1983

28 Exeter Street #302 Boston, MA 02116

There is the story about a man who was walking along the cliffs lining the California coast. As he mulled over the problems of the world, he became distracted, tripped, and fell over the edge towards almost certain death. Just when it appeared the end was near, he managed to snag a single bush protruding from the rock and stop his descent. The man hung there in terror, suspended in midair, and screamed "Help! Is there anybody there?" Miraculously, a voice was heard from the clouds saying "Have faith, my son. Let go of the branch." The man looked up towards the sky, then down again at the rugged beach a thousand feet below. Then he looked upwards again, shook his head, and asked: "Is there anybody else up there?"

Yes, there will be soon. In Alpha Chi we used to know him as "Mother," but Jim Nadeau has long since departed the hallowed basement and begun exploring even more sacred realms. Jim's been working towards a graduate degree in theology at North American College in Vatican City and, at last word, has about a year to go. Upon successful completion of his studies, Jim will hopefully return posthaste to the U.S. and visit the man on the cliff.

Like any other insecure journalism neophyte, I wondered the other day how I was doing compared to other class secretaries. Was I slick, shrewd, and savvy like Mike Carrothers and successive '80 writers? Was my wit as provocative as Dirk Olin's of the '81s? Eric ('84) Grubman's curious combination of news, lies, and tangential prose always captivates me. Did you all react in the same positive way to my epistles?

The answer, in Kelly Fowler's view, apparently is something like "No, Ken, we do not." I was delighted and chagrined to hear word of Kelly's plans to marry Andre Hunter this August. Delighted because intraclass marriages always impress me and their Camelot even includes two years together at the Tuck School. Chagrined because Kelly saw fit to wax autobiographical in her latest '83 Echoes newsletter and break the news of her engagement without consulting me first. When people begin writing about their own engagements, I know I'm in some trouble. Anyways . . .

A scolding is in order for one senor Q. Juan Navarro, who checked in from Panama only long enough to say that he was tired of reading about marriage reports and wanted more "substantive" news. Three points are necessary here as a response to Juan's somewhat cold, nonromantic tenor: 1) Every day may seem like Valentines's Day in our class, but mathematically this can't continue much longer, so calm down. 2) Maybe you could tell us something about your senior fellowship or what you're doing in Panama. 3) By the way, Fernando Lloveras is married, too. Gotcha.

Success has finally been achieved in tracking down Missy Payson, who, as a salesperson for L.L. Bean in (ayuh) Maine, once conned me into buying $150 worth of chamois shirts. The pioneering Payson, as an exercise in self-rejuvenation, spent four months bushwacking from Costa Rica to Peru. Some highlights of the trip included trekking through the Amazon jungle, climbing in the Andes, and rafting down glacier-fed rivers. No word on any battles with man-eating beasts. Apparently, though, Missy has emerged unscathed and refreshed by her southern hemisphere jaunt; she was due back at Bean's in late January.

Reacting to pressure she received here to turn professional and play tennis for keeps, Wendy Wasson had this to say: "Only if Kate Rugen does." Beautiful. Now we have a doubles team for the Federation Cup. Yeah. That's it. A doubles team.

Tee Rowe has landed in, of all places, New Orleans, not for Mardi Gras-related reasons but to attend law school at Tulane. To paraphrase the new Rowe southern vernacular, he is studying at "Toolone (Tulane) with an ah (eye) on Maritime Law as mah (my) specialty." For the uninitiated, 'maritime law' is the legal code presiding over collisions at sea and other on-the-water incidents. Assume that one boat runs into another on the Atlantic Ocean. Assume one vessel happens to be a Russian fishing trawler. Assume further that this fishing boat was, in reality, a disguised nuclear missile-carrying, turbocharged man-of-war. Now assume, too, that this machine was inside the threemile limit and headed right for New York City. Tee's role in the collision investigation would be to make sure the Russians hadn't caught more than their quota of striped bass and bluefish. That's maritime law.

In closing, here's a long-overdue bulletin on Sandy Bryan. Dartmouth former superstar'in field hockey, track, lacrosse, and just about any other sport you can think of hasn't missed a beat. Sandy surfaced up in Quebec's Winter Carnival back in the depths of February, where she successfully completed the grueling Canadian Ski Marathon. When there isn't any snow around, Sandy plays lacrosse for the U.S. National Team. In addition to these athletic endeavours, Ms. Bryan teaches biology and coaches lax at the Pingree School in Hamilton, Mass. It's fun to write about people like her.

Happy Spring!