1948
It's a long distance from the Jorge Chavez Airport here on the sere, brown outskirts of Lima, Peru, to the bright hills of Hanover. As it's early April and there's some time before the next flight, I am finding it pleasant to think of Hanover in the context of jotting these notes.
Reflecting that spring must be in the air on and about the Dartmouth campus at this moment makes one's mind wander back to some of those earlier March/Aprils when we '48s were undergrads in Hanover. Who can forget those end of winter days when the melting sun began to be felt after a long season of often bitterly cold days which made us feel we had earned the right to welcome the spring; when you could literally drink the sparkling air outside Silby as you walked in your shirtsleeves to your next class in Reed; when you saw the College crews lay the duckboards on the muddy green and then, somewhat later, pick them up again after the "schlump" had dried out; when the utterly bare brown skeletons of maples, elms and other leaf trees about the campus, in old College Park and on the hills outside town began to show their first possibilities of returning to life on the sudden emergence of specks of green as buds; when the town dog pack suddenly took on a new burst of energy and appeared to be everywhere at once in dashing about the community and among the College buildings; when only a few patches of snow remained on the golf links and the faces of nearby hills such as Velvet Rocks, Balch and Oak; when the t-bar on Oak had made its last run in completion of another season; when our janitor in Woodward at last actually smiled.
As the story goes, it was on one of those spring afternoons back in 1949 that Pete Owen,Ted Thornton, one or two men from other classes, and another '48 decided to take advantage of the last vestiges of snow on the long steep hillside above Fullington's farm way out on the Lyme Road north of Hanover. The sun was out, it was old-dungarees-and-rolled-up-sleeves weather, and all worked up a worthy perspiration in trudging to the top of the hill on foot, kicking steps in the snow or mud as they climbed, putting the skis on at the top, and careening or crowhopping from patch to patch of corn slush on the way down. It was an invigorating way to spend one of the final skiable afternoons of the year in Hanover.
At one point fairly late in the day the group was standing on a patch about halfway down the hill, jawing and laughing at one of Pete's awesome spills derived from a too fancy attempt to be what in ski circles is today called a "hot dog." Suddenly a tremendously overpowering noise seemed to burst over the entire area around us, from whence we couldn't initially tell. Looking up the slope, the group saw what we afterward knew was a Marine Corsair fighter plane come roaring over the brow of the hill. It dove at us as it followed down the slope at fantastic speed only a few feet off the turf. It was so low that all of us hit the ground as we saw it coming. It passed immediately over us and pulled up at the foot of the hill in passing above the trees before circling around the corner of the hill and out of sight to the north. Each of those on the slope was thoroughly wet from the unexpected dives into the muddy snow and somewhat angrily cursed that other diver in the plane who had caused the panic.
A few moments later the plane returned over the top of the hill and once again dove the steep slope, though this time slightly to the side instead of right at us. We thought we knew who it was. Sure enough. As the plane boiled past we could clearly see Rog Brown '45 peering down at us, big grin on his face, one hand and finger held up in a classic gesture of disdain, all this in the second before the plane pulled up once more, waggled the wings in perhaps reluctant parting and turned sharply down the Connecticut River Valley toward Hanover. Rog had skiied that slope many times in the past with some of the '48s in the group, was on a Marine Reserve training flight that afternoon, and had decided to buzz the steep pasture in the hope of surprising any late spring skiers. He succeeded, he told us later, beyond his expectations. Only problem, he also informed us, was that his commanding officer was playing on the golf course that Rog buzzed on his way back to Grenier Field, Manchester, that same afternoon. Ruined the officer's putt, lost him the match, and got rather severe reprimand for Rog.
And so much for one perhaps not atypical spring afternoon from our days in Hanover, which account this jotter hopes will lead other '48s perhaps to reminisce a little and drop me a line with their own stories. (Some of you who knew Rog and his love for flying and skiing also know he passed from among us a few years ago in a glider accident in Vermont).
Returning to the present, we were delighted to receive a portion of the Sunday, March 10, edition of The New York Times from John VanRaalte, in the Business and Finance section of which one of 48's best athletes, Ed Leede, was prominently mentioned. One of the articles, written by Edward Cowan, dealt with oil and the return of wildcatting to the Permian Basin area around Midland, Texas. Part of the article follows:
"'I started with zero assets, no family support,' says Edward H. Leede, a New Yorker who came to Texas via Dartmouth College, two years of basketball with the Boston Celtics and two years at Harvard Business School. . . works behind a white marbletop desk in an office decorated with abstract prints and modern stainless steel furniture. The decorating was done by Margaret Ann Leede, a Texan. She is raven-haired, gracious and casually stylish ... 'lf you have a geological idea and a little business sense,' said Mr. Leede - and he was off on an enthusiastic explanation of how someone with 'an idea' can get a drilling venture going with no money of his own." Good to hear of you, Ed.
By now we have all heard from Bud Munson and his agents regarding this year's edition of the Alumni Fund drive. Bud has taken on a difficult job as '48 is not noted for a past history of either high percentage participation by members of the Class or large amounts of money (with the noted exception of the 25th Reunion campaign last year). Perhaps some of us who haven't participated much in the past could possibly pitch in early this year to ease Bud's task and better ensure our achieving the comparatively low $22 thousand goal. How about such an assist for Bud who otherwise must put in a really large amount of work under the responsibility he has accepted.
A few changes in address and other categories in closing. Fred Loomis the popular '48 lawyer from Wyoming, can now be contacted through Box 408 in Cheyenne. Time for a brief line sometime, Fred? Abe Abrahamson is still in the insurance business in Amarillo, Texas, but his new P.O. Box is 2619. Dave Kurr, who's in the metals and mining business, now hangs his hat at the #1 Coach'n Four in St. Louis. Al McMichael, in the aviation field , is living at Princess Court in Vienna, Va. The Macartneys have found a house in Hinsdale, Illinois, not far from where Tom Davis used to live, and John Van Raalte has been apointed #2 man in Corporate Finance in the fine old house of Fahnestock & Co. on Wall Street in New York.
Time to take off, so enough for now. Any cards or notes about '48s would be gratefully appredated.
Secretary, Gulf Oil Co. - Latin America Box 910 Coral Gables, Fla. 33134
Class Agent, 3 Hemlock Hill Westport, Conn. 06880
