrik Ibsen. I knew the scenery had to be cheap, so I went into a celestial séance with Robert Edmond Jones and came up with the idea of a “semi-realistic space stage.” It maybe cost $25. Three old repainted flats with furniture set in front of them, surrounded by black drapes. There were no doors. The actors just disappeared into darkness between the flats, praying they wouldn’t be crippled by the stage braces. I don’t recall much about my directorial technique, since I had to make it up as I went along. I found out pretty quick that good casting did 90 percent of the job for you, and I was lucky there with nearly everyone. Martha Harter as Hedda was the only one I had to work on because she had the highest bar to clear from the lowest standing start, and it was a tough leap for a socially corseted young woman; but she was a courageous person who saw her opportunity and pushed herself into a good performance, flashing those pistols around to keep the audience at attention.

May I say that my advertising brain wave was a masterstroke? I told the printer to make two hundred small flyers on the cheapest brown paper he had, with the following message in red:

HEDDA IS COMING!
October 16 & 17

I plastered them on every pole and tree around the campus and the village. Nobody knew who in the name of Houdini this Hedda person was, if it was a person, or where he, she, or it was coming from, but they were damn sure they were not going to miss it and they didn’t. We had standing room only. The most embarrassing part of the whole adventure was that my literature teacher, Eleanor Shannon, whom I vastly admired, could not get a seat.

When Ruby and I began rehearsing our little show that had no name yet, I assumed the role of director and Ruby graciously held her peace. We sought out vacant classrooms for our rehearsals and started with the Hamlet scene. I pounded and pummeled it while Ruby dodged her way into the character of Gertrude, queen mother of the seamy bed. I believe her method was to find out what the character was doing first and then do it, while my approach was the reverse: do it and then discover what I was doing wrong. It must have worn severely upon Ruby’s patience. For a comedy number, we took the two forest scenes from As You Like It and spliced them together around a soliloquy to make one continuous twelve-minute scene. Since one of the empty classrooms we stole into for rehearsals had a piano bench, that became our only prop, and I ended up making a breakdown bench in white for the tour. It was the only scenery we trouped for thirty thousand miles when As You Like It turned into our opening number. We consulted costume books for the period styles and Ruby made two brown tunics and off-white shirts with billowy sleeves for Rosalind and Orlando, but we didn’t know where we’d get the money for the fancy fabrics needed for Queen Elizabeth, Essex, Hamlet, Victoria and Albert, and the Brownings. And we would need a car.

The Mark Twain sketch was a problem. I thought it was the corniest thing I’d ever read. I didn’t want to tell Ed that because it might hurt his feelings, since some of the stuff he did in his solo show was so far out in the cornfield that it would have been embarrassing if he weren’t so brilliant at it. Finally I had to say it: “Ed, I think this Mark Twain thing is pretty corny. I don’t think it’s funny.”

“Why don’t you and Ruby work on it and let me see it?”

So we worked on it, with Ruby playing the Interviewer, who asks the usual questions but is baffled by Twain’s moronic responses. “How old are you?” “Nineteen in June.” “Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?” “George Washington.” “But how could you have ever met George Washington if you’re only nineteen years old?” “If you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?” In a disenchanted mood we showed it to Ed.

“I see why you don’t think this is funny. You’re not getting the point, Hal. This is a man with a sense of humor who’s dealing with a person with no sense of humor. Why don’t you keep working on it.”

An opportunity came along to join up with Dick and Betty Welsbacher for a performance in the suicide ward of the Chillicothe Veterans Hospital. They would sing and act and we would do the Mark Twain sketch. We were led into a large room with windows too high to climb out of and a lot of bewildered-looking guys shifting around making grunting sounds and turning away, an alarming-looking crowd for a theatrical debut. We moved two chairs and a table into position, set an ashtray on the table and lit the cigar, and waited for
our introduction by an attendant with big biceps. There was no applause.

At first we held their attention because they didn’t know who these people were, what they were doing in the room, or why we were talking to each other instead of them. This unnerved them, and they started looking up at the windows, muttering to themselves as if planning an escape. Some of them stopped and looked back at us as if we were dangerous. There were others who continued to stare at us, rooted to the spot and clearly afraid to move. One of them made what I thought was a laughing sound, but without the merriment in it, and then another guy looked at him and did the laughing sound, too. He looked at another fellow, as if to pass it along, and the laughing sound moved around the room until it collected the attention of the guys who wanted to get out through the windows, and they chimed in. The only trouble was, no one was looking at us. They were looking at each other or empty space and laughing. We didn’t know whether to wait for these laughs or just keep going. Could this be an audience response? In the car on the way home I tried to snatch some useful critique of our work from this tryout performance. “Some of that growling and snorting could have been laughs. In the Twain scene, remember that part about George Washington? Where I said, ‘I attended his funeral’? Wasn’t that a laugh, that big sound there?” There was a rueful silence from Ruby and the Welsbachers, but a few weeks later we got our answer when we played the Rotary Club in nearby Newark. They laughed at the same places where the people in the suicide ward had made grunting sounds, so either the Rotarians were crazy or the guys in the ward were saner than they looked.

For the scene about the Brownings we got the idea to create an imaginary encounter in which Elizabeth presented Robert with a poem she had written for him: “How Do I Love Thee?” I researched the Brownings and gave it my best literary shot (I had won the poetry prize in my freshman year), and it served us pretty well, depending a great deal on Ruby’s classically romantic Mrs. Browning, a strong-minded, spirited woman caged by the physical boundaries of her infirmity. This scene would be a chancy one in the schools but a knockout in the women’s clubs we would play in the future. Robert Browning was a stretch for me because even though I was considered handsome, I never felt handsome, and that is its own infirmity.

The costume changes were going to be the big hurdle. How to change from Hamlet and Gertrude to Mark Twain and the Interviewer in—what—fifty seconds? We planned to use music and would troupe a tape recorder, but how long could the musical interludes hold the audience between scenes? Thirty seconds tops. A device was needed. An introduction to each scene from in front of the curtain would serve multiple purposes. One, it would allow us to plunge right into each scene without a lot of exposition to bog down the action. Two, it would allow the actor who needed to start the next scene to get into makeup and costume during the introduction and then be onstage doing something for thirty seconds while the actor who made the introduction was slapping on a wig or beard and the new costume. And three, it would allow each of us to come before the curtain in a dressing gown and be seen as our own sweet self.

The inspiration for this simple device came from a couple of seasoned troupers who had played the school assembly circuits for years, Jack Rank and Jay Johnson. This exotic pair were friends of Ed’s from the old Chautauqua days. He sent us over to Newark to watch them put on their astonishing production of Macbeth. Jack Rank played all the parts while Jay changed costumes on him as he passed behind a screen upstage. Jack would be in the midst of a speech as Macbeth and disappear behind the screen for maybe seven or eight seconds—still emoting in a voice ripened by years of projection in school auditoriums across America— and then pop out on the other side as Lady Macbeth: “But screw your courage to the sticking place and we’ll not fail!” With variations of pitch and timbre in that aged-in-gravel voice commanding the stage, no one in that high school audience dared move. Lady Macbeth and Macbeth both had the balls of an angry elephant. It was a marvelous theatrical experience and these two troupers gave us advice and warned us of the pitfalls to come, the truest professionals in the finest tradition of the theater.

With the startling memory of Jack’s changes of voice and character, we worked on the roles we would play with an ear for variety, and Ruby devised costumes that could be underdressed or overdressed as required, with snaps or a hook and eye in strategic places. These were the days before Velcro, so steady hands were required. Off with Orlando’s tunic, shoes, and green tights, Hamlet’s black tights underdressed. On with his shoes and the introduction bathrobe. Dash to the opening in the curtain, dousing the music en route, step through it calmly, and introduce the closet scene while Ruby gets out of green tights and tunic, redoes her hair, slips on Gertrude’s nightgown and robe, and gets into place onstage. I finish the introduction and cue the curtain puller on the way to our improvised dressing area just offstage. Ruby starts the scene in pantomime while I throw off the bathrobe, slip into the black Hamlet tunic, zip it up, buckle on a sword, and enter. Precision and practice. Precision and practice.

Really? Golly gee, I’m blushing.

“… Millennials are also the most unemployed, in debt and generally screwed over. Despite their desire to contribute to this country’s greatness, Millennials may be the first generation in decades to face worse economic prospects than our parents and even grandparents.”

Oh yeah, that.

It’s been more than a year since I walked across that stage on South Quad, diploma in hand. I was jobless but confident that I wouldn’t be for long. After all, I attended Denison and thrived there. I won academic awards, was accepted to leadership summits and honoraries, and generally worked my tail off. I had glowing references. So in spite of the warnings from the news and recently graduated friends alike, I thought I was going to head into the “real world” wearing a magical suit that would prevent me from being burned by the economy.
That didn’t happen. I started out strong, completing an internship at a prestigious organization. After an unsuccessful flirtation with a job, I moved home and took a part-time job in retail. Months of endless applications and networking went by. I was discouraged and confused, and I even began to grow bitter toward my peers who had landed secure jobs. At last, in February, I scored a (barely) paid internship in Washington, D.C., that led to a permanent position as an editorial assistant. This past year and a half was sobering and frustrating, but I realized that I have to readjust to the times and find a way to create my own American Dream. And I’m not alone in this.

Statistics show that among the national class of 2010, only half of college graduates held a job at commencement (that compares with a 90 percent employment rate among graduates in 2007, by the way). The majority is further burdened by massive student debt, which, for the first time in history, surpasses the United States’ collective credit card debt.

We may be facing the worst of times, but this economic crisis has revealed that Millennials are reading up, speaking up, and kicking butt. In April, a national day of action was held in the form of “Briefcase Brigades.” Suited-up young Americans spoke with staffers and aides on Capitol Hill, and handed out “generational résumés,” which laid out the strengths of Generation Y: We’re the most educated generation in American history, we’re experts on constantly changing technology, and we’ve grown up more tolerant of diverse views and ideas. In May, young Americans released a “Budget for Millennial America,” written by members of Gen Y, which laid out the priorities and issues most salient to young Americans, such as college affordability and financial aid, green jobs, and investing in work that will help the economy recover.

Sitting smack dab in the whirlwind of a heated and multi-generational political discussion, I’ve learned a few things. First, showing that you’ve earned that degree no longer translates into a secure 401(k) and a swanky apartment—no matter where you went to school. These days, it means being resourceful and smart about your situation. Whether you’re lobbying, writing a blog, or just talking with your friends, staying well-rounded (a testament to my liberal arts education, I have to say) and informed is your best bet in navigating through this time of uncertainty. And it may not hurt to carry a briefcase—just in case.

A version of this essay originally appeared on sparkaction.org, where Waldman is happily employed.

This year’s campus-wide intellectual theme, “Migrations,” can be interpreted in uncountable ways. And that’s the idea. Students play with the concept of migrations in class discussion. Faculty and staff consider it as they plan student programming. And the speakers brought in as part of the Spectrum Series are threaded together through this common theme.

As the Denison Magazine staff considered what we could bring to the “Migrations” table, we came across these compelling graphics that offer a unique look at the movement of the people and organisms around us.

All images are reprinted here and in Denison Magazine with permission from GOOD. Infographics by Column Five Media for GOOD, originally published on GOOD.is. They have been adapted for Denison Magazine. Print cover imagery: (c) Adrianna Williams/Corbis (front cover) and (c) Heide Benser/Corbis (back cover)

The Denison years were a chapter in the Goods’ life together that was cut tragically short in 1984 by Bob’s terminal illness.  Nancy had graduated from Smith College in 1944 when she met Bob Good.  In 1946 they were married in Switzerland. Nancy was employed at the time by the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administra­tion, serving in the effort to repatriate displaced persons in the wake of World War II.  After their marriage, she and Bob opened a settlement house in Frankfurt, Germany under the auspices of the American Friends Service Committee.  It was an achievement for which the German government would honor Nancy 50 years later.

Service was the theme of Nancy’s entire life.  Prior to their time at Denison, Nancy worked in the field of fair housing both in Denver and in Washington, D.C.  When Bob was appointed U.S. Ambassador to Zambia, she worked in hunger relief agencies in that country.  After their Deni­son years, the move back to Denver, and Bob’s death, she served on the city’s Commission on Com­munity Relations.  Her daughter Kathy VanBuskirk aptly described her as “a change agent all her life.”

Professor of Religion David O. Woodyard ’54 remembers Good’s spirit of acti­vism and her unabashed desire to address other people’s needs and concerns.  On one occa­sion, he recalls, a group of construction workers had seen fit to launch a union protest at Denison’s front entrance, to the consternation of President Good.  What the president didn’t know, how­ever, was that Nancy, seeing the protest, had promptly invited the unhappy workers to lunch!

According to Woodyard and McDonald, the Goods had arrived on the Denison campus at a time when the college (like much of the larger culture) was feeling the effects of the social and cross-generational dissension of the 1970s.  Experienced diplomats, the Goods were called on to exercise all their skills of listening and reconciliation.  “Nancy was a healer who was always doing a lot of ‘knitting’ in the community,” Woodyard said.  “Seldom do you see in one person the combined abilities to both heal and prod.”

And prod she did, gently but ever so effectively.  Good’s special interests at Denison encom­passed minority student enfranchisement, the vitality of the women’s community, the devel­opment of the Homestead, and the well-being of students, faculty, and staff of every stripe.  She is still remembered on campus as the determined savior of Monomoy Place, which had been all but doomed to the wrecking ball.  Early on, Good had recognized the potential of the dilapidated nineteenth-century mansion as a locus of good relationship-building with both campus and village. To help make restoration financially feasible, she marshaled an army of students, staff, and friends to parti­cipate in wallpaper-stripping and other preparation for renovation. Once com­pleted, Monomoy became the cherished campus/village treasure that it remains today.  And it was in Monomoy that Nancy would become locally famous for her annual “Eggnog for Eggheads” party, an all-day rolling extravaganza of holiday hospitality that epitomized friendly town/gown relationships.

On her departure from Denison, Nancy was awarded the University’s Distinguished Service Award, and she was formally recognized by the Village of Granville as well. But beyond awards, there is so much more that could be said about the colorful and energetic Nancy Good:  her advocacy of equal opportunity, her blindness to barriers, her can-do attitude, her tender care of her stricken husband.  Suffice it to say that Good seldom missed an opportunity to build good will, and that the Denison and Granville communities reaped the benefit of her gracious momentum for years to come. “Like Bob, Nancy was truly on a mission her entire life to bring people together in peaceful community,” said McDonald.  “Her impact was extra­ordinary.”

And he was. There were other great lecturers at Denison; Bill Preston, for example, was extraordinary, but nobody there or anywhere else I’ve been was as fully uninhibited as Wally. He was so passionate about the subject matter, so naturally humorous, and so comfortable with his own, unusual persona that it was impossible not to like him and be infected by his enthusiasm.

There was certainly no deterioration of his sense of humor as he got older.

One time in the eighties after I had started teaching, Wally and his wife Eleanor picked me up at the Columbus airport when I flew in for a visit. At the parking booth, Wally rolled down the window but didn’t hand over his money until he had chatted up the young woman in the booth. “Hello, Dear, how are you tonight?” And he was off. He went on until the car behind us started to honk.  I guess Eleanor wasn’t as impressed by the man-of-the-people as I was because she started in on him, “Do you have to be friendly with everybody, Wally?  Really!!”

Wally was as enthusiastic about Denison as he was about people and ideas. What institutional loyalty he had! When Blair Knapp died suddenly in ’68 and Parker Lichtenstein became Acting President, Wally accepted Parker’s request to replace him as Acting Dean of the College. I remember sitting in the living room drinking what Wally and Eleanor called “martinis” but were really double gins on the rocks, after Wally had been offered the job. Eleanor was her usual skeptical self and listed the reasons why he would hate trading teaching and writing for the drudgery of meetings. Wally cackled loudly, told a story about a meeting that very day that perfectly matched Eleanor’s description, then cleared his pipe and said, “But the college needs me right now.”

Wally and Eleanor welcomed me into their home as a college sophomore and treated me as an adult. They discussed current events, campus politics, popular culture with me as if my opinion was as worthy as theirs. They told me when they thought I was full of it, and they gave me credit when I raised something they hadn’t thought of. By taking me seriously and extending friendship across a generational divide, Wally and Eleanor were facilitated my transition to adulthood.

Two years ago, Sandy Ingraham, John White ’69, and I came a day early to a Denison reunion so we could spend some time with Wally. We took him out to dinner at his beloved Yesterday’s Pub in Newark. Despite a memory that was at that point declining and intermittent, Wally remembered the names of the staff as he joked and flirted with them, and, of course, they doted on him. Half the patrons in the place seemed to know him also. It was a delicious night.  Of course Wally tried to pay the bill. We told him, “No way, Wally.  You taught us about Greek Philosophy; this one’s on us.” As we got up to leave, despite needing his walker, Wally had enough balance to try stuffing $20s in our pockets.

For years Wally entertained alumni coming back for reunions with his Tour of Granville. When I return, I always drive by the house on Briarwood Lane where, in many ways, I grew up. If there’s ever a statue of the prototypical professor, the model is clearly G. Wallace Chessman, several books under his arm, each one bulging with dog-eared papers sticking out.

When she was three months old, Lylle (pronounced “Lily”) was purchased by investors from Miami. They raised her to become a racehorse, and three years later, she won three small races, but retired at the end of the year, never quite reaching the kind of stardom her brother enjoyed. She was a little like the third Olsen sister.

The investors sent Lylle to a trainer in Atlanta, Ga., before she found a more permanent home in North Carolina with Howard Grubbs ’68, his wife Mary Jo, and their then-13-year-old daughter Meg, who had developed a love of horses and riding. Lylle trained and competed with Meg for four years, before Meg developed new interests and the Grubbs family decided it was time for Lylle to move on. However, finding a good match proved difficult.
One day, though, as Howard read Denison Magazine, he wondered whether or not the school would want Lylle for the equestrian team. After several conversations with the school and coach Claudia Hutchinson, the Grubbs family sold Lylle to Hutchinson in 2008 for $1.

Now Lylle lives less than five miles from campus on Hutchinson’s farm with 15 other horses—10 of which the equestrian team rides regularly. Maggie Reagan ’12 (pictured) says that Lylle is known for her love of food (hay anyone?) and canny ability to pose for photographs. Seems about right for a horse that’s been in the spotlight most of her life.

So how do you get a canoe that has been in storage for four decades ready for prime time? With a little spittle, actually. Soaps and cleaning agents are frowned upon in the museum world because they often contain harsh chemicals that could damage a piece. Saliva contains the perfect blend of mild enzymes useful for surface cleaning delicate pieces like the canoe.

This one, by Lois Morrison, is the 11th book in a series of 25 created by the artist in 2005. It’s entirely handmade, from the slips of colorful paper to the handwritten text on sharskin fabric, which tells the tale of the cannibalistic tendencies of small snakes—a jarring image for such a beautiful representation of the animal.

Last semester, visitors to the library had the chance to see this book and others firsthand when Lyle opened an exhibition dedicated to the collection. Lyle points out that these, like many works of art, may comment on socio-political issues such as poverty, race, gender, war, and equal opportunity. Artists also tend to use them as a way of divulging their personal beliefs and life reflections. So, at least we know how Morrison feels about snakes when she writes in the book: “Snakes are not nice.”

But this one sure is pretty.

2. Don’t Talk Too Much.
The idea of networking is an equal exchange. The opportunity to connect with individuals in meaningful ways dictates a two-way conversation. The opportunity to meet new contacts means you need to listen. When it’s your turn to talk, stay away from conversation-stoppers like your personal health and risky topics such as religion and politics. Stick to current events. Stay informed. Find out who might be attending the event and do your homework.

3. Don’t Forget the Purpose of the Event
So you think you’re there to stand in a corner, eat great food, and enjoy the open bar? Think again. If you hang out at the food table, you are sure to meet many people, but the reason you attend networking functions is to network, build your contacts, develop relationships, and maintain those engagements. It’s not a competition to see how many business cards you collect. Find your purpose. What do you want to accomplish, what outcomes are you seeking, and why is this opportunity important to you?

4. Don’t Stretch the Truth
Brad Paisley has a country song titled, “So much cooler online.” The lyrics go like this:

“…’cause online I’m out in Hollywood
I’m 6’5, and I look damn good.
I drive a Maserati.
I’m a black belt in karate.
And I love a good glass of wine ….”

It’s easy to build your character online. However, it’s good form to be honest and authentic. There is a difference between being an engineer and running a train. Both have the same title, but are not the same positions. Make sure you are upfront, honest about who you are, what you do, and who you know. Burning bridges will follow you down a long and lonely road.

5. Don’t Expect a Job Offer from Someone You Just Met
Remember the purpose of the event (see No. 3). You are there to make contacts, build your network. In time, through developed relationships, your contacts will grow and so will your credibility. If you ask someone for a job, she may not have one to give. If you ask someone for advice and counsel, he generally will be more than willing to assist you, help you figure out your path, and help you learn from his own missteps. Never make your new connections feel used. Remember, after meeting someone you’ve added to your network, it is good practice to send a thank-you. Even a quick email is better than nothing at all. And, you never know when you’re doing business. The first meeting may not land you the position you’d hoped for, but it could open the door to your dream job down the road.

That bid came with such clout that Denison was chosen of one of eight top seeds, earning the 18-1 Big Red a first-round bye. The dream season ended in the second round, when nationally ranked MIT upended Denison, 4-1.

The season leading up to this year’s NCAA postseason action was one for the ages. The 2011 Denison field hockey squad tied the school’s all-time record for wins in a season with 18, a feat also accomplished in 1984. Catie Merrick ’13 scored 15 goals, bringing her career total to 54. She has already shattered the previous career scoring mark of 44 goals held by Jenny Lacey ’06 and Wizzie Crocker ’95. Goalkeeper Brittany Benson ’13 also made her way into the Denison record books, posting 14 shutouts and surpassing the previous mark of 12 set by Elise Ludwig ’00. With 22 career shutouts already, and one more season to play, Benson also is threatening Ludwig’s career record of 25. Postseason honors were predictably profuse, as Benson, the NCAC’s Defensive Player of the Year, headlined a horde of All-Conference first-teamers that included defender Kelsey Flowers ’12, defender Karla Dixon ’14, defender Tara Pesman ’15, and forward Katie McMahon ’14. In addition, McMahon was honored as a Division III All-American, and head coach P.J. Soteriades was named both the Conference and Regional Coach of the Year. Says Nan Carney-Debord ’80, Denison director of athletics: “It was impressive to watch the fierce competitiveness, athletic prowess, and quite simply, joy for the game displayed by every member of the field hockey team.”

In 1989, Gary and Suzanne Baker moved to Granville for the fall semester at Denison, where Gary had been hired as a German professor. At the time, Stone Hall housed Denison faculty and their families, so the Bakers moved into apartment 105. Two years later, Kyle was born. He learned to walk in the apartment, but, says Suzanne, he was hesitant to start because of the hardwood floors.

Suzanne, now an education professor at Denison, also remembers the sense of community her young family felt in Stone Hall. In the building, which was built in 1905 and remodeled into 14 apartments in 1961, there were two other faculty children born within a year of Kyle: Cyrus Smith, son of Sandra Mathern-Smith, dance professor, and Gabriela Jaramillo, daughter of the late Eduardo Jaramillo, a Spanish professor. Suzanne recalls the three children (pictured above) playing in the main entryway together near the mailboxes.

Of the three families, the Bakers moved out first, leaving for a house about a mile away in April 1992. The family still returned, though, often spending the Fourth of July and Halloween in downtown Granville with Kyle’s “Stone Hall friends”—all of whom remain pals today. Why did Kyle decide to return to his roots? For one, he’s a music major, so living on South Quad, where music classes are held, makes sense. Two, well, he likes his history with the building. And the floors don’t seem to bother him much anymore.

“The poem is our text,” says Baker. “And we talk about everything: the different ways we have of reading it; what we think it means and how it works; its political, regional and personal contexts; how it relates to other poems; the reasons we each think it’s succeeding; and where it isn’t succeeding.”

The group works with five or six poems, and then gives the information to the writer. But not, Baker emphasizes, so that she can incorporate all of the feedback. The writer chooses the comments that matter to her and uses them in completing her poem. “What we’ve done is to help her think of how she might enter the poem and how she might revise it—that’s a workshop—the real nuts and bolts of working on something from the inside together.”
“It’s intense, very intense, but that’s what’s remarkable about it—and students really learn how to write.”

The rigor of these workshops also helps Baker shape his own poems. While he can easily see what to do with other people’s writing, it’s far more difficult to achieve that objectivity with his own work. “From having taught creative writing for a long time, I’ve been able to find in my own poems things that are wrong. Clichés, idioms, the things that I think are nifty. When I see them happen in other poems, it helps me identify those same issues in mine.”

Baker believes that poetry is important to students—but also to society. When there are few avenues for freedom of expression, poetry becomes even more important to cultures.

“Historically, I see this happening at the beginning of every century. After the paralyzing conservatism at the end of each century, the new century romantically throws off the old guard. The innovation in art is happening in the gaps and spaces in society—in Zuccotti Park—not on Wall Street.”

He’s seen that poetry is stretching its wings, becoming more complicated and avant-garde, and sometimes hopeful. And all the new media that people have available to them, such as Twitter and Facebook, have given birth to new forms of poetry. “A friend of mine has put together a form of a poem that works only on Twitter. These things spread like crazy across regional, national, and linguistic boundaries.

“Poetry is like music and like dance and like theatre and like painting all at once. I don’t know of any other art that contains all the other arts like poetry does. Poetry requires a musical ear and a physical imagination and a performative sense and a linguistic sense—that’s why I do it.” —Ginny Olderman Sharkey ’83

I’m sitting in the new performance space in the basement of Knapp Hall, chatting with Gill Wright Miller ’74, associate professor of dance, about movement. In just a few minutes students will stream into the room, ready to learn all about the involuntary movements of infants. I’m here because I happen to know the one-year-old they’ll be using as a subject today: my son, Lucas. Now, Lucas is an enigma to my husband and me. We were spoiled by our first son, Sam, who slept through the night early on and preferred to study the tags on very loud talking toys rather than play with the very loud talking toys themselves. It was all relatively peaceful; then Lucas came along, and things got pretty exciting. Where Sam was books and quiet play, Lucas is pure physical energy barreling from one activity to the next and laughing all the way.

So when Miller asked if she and her students could observe him, I was thrilled. I knew her academic expertise lies in somatics and a branch of that discipline, Body-Mind Centering, which is an approach to understanding one’s body by studying its anatomical systems and developmental movement patterns. Miller’s a pro when it comes to the movement part of BMC, so she has a knack for using body movement to predict behavior. In fact, sometimes she makes predictions about her students’
study habits based on the way they carry themselves. (She writes the predictions on pieces of paper—things like whether or not a student will turn assignments in on time. She seals these predictions in envelopes, and at the end of the semester, students get to see if she’s pegged them correctly. Miller
proclaims a 90 percent success rate.)

In today’s class, Somatics I, about a dozen students sit on the floor in a circle, with notebooks at the ready. They had already observed a four-month-old infant as well as several videos of babies on the move, and now Lucas is at the center of attention—and let’s just say he likes it here. There are exercise balls rolling around here and there, some toys scattered about, and a couple of female students with whom Lucas has developed a rapport.

While he crawls around and plays, the students look for specific movements—things like “negative supporting reflex” (for those who are not experts in somatics, this means that babies who have been bouncing will pull their legs upward on the upswing); “landau righting reaction” (lying on the belly,
with arms and legs out and up—we call this “body surfing” at my house); and extensor thrust reflex (using arms or legs to push away from an object or the ground). At one point Miller picks up the baby, but he stretches his arms to the sky in an attempt to slide out from under her grip. At another point, he takes a ball and begins a game of catch with a student. And when he’s had enough, he heads over to Jo-Jo Tsai ’13, puts his head in her lap, and rests. We’re all laughing at his complete abandon, but he clearly doesn’t care. He’s tired.

When Miller and I catch up for coffee a few weeks later, I ask her to tell me about Lucas’ personality. I implore her to do the “envelope experiment” with him because my husband and I are quite sure that he’s going to be the son we’ll need to pin down to do his homework. We also have a few other theories
about Lucas, our little Prince Harry. We’re guessing that he’ll be the brother who worries less about consequences; that he’ll be more of a fun-loving comic; that he’ll get bored easily. Miller puts it to me this way: “He knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to let you know it.” But will he turn in his assignments on time? “No,” she says, apologetically. “No. He won’t.”

I knew it. And hey Lucas, I’m on to you.

Maureen Harmon
Editor

The college expectancy period involves at least three trymesters. The operative word is try. Try (trı) v.: to make an attempt or effort to do something. Ex.: I will try to stay sane during my child’s senior year.

The problem is, there’s no Lamaze class for the bumpy college-bound journey. And parents deserve more than a sugarcoated handbook for what to expect when their kids hit the college circuit. So after two tours of duty, I decided it was time to write one.

Please note: College-bound trymesters can differ, depending upon whether your child applies early decision, early action, or regular decision, but the course is still the same—trauma, drama, nagging, and success. Ironically, you’re required to keep your senior on track at exactly the same time that those “What did I walk into this room for?” senior moments start hitting you. Like childbirth, however, the pain is fleeting and, in the end, well worth it. Your baby’s going to college.

FIRST TRYMESTER: TRY TO REMAIN CALM
First Trymester Features:

Nausea
It’s normal to be nervous, nauseated, and confused during the first trymester of your child’s college search. Expect the symptoms to be worse if it’s your first child. The process bears no resemblance to your beanbag chair college days, and you’re clueless. Life is one big question mark with tons of abbreviations. Acronyms haven’t been this unsettling since the unsolicited AARP application landed in your mailbox before its time. AP. ACT. SAT. GPA. ED. EA. Each one seems more important than the next. By the time you figure out what a FAFSA is, you need an EKG and a security guard for your IRA.

Anxiety
The only thing worse than worrying about your teen taking standardized tests is the thought of having to take them yourself. It’s true; I’d take a bullet for my kid but not the SAT. To combat this overwhelming anxiety, you will likely resort to one of three strategies:

1: Shopping You can’t pass a Barnes & Noble without purchasing several phone book-sized practice tests for your teen. Amazon’s emails begin to suggest you might also be interested in the LSAT, GMAT, and some Rosetta Stone software. You have enough CDs, DVDs, flashcards, and course materials to open your own Princeton Review satellite office. Chances are good that by the time this shopping spree is over, you will have carpal tunnel syndrome.

2: Drilling You believe that with a little disciplined study, your child will shine. The stopwatch is dusted off and the prep course checks are in the mail. You lock up the car keys and lock down your teen until work sheets, study guides, and online practice tests are complete. You’ve been known to hover to ensure that practice happens.

3: Creating Your teen’s prep experience is tailor-made, thanks to your handmade flashcards and ability to think outside the box. When your SAT Scrabble game doesn’t fly, you move on to Plan B. Decorating cupcakes with math problems and recording a rap CD with vocab words, you’ve even patented a special lock for the Xbox that can be deactivated only by choosing the correct answers to complex algebra problems. You’re like Martha Stewart and Bill Gates rolled up into one perky test-prep parent.

4: Opt Out Some schools, like Denison, are test optional. So if your son or daughter doesn’t want to submit their score on the ACT or SAT, they don’t have to.

Literature
Your mailbox and child’s inbox are flooded with information. Your home now houses more catalogues and brochures than Pottery Barn’s mailroom. The dining room table is so far gone, you’ve booked a reservation for Thanksgiving dinner. Since a picture paints a thousand words, you start to believe that most college classes are held outdoors and have a 1:4 professor:student ratio. Unsure if it’s the beautiful pamphlets or your child’s testy attitude, you begin to consider sending him off to faraway lands.

Travel
There’s good news this trymester—you’re allowed to travel! The college road trip is the golden opportunity for family bonding and bickering. But you can’t take it until the applicant decides where she wants to go. And these days she’s making commitments about as fast as George Clooney. The only thing more frustrating is her counterpart who lands on campus but refuses to get out of the car because he doesn’t like “the look.” In times like these, it helps to take a Sharpie to the old car decal. BIG Baby is definitely on board.

Procrastination
It’s normal for teens to procrastinate and uncomfortable for parents to watch as college deadlines approach. You sound like a broken record and feel like a personal assistant trying to keep him on schedule. He points out that you were always the last parent to hand in the permission slip. Darn, apparently it’s genetic and, like everything else in that crazy teen world, your fault.

The students’ visit to Nicaragua came at a historic time. The Esquipulas II Accord among Central American countries, which laid out a framework for economic cooperation and peaceful conflict resolution, had been signed the previous August. Each country was to create a National Reconciliation Commission to develop a grassroots, on-the-ground plan for peace. Four people—the archbishop, a member of the ruling party, a member of the opposition party, and a distinguished private citizen­—would comprise each commission. In Nicaragua, that distinguished citizen was Gustavo Parajón, a physician and pastor of the First Baptist Church in Managua.

Parajón, who died in March this year at the age of 75, was an extraordinary figure—and not only for his role in those peace negotiations. In 1972 when an earthquake killed thousands of Nicaraguans and collapsed most of the buildings in Managua, the Nicaraguan government, then under the repressive Somoza family dictatorship, was unwilling or unable to do what was necessary to help its citizens. So Parajón, who earned his medical doctorate from Case Western Reserve and a master’s degree in public health from Harvard, founded the Council of Protestant Churches in Nicaragua (CEPAD) within four days of the disaster to provide emergency relief. CEPAD quickly became the largest Nicaraguan disaster relief organization and later broadened its mission to include development programs, including training in agricultural practices for farmers and the development of water and sanitation facilities.

When the Somoza regime toppled in 1979, and the Sandinista government came to power, Parajón’s significance skyrocketed, says George Williamson, former pastor of the First Baptist Church of Granville. Nicaragua was nearly 50 percent illiterate. The new government made national literacy one of its first priorities, launching the national literacy campaign with the support of organizational structures already in place through CEPAD as well as PROVADENIC (the Project of Vaccinations and Community Development of Nicaragua), which Parajón also founded to train village leaders to become health care providers and manage small rural clinics. In what has been called a “country-wide miracle,” more than 50,000 volunteer teachers, mostly high school students, were mobilized to teach reading throughout the country. In just five months, 400,000 Nicaraguans were taught to read and write, bringing the illiteracy rate down to 12 percent. “Gus’ commitment to the work of the Gospel, that is, to help the poor, the sick, and the disinherited, was exemplary,” says Ron Santoni, emeritus professor of philosphy, who was part of the Denison group that met with Parajón in Managua.

In 1985, CEPAD was tapped to help form local peace commissions in the villages most affected by the war. The members of these groups—pastors, priests, local citizens, members of the opposition, even ex-Contras—were carefully chosen so that rebel soldiers could literally lay down their arms, receive amnesty, and be integrated into their villages without having to fear for their personal security.

But troubled times were not yet behind the country. Contra forces, seeking to destabilize the new government, specifically targeted the villages where health and development programs like CEPAD and PROVADENIC had a presence. They sent Parajón death threats by phone and through public radio.

But that didn’t stop Parajón and his team from going into war zones to assist in the peace commissions. They traveled without bodyguards, and Parajón carried only a notebook and a Bible. Once his team was stoned by an angry mob. Another time his vehicle was hit by bullets, but miraculously, nobody was injured.

While he was gone, his family and members of his congregation would hold their breath. In the evening, they would keep lookout for Parajón and his entourage. The villages were remote, the mountain roads rough and challenging, making for long hard days for the travelers. Often it was quite late when they pulled into sight. But always, when they finally returned, there was first the sigh of relief, and then great jubilation—everyone singing and dancing and hugging.

You could get a sense of Parajón’s leadership style that January evening as he sat on his porch with those Denison students. He could have lectured at great length about the war and the enormous changes now taking place in Nicaragua. Instead, he engaged the students in conversation and called on the people from CEPAD there that night to tell their stories.
“What astounded me,” remembers Jack Kirby, professor emeritus of history, “was that this guy was enormously modest and had that real capacity to reach out to other people. Gus was a doctor and minister. Those things guided his policies. He worked to connect with everybody.”

That, in a way, was the point of the trip. The Denison group would go on to visit places where they could see the effects of war. They went to a child-care center that had been bombed and into hospitals that were “horribly ill-equipped,” according to Bill Nichols, professor emeritus of English. “We met a woman who had just come with her 3-year-old girl because her village had been attacked and her husband and other children had been killed.” Nichols still chokes up when he talks about it. “Our January term in Nicaragua was life-changing for many-—students and faculty alike,” says Santoni.

What they would take away form their trip was the humanity that Parajón embodied and the recognition of how the organizations he founded, and the people he touched, worked to bring a divided country back together again.

I loved the farm. Bare feet and bib overalls, cows to milk, cornfields, and a swimming hole. The farmhouse was already two hundred years old when we got there and had only two electric lights, a pump for water in the kitchen sink, and a big iron woodstove. There was a cold room, where sides of meat and bacon hung, and a crock to store the doughnuts Aunt Ruby served up out of a cast-iron cauldron of boiling oil on the stove. She’d pluck the glistening doughnuts out with a long, charred stick and drop them into our outstretched hands, and we’d bounce this scalding, greasy delight around until it wouldn’t burn our mouths, and then we ate it. There is nothing in this world I have ever tasted in the finest restaurants around the globe that could match the heavenly taste of those doughnuts.

That summer on the Spalding farm came to an alarming end when we arrived home and found the door to Grandpa’s room closed to mute the sounds of his agony. The doctor and nurses would open his door, and for one frightening moment we would hear the full-out cries of our great soldier in the grip of battle with death, and then the door closed again. He faced that dark angel with curses and disbelief. His bedroom had twin beds, and he was moved from one bed to the other all day and night as he drenched the sheets with the sweat of his relentless torture. Sometimes he slept. Or the pain receded for a brief term. We lingered outside the door, sick with fright, listening for the sounds of our champion.

My sister June and I were sent away before Grandpa died. Only Alberta, our other sister, stayed with our housekeeper, Nettie Wigton. June and I were to go to Cleveland and stay with strangers.

Before we left, I was brought in to say goodbye. It was not put to me like that, but when I stood outside the door of Grandfather’s room and waited, I knew what this moment would mean to me for the rest of my life. Goodbye, Grandpa. Goodbye, my captain.

In Cleveland, June and I were enrolled for the year at St. Augustine Academy. And while Grandma remained in South Weymouth for Grandfather’s last days, we were sent to live with some people who were friends of Grandma’s housekeeper, Francis. They lived in a substantial but much more modest home than Grandma’s twenty-room mansion, not in a fancy part of town, and perhaps this was the source of the sourness with which the man of the house received us. He made it clear we were unwelcome. His wife was kind enough, considering the burden our coming had laid upon her home, and their young son was a decent boy. But the man was a bear trap ready to spring, so we crept around him.

The new school was a major diversion, and since we were not Catholics, I noticed a lot of strange things about St. Augustine. The grounds were very nice, and there were buildings that looked like castles, but I kept seeing so many statues of a woman with her head tilted down, sometimes looking at a baby, that it gave the whole place a feeling of sadness. She seemed to be slightly unhappy, this woman, although if you got close enough, there might be a tiny, sweet smile lurking under the stone cloth that hung over her head. I was 12, and I remember thinking, Could this be my mother?

There were real people called nuns all over the place, with real cloths over their heads, black cloths that hung over stiff white picture frames resembling starched collars that covered everything except their foreheads, eyes, noses, mouths, and chins. Some of these women appeared to be pretty ferocious. Since all that showed was their faces, I learned to read their disposition from their eyes and mouths.

There was a young one named Sister Ernestine. I wished she really was my sister, or maybe my mother, because I could see in her face that she was a very nice, kind, soft person. I found out that Sisters couldn’t be mothers, but I’ll bet she could have been a nice one.
One evening at the house where we lived with the strangers, we were having dinner and the man of the house was angry at June. An empty jar of chocolate sauce had been found under her bed, and the man was accusing June with very near to white fury in his voice. “You will be punished. This is stealing! You will stay in your room for a week on bread and water.”

A silence followed. June’s head was unbowed. She did not apologize. The man picked up his evening newspaper and said, “Oh, by the way. You’ll probably be interested in this. ‘Stetson Shoe Dealer Dies.’” Then he read Grandpa’s obituary to us.

June began to scream. She broke from the table and ran into the night, disregarding the man’s furious orders to “Get back in here!” I ran past him and called for her to wait for me, but she was lost in the neighborhood shadows. The man ordered me inside. I turned on him with an authority I didn’t know I had: “I’m going to find my sister!” I sounded like Grandfather. I would have killed the man where he stood. He saw it and retired. I looked for June in the maze of neighborhood streets, under a cold moon, and I finally found her. She would not stop sobbing. We wandered together until the terrible shock began to go away, and silence took over. “Look at the stars, Harold,” she said. “You see how bright they are? Grandpa is up there, and he sees us.” That is how we found out Grandpa died. The next morning my first class at St. Augustine was with Sister Ernestine. She always started it off with a prayer. When the class was assembled, she waited until it was quiet. Then she said, “This morning we are going to say a prayer for Harold’s grandfather, who has gone to heaven.” It was an act of kindness I would always remember.

I never got a chance to grieve over Grandfather’s death. The cold hearth ruled over by the man did not allow for it. This haunting grief stayed inside me.
Our father never showed up at the deathbed, of course, having been put away in the insane asylum. Our mother didn’t seem to exist at all. She had tap-danced her way into infinity. Or Hollywood, which is where she was last sighted. Our father eventually got out of the asylum, since he’d never been pathologically insane in the first place, whereupon he took to the road, riding the rails to California in search of my mother. He nearly froze to death under a boxcar going over the Rockies. From time to time he sent a message by Western Union. It usually read: “Am broke. Send $50 General Delivery Phoenix. Harold.” We had the same name: Harold Rowe Holbrook. I’m Junior. I hoped that was as far as I would follow in his footsteps. The telegram came to Grandma, who always sent him the $50. There was a picture of him in her room. He was tall and thin and handsome, with dark eyebrows like Henry Fonda’s, and he was wearing white flannels and a white sweater and his dark hair was slicked down. I didn’t know what to make of this movie star father who looked like Henry Fonda and was dressed in white.

Where was he? Did I look like him? Did I want to see him? Every time a telegram came from Phoenix, Fairbanks, or Juarez, I told myself, “Don’t go crazy or you’ll end up like him.” Once, I remember seeing him outside the house in Cleveland fighting with my uncle Al. I peered out the window and there was my father throwing punches at Uncle Al and cursing him. My father was winning because he was wildly aggressive, like a crazy person, his arms swinging like windmills, and Uncle Al couldn’t get out of the way. Then the police came and took my father away. Back to the asylum? All I knew was that he was gone.

Now Grandpa was gone, too, and we were back in Cleveland. The house was big and empty and there was no more grief in it for Grandpa than there had been at the man’s house. All I could do was go upstairs to Grandpa’s big bedroom and bath and the friendly den that still smelled of his cigar smoke and remember him. In the middle of the house, opposite Grandma’s room and facing Lake Erie, was a large room with a heavy four-poster bed. This was June and Alberta’s room. It was here that Grandma assembled us when she returned with Alberta from the funeral in South Weymouth. An air of suspense tainted the room.

“I want to tell you children something. I do not like girls. I have loved this little boy ever since I saw him in the hospital, my blue-eyed baby boy. I will do the best I can for you, but I do not like girls.” I remember the shame and disgrace I felt for all of us. I suppose she was trying to be honest, and she must have felt frightened and overwhelmed, but it was the worst thing she could have said. A sense of survival set in from that moment on. It was a furtive thing, a layer of desperation underneath our daily existence, like quicksand. We were bound together in the name of brother and sisters and the knowledge we had of one another’s fears and sorrows, but on that day we were sent forth upon our private journeys, looking for safety and looking for love.

June and Alberta were also at St. Augustine that year, but I don’t remember spending much time with them. They were girls, and when they were with other girls they became different people. Girls laughed too much and looked as if they had secrets against boys and that made boys nervous, so for my sisters and me it was almost like going to different schools. But there was one girl who was different. She was quiet. She had dark, interested eyes and dark hair and her face was in repose most of the time. She had small curves on her body, and I found it hard not to look at her a lot. Sometimes I saw she was looking at me. One time she smiled. I noticed she walked home in the same direction as I did and one day we happened to leave at the same time, so we walked together. I had begun to consider the idea of asking her to go to the movies. I’d never had a date with a girl, and I had just turned 13 years old. It was time. Now or never.

“Uh.”

She smiled at me. “Yes?”

“Do you like the movies?”

“Sometimes.”

“Would you go to a movie with me?”

“When?”

“Saturday.”

“I think so, but I have to ask my father.”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I had to ask Grandma, and that took a measure of courage, too. I was her blue-eyed baby boy and wise enough at 13 to know she did not expect competition. She was taking me out to Stouffer’s with her that night. The girls had misbehaved and were being punished by not being allowed to go, which was no punishment at all to June and Alberta. They made their own fun. So I sat in a chair in Grandma’s room while she preened in front of the mirror, dressed in a flimsy kimono, and curled her hair with the hot iron, spitting on her fingers to test its heat.

“Grandma, I want to go to the movies this Saturday.”

“Which movie do you want to see?”

“I mean with a girl.”

“A girl? What girl?”

“A girl at school.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s a nice girl. She said she had to ask her father, so I’m asking you, too.”

“What’s her father’s name?”

“I think it’s Mr. Rodzinski.”

“That sounds Jewish. What does he do?”

“I think he’s a bandleader. He has a band.”

“You want to go to the movies with the daughter of a kike bandleader?”

“Yes, Grandma.”

“Well. We’ll see.”

It turned out that Mr. Artur Rodzinski was the conductor of the Cleveland Philharmonic Orchestra, a civic resource beyond the cultural summits of my family’s adventuring, but clearly on a higher social plane than Harry James, so I was allowed to go.

This brings me to the astounding realization that nobody ever read books in my family. If they did, books were never mentioned. Nor did they go to concerts or the theater and certainly not the ballet. They lived in a limbo world apart from such foolish fancies, and as I was to learn years later, so does much of America.

Our mother and father danced for us and must have gone to the theater and done all kinds of exciting things, but that was never talked about. They were strangers. Our mother was never mentioned. Was it because she was in show business? Because she danced? Because she was different and that was an embarrassment? And so was my father, because he did not want to go into the shoe business. Did they put him away because he was different?

The creative urge is an impish shadow that falls across a child’s path as if by accident, giving some credence to the notion that it is subversive. Thus it was that I began to dance like Fred Astaire. My performances were secret and took place in the basement in a recreation room with a shiny varnished floor thirty feet long and a windup Victrola sitting alone on the dance floor. And there was a spooky, impish bonus: an album of records belonging to my mother. The day I made this discovery, I plucked one out of its sleeve, put it on the turntable, and cranked up His Master’s Voice. The glorious sound of a man singing “My Blue Heaven” poured out of the horn-shaped speaker that spread like a crown above this magic box.

There was no one around. I started to move, spinning and pirouetting in wild arcs. As I gave myself up to the thrill of it, I performed feats of creative contortion that would have been impossible had anyone been watching.

Since the recreation room was at the far end of the enormous cellar running the length of the house, my clandestine recitals remained secret for some time. Then June caught me at it and started to riffle through our mother’s record collection in wonder and sober delight. When this secret trove was revealed to Alberta, they both spent hours listening to the collection, knowing that our mother’s hands had held these records and that she had danced to them.
The recreation room became a kind of hiding place for us, a place to dream things and pretend, where we spent time alone or with each other. Grandma never came down there, nor did Francis. There was a door in one wall. It was always locked, and we never gave it a thought. One day I found it open. So I went in, and when I snapped on the light, I saw that it was a trunk room and right in front of me was a wardrobe trunk standing open. It was upright, with clothes on one side hung on special little hangers, a woman’s clothes. On the right side were drawers, gray and quite deep. I stared at this strange sight for a while, wondering whose trunk it was and why it was open. Then I pulled out one of the drawers.

Baby shoes, baby clothes, little silver spoons and forks, two little silver cups. On one cup was engraved the word “Sunshine.” Could that be me? I opened another drawer and found some long, rolled-up pictures of pretty women in a chorus line onstage. They were bending over, holding their knees, and smiling. They didn’t have much on. Under one of the women was a little arrow.

The woman above the arrow was onstage with a man, and she was holding a guitar. The name Joe Penner was written in a margin and that had a familiar sound. One of the big pictures had a caption: “George White Scandals.” There were letters, a batch of them tied together with a blue ribbon. The reality of what I had discovered began to dawn on me. I slipped a letter out and read “Dear Aileen…” That was my mother! I looked for my father’s name at the bottom of the letter, and it wasn’t there. There was another man’s name. Russ.

These were my mother’s things. This was her trunk. She was on the stage. She was in a big show about “Scandals,” and I had never been told. She was in show business. She was on the stage! Our mother! Was our father on the stage, too? Who was the man who wrote these letters my mother kept with a blue ribbon around them? I started to read the one in my hand. It was very personal, about love, and I was embarrassed so I stopped. I felt like a thief stealing into my mother’s life. These people were strangers.

They later announced a further 3,653 possible closures, most of them in small towns and rural areas. All in all, the service intends to review as many as 16,000 post offices, fully half of the 32,000 currently in existence, for possible closure by the end of the decade.

Granted, post office closures are nothing new. According to the website of the Museum of Postal History in Delphos, Ohio, there were, at the turn of the 20th century, 103 post offices in the three counties (Van Wert, Allen, and Putnam) served by the central Delphos post office. Today there are 30. But a proposed 18 percent reduction in one year, or a 50 percent reduction over the course of ten, would represent a radical trimming—some might even say a gutting. And the small towns and rural communities in which most of the closures will occur are not likely to come away unscathed. As Donny Hobbs, mayor of Lohrville, Iowa (pop. 369), recently said in testimony before the Postal Regulatory Commission, post offices provide small towns with everything from much-needed business services to a sense of local pride and identity. Lohrville itself is at risk of losing its post office.

Post Offices also serve as a vital social hub. “No other place brings in everyone from a community,” said Hobbs —a sentiment echoed by Bill Kirkpatrick, an associate professor of communication at Denison, who specializes in media and cultural studies. He asserts that the post office is one of the last remaining noncommercial spaces left in this country where people of all classes and ethnicities can come together. “There are very few public spaces like that left in America,” Kirkpatrick says. “When the post office is lost, what’s going to replace it?”
All of this goes a long way toward explaining why media coverage of the planned closures revealed such anger and dismay among small-town residents, who seemed little mollified by assurances that they would continue to receive basic services from post offices in neighboring communities.

It is possible, of course, that the USPS is simply using the threat of mass closures to pressure Congress, which regulates it, to enact legislation that would help shore up its teetering finances. But the economic challenges that the service faces are very real: postal officials say that the USPS currently loses $23 million a day, and it is expected to end the year 2012 with a $14.1 billion deficit.

The factors underlying this desperate state of affairs are fairly straightforward. In recent years, the USPS has been hammered by competition from email and private carriers like UPS and FedEx: according to the service’s own figures, total mail volume dropped by 20 percent from 2006 to 2010, with first-class mail—the most lucrative sort, and the one over which the postal service has an absolute monopoly—plunging by 28 percent. In addition, Congress demands that the service pre-fund its Retiree Health Benefits Fund to the tune of approximately $5.5 billion a year, a requirement that the National Association of Letter Carriers would itself like to see ended. Federal labor regulations make it difficult for the service to shed or even reassign workers in order to cut costs or improve efficiency. Moreover, despite some recent innovations—the service recently announced for the first time that it would allow the likenesses of the living as well as the dead to grace its stamps—the government, for the last several decades, has had a hard time keeping the USPS relevant. In 1982, for example, the now-defunct Congressional Office of Technology Assessment prepared a study that warned of the need to respond quickly to the looming threat of electronic communications. In 2011, the USPS itself published a white paper in which it argued that the service ought to enhance its digital capabilities, and perhaps even move toward an Apple-like system of digital apps. Even so, it seems that the service and Congress haven’t managed to keep up with the ever-evolving digital revolution.

And yet the dire straits in which our nation’s mail service currently finds itself stand in stark contrast to its illustrious history. Few institutions have played such a pivotal role in the development of American society.

As Richard R. John, an historian of communications at Columbia University, recounts in Spreading the News: The American Postal System from Franklin to Morse, the postal service was once regarded as an information superhighway and tool of democracy on a par with today’s Internet and social media. Nineteenth century pundits and political theorists considered the mail service a “mighty arm of civil government” without which the press would be “crippled and disabled.” They described it as the nervous system of the body politic, and labeled it a “great link between minds,” binding together an entire nation into “one great neighborhood.”

If you find all of this hard to believe, you’re in good company. No less an astute observer of American society than Alexis de Tocqueville, author of Democracy in America, was shocked to find that pioneers in backwoods Michigan in the 1830s were, thanks to the quality of their mail service, better informed of national events than residents of the Département du Nord, one of the largest and most commercially active administrative regions in France. “There is an astonishing circulation of letters and newspapers among these savage woods,” Tocqueville wrote. “I do not think that in the most enlightened rural districts of France there is intellectual movement either so rapid or on such a scale as in this wilderness.”

Given its current state, it is hard to believe that the United States Postal Service was once so central to American social, political, and intellectual life. In the 21st century, the USPS is hemorrhaging money and losing cultural market share at roughly the same pace as newspapers and bookstores.

There is both tragedy and irony to be found in the postal service’s gradual decline. At its inception in 1792, the system was viewed as a potential cash cow, one modeled after the royal postage service that the British re-created in North America during the colonial period. And it was for many years an engine of innovation, one that led to the establishment of the first large-scale road networks and later helped spur such transformative technologies as the railroad and the electric telegraph. The mere fact that the central government was able to establish and maintain so large and well-oiled an operation was itself considered a technological and administrative miracle. “It’s so much a part of our everyday life that we forget how revolutionary it was,” Kirkpatrick says. “This was their man on the moon.”
But much like the space program, the postal service has lost much of its luster. Perhaps its last great technological contributions came in the 1950s and 1960s, when it helped to introduce the barcode and optical character recognition, both of which are essential to tracking mail. Despite these achievements a half century ago, it is hard to see today’s USPS competing with the new-media companies that now dominate information technology and digital communications.

Nonetheless, amidst all the talk of operating deficits, closures, and possible reductions in service, there are signs that the USPS may be with us for some time to come. For example, a 2008 study by the RAND Corporation points out that the private carriers that have stolen so much of the service’s business continue to rely on the postal service to make final delivery of packages, tapping its national infrastructure and enormous labor force to save time and money.

And we have by no means reached the point at which all Americans have the resources, let alone the inclination, to carry out all of their written communications via e-mail and instant messaging. Those who suggest otherwise ought to consider the latest statistics from Point Topic, a British broadband analytics firm, which indicate that the United States ranks 27th in the world in broadband penetration—behind Macau, Estonia, and Slovenia. “We can’t do without the postal service yet,” Kirkpatrick says.

Nor, one might argue, should we hope to; and not just out of some misplaced sense of nostalgia for what the pop-culture critic Gary Beato, writing in the libertarian magazine Reason, called “an authentic, old-timey example of ‘heritage’ communications,” like a handwritten thank-you note.

It is telling, for instance, that when the Postal Regulatory Commission asked the Urban Institute, a nonpartisan think tank for economic and social policy research, to identify the benefits that the post office delivers to individuals and society, much of what it turned up had little or nothing to do with the delivery of mail. The Institute noted, for example, that letter carriers serve as a kind of neighborhood watch; that postal workers help reestablish contact with citizens after natural disasters like Hurricane Katrina; and that the postal service plays a role in government services such as voter registration and census completion. (Wildlife officials in many Midwestern states, including Ohio, still rely on rural mail carrier surveys to estimate populations of everything from rabbits to quail.) Most strikingly, it pointed out the role that the Postal Service plays in nurturing social links, fostering civic pride, and “promoting community identity through local post offices and services that support civic engagement.”

This is not a new concept. The idea that the postal service acts as a kind of social glue to help hold American society together is spelled out in the Postal Reorganization Act of 1970, which states that the “basic function” of the USPS is to “bind the Nation together through the personal, educational, literary, and business correspondence of the people,” and to provide “prompt, reliable, and efficient services to patrons in all areas… and all communities.” In Spreading the News, Richard John argues that in the 19th century, the precursor of our modern mail service created a national market by allowing businesses to conduct trade from the Atlantic seaboard to the Western frontier. Just as importantly, by disseminating newspapers, political pamphlets, Congressional newsletters, and personal correspondence the length and breadth of the nation at a time when no other form of long-distance communication was available, the service also enabled the formation of a shared national identity—and of just the sort of informed citizenry that is necessary for the proper functioning of a representative democracy.

The postal service is no longer the only game in town when it comes to spreading information and creating imagined communities across vast distances. Indeed, many people under the age of 30 now associate those functions exclusively with digital communications. Nonetheless, in smaller towns and rural communities, the post office remains not just the center of commercial activity, but also one of the few places where people can engage in face-to-face contact with their fellow citizens; where the postmaster keeps a pot of coffee brewing for customers; and where the letter carrier knows every child on his or her route by name. Lose that, and you lose a lot. “Community doesn’t just happen,” Kirkpatrick notes. “Community has to be nurtured; there have to be places where people can come together.”

A retreat from the postal service is, Kirkpatrick argues, both a retreat from democracy, and a retreat from our historic commitment to a shared national culture—a commitment that has, for much of this nation’s history, been represented by its postal service. Abandoning the symbol implies that we are abandoning the ideal. And that’s no small thing.
“We need a shared social commitment to keeping everyone in our society connected and able to participate in this democracy,” Kirkpatrick adds. “If we walk away from it, we’re walking away from something big.”

Alexander Gelfand is a freelance writer based in New York. He has written for The New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, and The Economist.