The Second Four Years

WE MUST GO through Dartmouth twice: once in the four years we're given here in Hanover, another time over the rest of our lives. The memories I have of my alma mater are rich deep remembrances that have human significance. I remember conversations set in front of events, moments that occurred while taking part in something, well, something Dartmouth.

But I can't predict what I will remember and what I won't. How vivid can the memory of any rich moment remain over time?

I remember rope swinging here at Dartmouth with an acquaintance of mine I barely knew:

"You know, when there's only two people, you get colder faster. You're in and out of the water more of ten," I told her.

She had just gotten her shorts up over her one piece, her head down forward, drying her hair.

She looked up casually, her hair mussed around her face."Yeah."

The rope was almost ready to cease its slight swinging as we both stood pensively, drying our backs. The thick hemp pendulum slowly,almost imperceptibly, stilled itself against the shore.

The remaining arc of sun dropped behind Ascutney.

"Beautiful," I said. And it was.

She followed my gaze, "Beautiful."

Across the Connecticut, in Norwich, the new Montshire Museum barely poked its cupola over the pines. The trees seemed urgently to push and crowd toward the river. Above them, pinkish orange strates of clouds made their way northwest, where they eventually turned a dull red. Between them, a rich violet faded into the aqua horizon.

"Yeah."

Looking first straight up, then straight at her, "We should get some people to come down at night sometime, when the moon's up."

"That would be fun. But it would have to be warm," she said. After a pause she added in a quiet voice, almost whispering, "At least this warm." I leaned back against the young elm behind me—the one we'd put our clothes on. And stood. Just watching. Thinking. The peace was comforting.

After a brief, pleasant moment of quiet, she broke in using her occasional Richmond accent, "We'd better get."

"Yeah,I know." My eyes kept faithful focus to a point just beside her. "But I don't think I'll have time to watch that movie over at Sal's tonight. I've got a lot of..."

"Oh,"she said in disappointment. Then, knitting her eyebrows she added, "Butyou really ought to."

I thought for a bit and looked to her. "Well..."

Standing on the word for a few seconds, I allowed more silence. She was watching my feet as she slouched back onto an elm behind her.

"Maybe."

There was no reason for me to think I'd remember that short, quiet exchange. But I won't forget it. Or at least I hope I don't.

But lurking in the back of my mind, not quite in the conscious part but in the part that instigates my nebulous love for the College, will be those memories of the late-night conversations, the importantly awkward, telling moments.I may easily speak of specific pranks and incidents the easily remembered and easily recounted stories seared into my alumnus brain by occasional repetition. But what I'll be feeling upon returning to Dartmouth will be an untraceable affinity with a past almost forgotten—a subconscious awareness of the more subtle and significant moments of my college career. I hope.

Tig Tillinghast is editor of The Dartmouth.