1987

It was ten years ago this month that we arrived on the Hanover plain, eyes big with wonder, hearts pounding with excitement and apprehension. We came from Idaho, Bermuda, Sweden, or Westchester County. Most of us started the year hiking or biking our way through the White Mountains, arriving at Moosilauke for green eggs and ham and the Salty Dog Rag.

During Freshman Week Dean Bonz urged us to make a "significant impact on society," a huge charge. We grooved to David Bowie's "Let's Dance" and the Romantics' "What I Like About You." We compared notes on high schools and hometowns, made notes in our face books, took placement tests.

For the first time, we experienced the heady feeling of being in a room with a professor and just a few others ... and then we got back our first paper marked with a C-plus and lots of red ink. "Hey, I was the best writer in my high school," we protested. But that was just the beginning of our challenges. Rocks 1, Religion 1, Math 2 or 3, Eccy 1—and on to higher-numbered courses. A few of us bought Macintoshes, though a lot of us stuck with our erasable typewriters.

We tried out for sports teams, successfully and unsuccessfully. Football season started, and we bought our '87 shirts and stormed the field at half-time. We made enemies of all Cambridge residents with our obnoxious behavior in Harvard Square the night before The Game.

We fell into the swing of academics—adept at deckwriters in Kiewit, convening study groups in the Hop, pondering upperclass friends' advice on majors, considering LSA or FSP. The work got harder, and we got more serious.

Woven within the excitement of being on our own, choosing a fascinating course, joining a club, there was also the loneliness of late nights in Baker, rejected attempts at friendships or dating, the frequent question of "Who am I. . . and how did I get here?"

The magic of the first snowfall on the Green meant the arrival of the endless, sometimes bleak winter—though we only needed a quarter to hop the shuttle to the Skiway. Rush made us question our social skills, or our identity, if we even cared about it at all. Once it was over, some of us had a new name...Phi Delt, AXO, Alpha Chi, Theta, Tabard ... it felt strange and even painful at times.

The work continued to get harder, and we kept buckling down. "What's your major? Are you going pre-med.? Can you explain an NRO?"

Spring arrived with mud season, crew races, and lacrosse games, and we wore shorts if the temperature went above 40°. At 8 a.m. Language guage drill we sat outside, nibbling a muffin from Collis. We squirmed over our pictures taken in Campion's during Parents' Weekend, and cheered the production of the Freshman Cabaret.

Our friends and parents plagued us with phone calls and letters to find out our summer plans, but we were busy basking in the May sunshine, hiking DOC trails, canoeing, and' dancing on Webster Ave. We had adjusted to life lived within one square mile, one movie theater, two drugstores, looking less and less for letters from high school friends in our HB's.

All too soon came finals, which we tackled like old hands. We faced bittersweet pangs while leaving Hanover at its most gorgeous, and we were gone, never to be 18 or 19 again.

Remember Mark Fragge and Rob VanSciver, who were and always will be in the hearts in the Class of 1987.

17 Pequot Trai #1, Pawcatuck, CT 06379