1982

Since the theme of this issue of the magazine is Dartmouth's women, they have asked us to write about "women who have been part of [our] class." I was lost. All '82 women are interesting, and I did not feel qualified to choose one at the expense of another. In the end, something the College sent made up my mind for me. It was a death notice for Bill Martineau. It suddenly hit me that there will be many more opportunities to write about Dartmouth women but that postponing reporting on a death of one of our friends and colleagues by more than five months (he died on October 8,1996, after a three-year illness) was not fair to his widow, Peggy Ruby Martineau, or to those who knew Bill.

Bill and Peggy lived in Grantham, N.H., where he was a commercial real estate appraiser. They have two children, Paige and Chelsea. The paper noted that Bill built his own home, and also built his parents' home in Rochester, N.H. At Berwick Academy Bill was student council president, an award recipient in physics, marine science, Latin and English. Moreover, he played varsity hockey, varsity football, varsity soccer, and was the team captain and most valuable player on the tennis team. Talk about all-around scholar/athletes. The family suggests that donations be made to the Martineau Educational Trust, c/o Lake Sunapee Bank, 9 Main St., Newport, NH 03733.

Our sympathies to the family, and especially to Peggy, who is left with two children to raise on her own.

Well, I hate to close on a sad note, and I also hate to have apparently completely ignored the magazine editor's request. Therefore, instead of randomly choosing Dartmouth '82 women to profile, I would like to recount a funny Dartmouth-related incident about a woman who was indirectly a part of our class my mother. (I trust you won't mind, as we just received a large dose of classmate news from Bernie...)

Dateline: April 1978. I had recently applied to colleges and was awaiting responses. One day I was sitting in Latin class when the school principal, Sister Sara Joseph, came and pulled me out. No one ever got pulled out of class. "It's your mother on the phone, dear," Sara Joe said. "She says it's an emergency. Tsk, tsk. I hope nothing's happened." She gave me a sympathetic look as we walked to her office. I started to get worried. "Hi Mom. What's wrong?" I asked anxiously. "Is someone hurt?" My mother started right in. "I have a meeting and I wanted to catch you before you got home from school. Have I EVER opened your mail?" "What?" I said. "No, I mean, why are you calling? What's wrong?" She continued, "Well, I haven't. Until today. I saw a letter from Dartmouth and I just got so excit- ed...l HAD to know. So I boiled a pot of water on the stove and steamed it open." I was stunned into silence. "Hello? Are you there? Are you mad at me?" "Mom," I said, "No, I'm not mad at you. Is this why you called? No one is dead? Why did you even tell me this if you steamed it open? Why didn't you just reseal it and keep this your little tawdry secret?" She sighed. "Well, that was obviously my plan but the envelope had a window and I resealed it without making sure the address was showing."

She paused. "I'm sorry I'm such a lousy, intrusive mother BUT HONEY, YOU GOT IN!" Then she started to laugh and cry all at once. My Mom was almost more excited about my college prospects than I was. All those opportunities and choices that she was one generation too soon to have to attend any college she wanted (she wanted then all-male UVA), to have a career and the kind of respect traditionally reserved for men she wished for me. And she knew that a place like Dartmouth could open such doors for me. She embraced Dartmouth like she had gone there herself. I hereby dedicate this column to her and to all those other Dartmouth mothers who, by virtue of their place in history, could not have been, but might have wanted to be, and who instead, inspired and encouraged their children to be, members of a Dartmouth class.

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