1945

Someone is living in my post office box. I haven't met the fellow yet, but his name is Occupant; and from time to time he gets mail of his own. It is a fairly large and deep box, contracted for in expectation of my sudden popularity (improbable) or of a flood of bills from Shirley's semi-annual shopping spree (probable). The front door is about eight inches by four and opens with a key for which I was required, lacking an honest face, to make a one dollar deposit.

Each morning when I open the door I am apprehensive that it will prove to be an inopportune moment in effect, an invasion of Occupant's privacy. If the truth is to be known, I am terrified at the thought of a confrontation with Occupant. So far, the back door has always been open (I have some doubts about there even being one); and Occupant has been out, presumably stretching his cramped limbs. In recent months, however, I have begun to suspect that the Occupant of Post Office Box 39 is stealing my mail a federal offense, I'm told.

You see, when I took this job as class secretary, I was told that in no time at all I would be innundated with letters from classmates, chronicling thrilling adventures and wonderous achievements. I understand that there are presidents of banks and bakeries and boys' clubs, that there are authors and critics, philosophers and brokers, educators and the over-educated, along with doctors, lawyers, and possibly even a Native American chief. How about the hordes of you who are flocking to the Sun Belt, building retirement homes, buying penthouse condos or golf-side villas? All this and more they tell me, is going on out there 'round the girdled earth; but little of it filters through to me.

I was also told that the College maintains a super clipping service. This may be so; but either the clipping service has lost its clippers, or the College has lost my name and address in some dark recess of the Kemeny computer.

I will admit that Don Cole, who was one of the nominating committee and talked me into this bind, has ferreted out a couple items for me. But I am plotting to get even with Don by 1985. Don doesn't know this; and I don't want anyone to tell him, as I want to keep on the good side of him until then.

Then there's John Osborn, who with the aid of his trusty copy machine has forwarded some of the nearly indistinguishable notes scribbled on the back of dues billings. But mostly I am left to my own resources, which, I fear, are minimal.

A couple doctors whose writing can be deciphered have penned brief notes to John. Rusty Johnson wrote in the fall from Goshen, N.Y., that he has six grandchildren and still . . .

(here his handwriting breaks down, tickling my curiosity). He also announced a trip to England and Ireland to celebrate his 35th wedding anniversary. Now Rusty must be a very practical fellow. He apparently decided that if the plane were to go down in the North Atlantic, there would be little sense in his being a dues-paying member of the class; so he set things aside. Upon his safe return, he penned an "Addendum: Trip was great. Loved Ireland." Then he cheerfully mailed his check.

Harry Roberts reports from San Diego, Calif., that he and Sarah have a son who is following in his footsteps and is presently in his residency at the Dartmouth Medical School. Harry remembers George Barr "after, 10, these many years" and wishes to thank him for the fine job he is doing as newsletter editor.

Moving from doctors to lawyers, we see that U.S. district court judge Richard Owen, who played a lead part in one of our recent columns, has hit the news again. Dick came down on former Beatle George Harrison, who will have to ante up $587,000 in damages because his recording of "My Sweet Lord" resembled a tune written some eight years earlier. Dick, an accomplished composer, ruled that plagiarism is still plagiarism even if subconsciously accomplished. Shades of Gertrude Stein's well-known rose.

To date, I'm sorry to say, no word has been received from a Native American chief.

This morning, Occupant, like the little man who wasn't there, wasn't there.again. I think I may be losing my fear of a confrontation. I would like to catch him red-handed. Either he is stealing my mail, or you guys are neglecting to put stamps on.

Sooner or later I'm going to get to the bottom of this thing.

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