1945

The executive committee is saddened by the sudden and untimely passing in March of one of its active members, Richard M. Spaulding. Shirley and I attended his funeral in Sharon, Mass., along with Pat and Ted Smith, Barb and Ted White, Moe Frye, and Steve Hull. Although critical of some administrative policies which he felt served current trends rather than the long-range interests of the College, Dick remained steadfastly loyal to Dartmouth. He could be heard often arguing convincingly against any policy of withholding financial support for leverage purposes. Those of us who were privileged to be counted among his many friends extend our heartfelt sympathy to Margot and her four children.

Speaking of federal judges (which we were in last month's column Dick Owen, if you recall), U.S. District Court Judge Joe Young was recently called upon to uphold the honor of the U.S. Navy and the decision of the Naval Academy to expell a certain midshipman just five months short of graduation. Eagle-eyed Don Cole culled this bit of information from some obscure Maine daily - or perhaps weekly. The article, which was more explicit than I intend to be here, went on to explain that the culprit, appropriately named Jamie Love, produced a triple X-rated film in an Annapolis dormitory, featuring a female "midshipperson." No mention is made of the fate of this star; perhaps Joe will have an opportunity to rule on a question of reverse discrimination.

And speaking of coeducation, Dave McAuliffe reports that he is almost single-handedly supporting higher education in New England. His number-five and number-six offspring are currently at Dartmouth, while his first four were spread evenly among Norwich, Holy Cross, Boston College, and Providence. Dave neglected to deliniate the sexes of his issue. It would seem, however, that out of six there should be at least one girl - at very least, the sixth. Right, Shirley?

And speaking of this column, I feel it is incumbent upon me at this time, having reviewed the record of my first eight months in office, to report the certainty that I will never honor the class of 1945 by being named Class Secretary of the Year. I have come to this inescapable conclusion after careful analysis of the three critical areas in which I am woefully wanting.

My first problem area is rather simple-ineptness. My initial faux pas followed closely on the heels of a number of minor boo-boos. At the executive committee meeting last fall I was asked to read the minutes of the class meeting held in June. I must confess I was befuddled and embarrassed. It was my sincere intention to prepare these minutes some late evening in early June of 1985. Ted Smith, my predecessor in this job and obviously a very compassionate person, took pity on me, took notes of the committee meeting, and took the time to type them and forward them to me. Wouldn't you know it? Ted's notes are more complete than my finished report (although, to be truthful, it isn't quite finished yet).

Then there's the question of occupation or perhaps I should say occupational aura. Take John Leggat, for instance. John, a lawyer by profession, stands before the class executive committee, a somewhat bemused expression on his face, but a steel-like glint in his eyes. He speaks softly but wields, of course, a big stick. He has already received one award from the College and is a great candidate for class president of some year between now and '85.

Now John Osborn, who knows where every penny of class money is at any given moment of the day or night, has already made Class Treasurer of the Year and is the front-runner for treasurer of the decade and possibly of the century. John, naturally, is also a full-fledged lawyer. I haven't had much official truck as yet with Head Agent Vic Smith or Bequest Chairman John White; but I can tell you this: Vic, who's big in construction, could double for a Midwestern-city attorney; and John, who's in water, (not hot water, but the business of selling water) is the perfect prototype of a Down East barrister.

By now you should be able to see that I'm playing out of my league.

The third problem area is more elusory. It has to do with copy machines. Now I have a copier which makes one copy at a time and is perhaps one step better than the jellied hec- tograph I used in grammar school. My first copy always comes out too light and the second too dark. On the third try I put the sheets together wrong and get a perfect picture of darkness-you know, like a photograph of a black hole in the universe. After four or five attempts-at, I calculate, about twenty cents each-I achieve what I consider a passable copy.

Now consider the competition. Down there at the First National Bank of Beantown, Ted has access to banks (sic) of copiers. They spit out copies faster than the U.S. Treasury can mint Susan B. Anthony dollars; and at executive committee meetings Ted deals out copies of everything faster than cards at a blackjack table. Up there in Hanover, Newsletter Editor George Barr is surrounded by mimeographs, copiers, computers, and what-have-you. As an experienced PR man, George knows just what to do with them.

Back to our treasurer. John has the greatest copier known to technology. It copies clearer than what it copies. When John makes a bank deposit, the other class officers are apprised of the transaction. We get a perfect copy of each step, a copy of the letter of transmittal, a copy of the face of the check, a copy of the back of the check (properly endorsed, of course), a copy of the deposit ticket, a copy of the receipt, and copies of the bank statement before and after the transaction.

A good copy machine, one must conclude, and an efficient owner go hand in hand.

I was married in June of '43 but was not the first '45 to take that fateful step. I have a son over 35 years old, but he was not the first born of the class. I have five sons but do not stand first in the class as a procreator.

I have this urge to be first in something.

Class officers weekend is coming up early in May. It may well be that I will be the first class secretary to be impeached.

P.O. Box 39 Atkinson, N.H. 03811