"You Can't Go Back — But in a Way, You Can"

The following was not intended as aletter to the editor for publication, butwe have requested, and 'been given, permission to print it. The writer, father ofa '63 son, is editor of the Milford (N. H.) Cabinet and was once UndergraduateEditor of the Alumni Magazine.

I'm glad that the Freshman Green Book confirms that I have a son at Dartmouth. It is hard for me to believe, too.

You can think a lot about Dartmouth, but you can't go back. You can pretend, but you are not fooling anyone.

I remember visiting a few years ago at B.U. - but it could have been on any campus - standing by a classroom building. My crew cut was short, my collar turned up at the proper collegiate angle; I was, I fondly believed, the picture of the typical undergraduate, waiting for someone to ask: "How did you do in the exam..." Instead a diffident student approached. "Pardon me, Sir, but could you ..." No, I couldn't. You can't go back.

But in a way you can.

You can if your son enters Dartmouth.

You have planned on it for a long time, everything seems under control. Then one day you find yourself driving into Hanover, and there's the spire of Baker, and all of a sudden funny little emotions begin to take over, and you feel sort of choked up, and you look for a parking space, trying to appear very much in command of the situation.

The lawns are the same incredible green that you remember, and the same students appear to be strolling across the campus. You walk by Robinson Hall and look in at the DOC office. The automatic pilot takes over — that automatic pilot conditioned by four years in Hanover. It guides you across the street to the Library, and even into the men's room at the foot of the basement stairs, just where it used to be.

The same parents, the same clusters of undergraduates and their dates, are discussing the Orozco murals.

You start to bound up the stairs at Woodward. The first flight is easy. The second and third are a little steep. Everything is so natural. A couple of students come down the hall, and without thinking you say "Hi," and then wince slightly at the polite "Good morning, Sir."

You live through some long-forgotten experiences as you read those serious letters home asking advice on the merits of going out for The Dartmouth and for Cabin and Trail. There are the same adjustments to roommates and professors; only the slang is slightly different.

There are new problems - ROTC, and the lingering uncertainty of the draft. But you live it all again, the concerts, the bonfires on campus, and you smile reminiscently as Crouthamel walks by and your freshman son points and whispers: "There's Big Jake."

You are asked: "What should I do about skis?" (This really is a problem, if you have priced them in recent years.) You listen to talk about exams, the hour exams, the finals, and you nod in sympathy at the picture - duly transmitted for the benefit of parents - that life at Dartmouth has become a cold, monastic existence dedicated to study.

There are the football weekends, and the dormitories fill with the chatter of girls. This really is different, and the girls now are so young. But then some Sunday night after a weekend you bring your boy back to the campus and you recapture the mood. The lights shine in Baker, you glance into dormitory rooms where students sit hunched over desks, and you shiver a little in the wind which blows down from Moosilauke.

You wish - and you know you can't - pass on to your son all that you think you've learned in the last twenty years or more. And you know you wouldn't if you could.

But you're living it again, and you know you can't go back, but in a way you can - and it's a funny, mixed up, sad, and thrilling feeling.