Tales from the Info Booth

True Storiesfromthe Man in the Know, Everett Wood '38

First Tale The Webster Scholar

FROM THEIR MANNERS and accent the parents were clearly Chinese. Their children, on the other hand—a 16-year-old son and a 12-year-old daughter spoke English like the natives they probably were. "What can we see of Dartmouth in an hour?" the father asked.

"A good deal, sir," I assured him, "beginning right here. Those four white buildings behind you: that's Dartmouth Row, a National Historic Site. The largest building in the middle, with the five stone steps, is Dartmouth Hall. It's so close to our heart we illuminate it at night. Isn't it beautiful?" The parents bowed in silent agreement. "And that building with the four Greek columns, that's Webster Hall, named after our most famous graduate. May I give you a campus map? You can see how the College has grown since it was founded in 1769."

The mother thanked me, took the map, and pondered it Carefully with her husband. After a considerable pause she said, "Besides Webster Hall and Webster Avenue, I see there is a Webster Cottage. Mr. Webster must have been a big man. What did he do?"

I was about to expound on the Dartmouth College case when the daughter answered her mother's questions:

"Mother, you know what Daniel Webster did: He kicked the Devil out of New Hampshire!"

Flabbergasted, I could only say, "It's true, young lady, it's true! But how did you ever know that?"

"Because I read about it in school. 'The Devil and Daniel Webster,' a great story by Stephen Benet . It was required reading in the sixth grade."

By then she had won my admiration forever. I turned to her mother: "Madam, your daughter has just made my day—my whole summer, in fact. No Dartmouth professor would deign to teach Benet any more. But the professors are wrong and your daughter is right. Benet is a great American writer. And where, young lady, do you go to school?"

"In Montclair, New Jersey," she said.

Here was my big chance. But alas, in my elation, I didn't ask my sixth-grade friend which school in Montclair she attended, or the name of her teacher either. Had I done so, I would have written such a thank-you letter as teachers seldom receive. And not in my name only, but in the names of Stephen Vincent Benet and Daniel Webster 1801 himself. Not knowing to whom I should write, the letter was never written. What a shame. What a shame...

Second Tale The Honeymooner

THE YOUNG MAN who parked his motorcycle by the booth needed help. How much help I could' t possibly have guessed, but soon found out.

"Do you have information on the whole state or just on the Dartmouth-Hanover area?"

"On the whole state," I told him. "What may I do for you?"

"Well," he said, "it's like this: I'm getting married in two weeks and I don't know where to go, or what to do, on my honeymoon."

"On your HONEYMOON! Man, you must be kidding. That's strictly private stuff. Still, if you're looking for a cozy room somewhere, with a view and a pool, I can help you.'

In the next hour, with time out to answer other inquiries, I outlined a honeymoon to order. Portsmouth, New Hampshire, was my chosen city. In rapid succession I (a) reserved a motel room, with a queen-sized bed and pool; (b) gave him the address of two nearby restaurants where the price was right and the seafood excellent; and (c) provided the departure schedules for a whale-watching trip off-shore and a "Viking" ship cruise to the Isle of Shoals. Options—depending around Strawberry Banke, a motorcycle spin down Route 1A to see the shoreline, the nuclear power plant in Seabrook and a Wednesday night open-air concert in Rye Beach. All for free. If the bride wasn't allergic to the Atlantic and seafood, my plan had everything for a four-day, low-budget, seaside romance.

The groom-to-be approved every detail. He thanked me profusely, promised to send the motel a deposit in the next mail, and departed. As he roared away, my fingers were crossed.

SAD P.S.: A week later the young man was back in the booth. "Everything all set for the Big Day?" I asked.

My heart sank. What a fool I was to have gotten involved. Out of pity, I went through the motions again. This time Portland, Maine, was my chosen city. I booked a room in the Eastland Hotel. For dining and entertainment I suggested Boone's Fish House on Custom House Wharf, a Casco Bay boat ride to the islands, and an all-day revel at Orchard Beach. All fine possibilities, but a shadow lay over them now.

We never met again, yet the man's fate still disturbs me. I wish, on our second meeting, I had told him what I really thought, but didn't dare say—that he save his $350 and call the whole thing off. Before his honeymoon was over, I'll bet he wished he had.

Third Tale The Lady

"Mr. Wood, I've heard nice things about you," she said. "You recommended a restaurant to friends of mine. They went there and enjoyed a sumptuous meal."

"I'm delighted, madam, delighted. And now what may I do for you?"

"My question is personal. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, madam. What is it?"

"Are you a Dartmouth man, Mr. Wood?"

"I am indeed. Class of 1938."

"And did you love it here as totally—and uncritically—as Dartmouth men of your vintage are famous for?"

"I certainly did. The faculty was superb, the students a band of brothers. I reveled in it all."

"Given the chance, would you change any aspect of your Dartmouth years?"

"No, I wouldn't. Oh, we could have used more snow in my senior year. And I wish I'd taken an outstanding sociology course given by Professor Mecklin instead of the ridiculous course in psychology I did take. Other than that, no changes at all. But why do you ask?"

"Because my daughter is a Dartmouth sophomore and her sister a senior at Princeton. I know what my husband, Princeton '56, thinks about that—he's horrified. So I wondered how you feel about all the women here today who have ruined the old Dartmouth fellowship."

Oh-oh, I said to myself—watch it! That's a loaded question, such as I've been asked in the House of Soviet Culture in East Berlin; whatever you say, you're in trouble. Still, this lady is no Parkhurst Hall informer. Impossible. Her question is ultra delicate, but deserves an answer:

"Not ruined, madam, just changed completely. As I see it, there are two Dartmouths, the one before 1972 and the one your daughter attends today. Most of the old buildings remain and some of the old songs are sung. But the College, since co-education, isn't the same at all. How could it be? Nevertheless, and however different the two Dartmouths are, they have this in common: both are great. Believe me."

The lady looked at me, long and quizzically: "I hope you mean that, Mr. Wood."

"I do, madam," I said.

And I still do today.

Fourth Tale The Violist

FOR SOMEONE as shy and demure as Melissa, her remark in the booth amazed me: "If I can't get into Dartmouth, Mother, there's no other college for me." Word for word what I'd told my father, 50 years before. But today—with the competition, the obsession with diversity, and recruiting of National Merit Scholars, minorities, and athletes—such devotion to one college is an invitation to heartbreak. An agonizing situation for her mother, too. And the next day Melissa had an interview with an admissions officer in McNutt Hall.

Are the interviews decisive? the mother asked. And, if so, how could Melissa make the best possible impression? As an old grad—way out of touch—I was on shaky ground, but determined to help if I could.

"Melissa, tomorrow you'll be asked the inevitable question: why Dartmouth—instead of Harvard, Yale, or the University of Chicago? Remember, it isn't enough to say Dartmouth is your one and only love. Admissions will want to know why it is. Above all, they want to know what you can contribute to Dartmouth. The College offers many wonderful ways to do so. Which one is for you? Since coeducation, some of our finest teams have been women's basketball, lacrosse, ice hockey, and skiing. Women have added tremendously to the theater life in Hopkins Center. And they've been feature writers and editors of the Daily Dartmouth, the oldest collegiate daily newspaper in the country."

The mother sensed it was time to break in: "Melissa, tell the gentleman what you really love to do."

"To play the viola," she said.

"The VIOLA! That's great. Can you imagine the Dartmouth Symphony without any violists? Of course not."

Not wishing to embarrass Melissa, I asked her mother how well her daughter played. "For her age, she plays very well," she said. "She's first violist in her high school orchestra and practices all the time."

"There's where you can contribute, Melissa. In your interview tell them just what you and your mother have told me today. And add that you've heard of the Concord String Quartet. They're in residence right here in Hopkins Center, when they aren't on concert tour."

"Heard of the Concords? They're the reason it's Dartmouth or nowhere else for me."

"THEY ARE? That's perfect. Then say that tomorrow, Melissa; BY ALL MEANS, SAY THAT TOMORROW. If Admissions has an ounce of judgment, you'll be a Dartmouth student a year from September. Absolutely."

Mother and daughter thanked me for my advice, took their leave, and headed for the Hopkins Center. Halfway to East Wheelock Street, Melissa turned and waved. I waved back. Brother, I thought, if she's not accepted—I'll secede from the College. HAPPY P.S.

Melissa made it! Just what Dartmouth needs—fewer recruits and more passionate volunteers.

Fifth Tale The Preacher

HE WAS a jovial, smiling sort of fellow, nattily dressed in a seersucker suit and bowtie. In his forties, I'd say. Might have been a drummer, which—in a sense—he was.

"Is this the Hanover-Dartmouth Information Booth?" he asked.

I told him it was.

"Good, then I've come to the right place. I read about you in the paper. What a build-up! They said you're the man around here with the answers to everything. Is that true?"

"I assure you it isn't. Every week some question stumps me cold. When that happens I look it up later. But by then, of course, it's usually too late to be useful.

"That's not what the paper said. Anyway, I've got a question for you—an important one—and if you don't know the answer, it's never too late to get it."

"You've aroused my curiosity, sir. Shoot—what's the question?"

"All right, here it is—but give it some thought before answering: How does one get into Heaven?"

Spoken very slowly, those were his words exactly. "Was he a jokester? A loony? A reincarnated prophet in a seer-sucker suit and bow tie? I'm not quick on the comeback, but I had a flash-thought that might solve my dilemma, no matter what my inquisitor was.

"Sir, yours is indeed an important questions, but there are others at Dartmouth far better qualified to answer it than I am. The College has two chaplains—one a pastor, one a rabbi. Or there's Father Nolan at Aquinas House. All three have dedicated their lives to your question. Would you care to speak to any one of them by phone, right now?"

"No thank you. No thank you. Their well-intentioned but distorted views are not for me; nor, I hope, for you. Now, if you're really interested in the answer—here is my card. I'd be delighted to have so knowledgeable a man as you in my congregation."

I took his card and read it. I noticed he was a doctor—presumably of theology—and his denomination a distinctly fundamentalist one, known, on occasion, to use live snakes in their worship.

"Well, doctor, I appreciate the invitation. In the summer I work every Sunday in the booth. But, come October, I may ease down your way for a service. Meanwhile, you've asked me a humbling question. I'll think about it; I promise you,"

"Humility is a good start, my friend. Goodbye now. God bless you. And I'll be expecting you in October."

Being allergic to snakes, I never did hear the doctor preach, let alone join his congregation. Nevertheless—and before it's too late—I, among countless others, would indeed love to know the answer to his question.

Sixth Tale The Japanese Visitor

THE VISITOR from Japan bowed, then apologized for asking a question: "Excuse, sir, please excuse; is where Baker Library?"

Such extraordinary courtesy moved me to exceed my usual response. I decided to leave the booth unattended for a moment and show the gentleman Baker Library myself. Together we walked the path to the center of the Green.

"There it is, sir, Baker Library. Just where it should be, right in the middle of the College."

He stood staring a while, taking it all in, from the weathervane on the tower to the elms in the courtyard before.

"Is most beautiful," he said. "Has many books?"

"Over a million. Baker is the mother library at Dartmouth."

"Mother library! What means that, please?"

I regretted at once my ill-chosen phrase and did my best to explain: "It means that Baker is the biggest Dartmouth library. But the College has other smaller, special libraries too."

Which did little to enlighten my visitor. To resolve his dilemma, and mine as well, I suggested we return to the booth, where I would give him a map showing all the Dartmouth buildings, including Baker and its associated libraries.

"Is most kind, sir," he said, and came with me.

Happily for us both, we spent 30 uninterrupted minutes conversing with the campus map in hand. His attention was total, his interest in all things Dartmouth boundless. But it was the libraries that fascinated him most. He was a man possessed by books: whether as a scholar, collector, or librarian himself, I wish I knew but didn't find out.

Concentrating on his particular affinity, I told him Baker was a gift to the College by a philanthropist who wished to honor his uncle; that in the wings of the same building were two collections for art history and English literature; that there were two graduate-school libraries for biomedical science, engineering, and business administration; that the Department of Mathematics had its own special library, as did the center for natural sciences, adding—which I'm glad I did, as my visitor was much impressed—that the librarian for the natural sciences was a Ph.D. in physics from Switzerland. I concluded with a brief description of Paddock Library in Hopkins Center, which features books, records, and scores for all conceivable musical ensembles from trios to symphony orchestras.

In retrospect, did the so-appreciative gentleman from Japan understand half of what I told him? I doubt it. But that didn't lessen in the least his impression of the larger view. As we parted, his cup of admiration overflowed with words I'd not heard before, or since: "Eight libraries!" he exclaimed. "Dartmouth is sacred place!"

Seventh Tale The Foursome

WHAT A cheerful foursome they were—two couples in their fifties, laughing, joking, experiencing New England for the first time. And what could I tell them about Dartmouth, they asked, that their friends in Columbia, Missouri, should know? Always a challenging task, and particularly as they were leaving in 20 minutes for Squam Lake, the site of their favorite film, On Golden Pond.

I began with Dartmouth Hall of course but, pressed as they were for time, I reduced my usual comments to some memories of my own:

"You see those five stone steps? That's where the Glee Club sings May evenings, evenings the students will never forget. Every college has something special about it. With us it's our location in the New Hampshire hills—and our songs. Dartmouth is a college of songs, 23 by the latest count. One of them, 'The Hanover Winter-Song,' is why I came here. It was written by Richard Hovey our poet laureate, class of 1885. He lived two years in Reed Hall, right over there, in the northeast room on the third floor. As e.e. cummings once said of Buffalo Bill, 'Jesus, he was a handsome man!' Well, that's what Hovey was, that and a fine poet, too.

"Our most cherished song is called 'Dartmouth Undying.' Professor Franklin McDuffee, class of 1921, wrote the lyrics. Its first lines are these:

Dartmouth! There is no music for our singing,No words to hear the burden of our praise;Yet how can we he silent and rememberThe splendor and the fullness of her days?

"It's more than a song, it's a hymn, unique in college music."

"Mr. Wood, you wouldn't be a bit prejudiced, would you?" asked one of my guests from the doubting state.

"I would indeed, sir, and admit it gladly. I'm a man of invincible prejudice."

Which gave them a laugh and relaxed us all.

For my next thought on what their friends in Columbia should know of Dartmouth, I needed a west wind. If the wind were westerly—and it was—we could see, from just a few feet behind the booth, the weather-vane on Baker tower. I asked if they could distinguish two figures on the vane in conversation under a pine tree. To my delight, they could.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it, a dramatic presentation of the founding of Dartmouth College. The dignitary in academic gown, sitting on a stump with his back to the pine, is the Reverend Dr. Eleazar Wheelock, who founded Dartmouth in 1769. Facing him, in Indian attire, with a peace pipe in hand, is the 'Big Chief,' our legendary first student. And, once again, it was Richard Hovey who immortalized the occasion in a rousing song entitled 'Eleazar Wheelock I've sung it many times, but—don't worry, don't worry—I shan't do so now. It takes a whole glee club, singing in four parts, to do it justice. I'll just recite the last verse to show how Hovey mingled fact, myth and humor into our college history:

Eleazar was the faculty and the whole curriculum

Was FIVE HUNDRED GALLONS OF NEWENGLAND RUM."

As always, when I've recited this verse on campus tours, it was greeted with laughter and applause. The song is a glorious, rollicking spoof, offensive to no one, except the clergy, if they take it seriously, which they never have.

I ended by describing the significance of the Dartmouth Pine, an historic fact for a century. And how, around its petrified stump in College Park, graduating seniors on Class Day smoke clay pipes there, before breaking them over the stump as a gesture of good luck on the road of life, on which they may not meet again.

This, too, the Missourians found as touching as the song "Eleazar Wheelock" was pure fun. In parting they thanked me and promised to report great things about Dartmouth to their friends in Columbia. As they drove away, they waved from their car.

I knew they had enjoyed their brief visit. But later, alone in the booth, I lived a moment of despair. I hadn't lied to them. Not really. But I hadn't been entirely truthful either: the Glee Club no longer sings May evenings on the steps of Dartmouth Hall; "Eleazar Wheelock" hasn't been sung officially since 1972; and seniors, on Class Day, don't break pipes over the stump any more.

Damn. I'm losing what it takes, I thought. And I was—until, suddenly, I remembered what Winston Churchill said, in his History of the English-Speaking Peoples, confirming forever the noble deeds performed by King Arthur and his gallant knights: "It's all true—or it ought to be!" I was in business in the booth again.

Editor's Epiloque: The Man in the Booth

FOR THE PAST 15 summers, Ev Wood—connoisseur, writer, aviator, linguist—has been Hanover's chief volunteer authority on the College and its environs. He could also tell you about Frankfurt, Berlin, Paris, Kabul, Hong Kong, San Francisco, and Sun Valley, having lived in all those places while logging 29,600 flying hours as a senior captain for Pan Am. Ev has flown the Berlin Airlift, volunteered in Vietnam, and trained Afghanistan's pilots. He holds a British Distinguished Flying Cross from World War 11. He has written magazine articles on German wine, dogs, guns, and life in general. He speaks fluent French and German, and can get by in Afghan. He published a history of the Dartmouth Skiway, having been a varsity skier at Dartmouth. And his love of his college is undeniably unsurpassed.—Ed.

"The professors are WRONG. Stephen Vincent Benét is a GREAT writer. And where, young lady, do you go to SCHOOL?"

"If Admissions has an ounce of JUDGMENT, you'll be a Dartmouth STUDENT a year from SEPTEMBER. Absolutely."