1981

I guess I'm about three quarters of the way through my stint here as class scribe, and I've got some bad news. I've hit the wall. I've got nothing to say about any of you. No one's been promoted to senior v.p. or been appointed to some prestigious commission. No one's writing any books or winning any awards. No one's getting hitched or squeezing out any puppies. If any of you are doing anything of interest, you're keeping it a secret from me. What will it take to get you people to include me in your lives? Money? Wash your car? Beat your kids?

I actually have a few things to report, but all that information's back in New York. I m in New Mexico for Thanksgiving, and this column's due yesterday. How about a Dartmouth Thanksgiving remembrance to tide you over?

It's our freshman year, my first Thanksgiving out of the South. It's finally getting cold, and I'm getting a little homesick. Or maybe I'm just cold. I'm spending the holiday in Fairfield County, fortunate to have won one of the seven passes extended to my people for the occasion. I have a massive crush on Patty Sigler and weasel my way into dinner with her and her family in New Canaan. The house is all dark wood, warm, and lived-in. Big and beautiful and welcoming. As is her family. It's my first encounter with Cheever Country, and I'm certain that I don't want to go home. Ever.

1047 Lincoln Blvd., Apt. 10, Santa Monica, CA 90403;

Rich Barlow '81connects body and mind, p. 26