carleton@72 dpi

The Merry Month of May

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Wed, 02 May 2007 14:05:00 +0000

My May Day was a memorable one — complete with beginning chemo and radiation, something that will last until close to Reunion and thereafter, we fervently hope, never again need to be repeated. It was actually a hopeful, fairly happy day — one in which we gave thanks that such treatments exist and that my colorectal cancer (diagnosed in late March) is amenable to them.

Three special moments stand out ...

The first was a surrealistic moment at Lake Harriet, to which we’d repaired between appointments at Abbott Northwestern. It was around 3 and we were headed for a lot in which to park and watch the buds pop and the wind surfers enjoying the steady breezes ... when we drove past a group of fully costumed Morris dancers. We didn’t have our cameras handy alas, but the attached photo will give you a very general idea.

To the tune of a piping recorder, the small, coed, fairly young group twirled scarves on a bright green lawn and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. Belatedly, I realize it could have been a personal May Day celebration or maybe rehearsal for a later performance. At the time, I just delighted in the incongruity of it — and the music and movement.

There’d been special music at chemotherapy earlier, too...

While we were talking with a physician’s assistant, we heard live violin music outside the exam room. When we left with her, we discovered two women playing classical duets in the reception room. “Oh,” said the PA, “it’s one of our patients. How nice.” And it was, but it turned out it was even more than she knew. After a few more numbers, one of the violinists explained that she and her playing partner had known each other since grade school and had taken violin from the same grand lady, Mary. Mary, now 97, was undergoing chemo in the other room, having had her first treatment the day the other woman had had her final one. Their serenade, while intended to uplift everyone in hearing distance, was a tribute to all she’d given them.

At the butt end of the day (so to speak) came radiation — a little more complicated than future sessions will be because they needed to do all kinds of baseline stuff, position me for optimum results, etc. Finally, it was time for the zapping, made obvious by the fact that the two very personable technicians became disembodied voices behind a protective wall. As I waited, face down, head resting on my rapidly numbing arms, I offered up a number of entreaties, made a couple of deals with the Powers That Be, and uttered a battle cry borrowed from Xena: Warrior Princess (“Kill them all!”).

At that moment the station playing oldies over the intercom chose to switch to a new song, “We Are Family.” The Sister Sledge song is coincidentally the theme song of the Ashmore women (mother and daughters) and was the first song I put on a dance compilation CD I distributed to friends last Solstice. There wasn’t a single better song to accompany this experience, as far as I was concerned. It reminded me of both the love and support of my family and friends and the camaraderie already so evident among the people in the chemo room — from the folks who discovered a common interest in Scotland and spent time swapping hints on where to go on future trips to the bald 30-something woman, her face tear-stained from having endured a dreadfully tough time finding a vein for her treatment, who took care to reassure this newbie as I left that the anti-nausea drugs really worked and that all this would be behind me before I knew it.

The cancer chemo family is not one I would have willingly become part of, something classmates who have been through this process themselves or with loved ones will second, I'm sure. But -- like some of the families I fell into at Carleton, from frosh geo seminar classmates and folk dancers to Asian studies majors and Tonian and Algol compatriots -- I'm sure they're going to enrich my life greatly. I promise to try to give at least as good as I get.

First Impressions, Part 8: The First Day of School

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 23:23:00 +0000

Submitted by Todd Lund

Thanks, Galia and David, for your memories of coming to Northfield for the first time. What bad luck for David, finding his trunk with all his worldly possessions to take him through freshman year damaged and/or wet. And how typical of you, Galia — you free spirit, you — just to be glad to get there and be free. And all these years I'd assumed Chris to be a quiet and mild-mannered geologist, when his background actually had a streak of Jack Kerouac in it. Who knew?

I believed I was really leaving home in June of ’68 when my parents dropped me off in front of the downtown Minneapolis YMCA, where a bus would take a group of us up to Camp Warren in northern Minnesota for the summer. Although I’d been to camp nearly every summer, this would be my first time as a (junior) counselor. After three months of new challenges, proving myself to others, and gaining (so I thought) a mature sense of self-confidence, I returned home to endure two weeks before leaving for Carleton. I vowed that I would not let my parents get to me and disrupt what I believed to be my firmly centered sense of independence.

I didn’t have a chance—both of them were positively distracted with anxiety that their first-born son and primary object of their expectations was about to leave home, go off their radar, and for all purposes out of their direct control. My parents easily managed to infect me with their anxiety, and I felt three months worth of self-confidence hard won in the woods of northern Minnesota swirling around the edge of the bowl. “Are you sure you want to go to Carleton? Are you certain you made the right decision? Don't forget, we'll always be your parents.” And any number of other instructions, queries, claims, pleas, cues for homage to the family script, and requirements for me to explain myself, even though what I was about to do was completely normal — leave home and try to grow up.

After two weeks of pestering, wheedling, prying, niggling, lecturing, demands for reassurance and downright near keening on the part of my Irish mother, I felt as though I'd regressed all the way back to Ninth Grade. My silent Norwegian father had never been big on talking or giving advice; when he acted interested in my welfare somehow it always felt perfunctory. He'd managed thus far to avoid talking with me about sex, and he wasn't about to get started at this point. Years later I learned how a friend’s father had given him a pack of condoms as he left for Carleton his freshman year with the strict instructions, “Here, take these. And don't you go getting any girl pregnant!” I was absolutely dumbstruck with admiration; that a young man’s father could actually do such a thing seemed inconceivable (no pun intended).

My parents drove me down to Northfield from Minneapolis. My mom sat in the back seat smoking, and managed with an ash from her cigarette — unintentionally no doubt — to burn a hole in my favorite sweater, which was for some reason sitting in a plastic garment bag on the seat next to her. (I don't know why I remember this.) As we drove south on 35W and approached the turnoff for Highway 19 to Northfield it started to rain a steady soft drizzle. The rain and mist shrouding the campus only added to the mystery and appeal of starting a new life.

I distinctly remember turning the key in the door of my freshman year room on Third Burton, thinking, “OK, this is it — this is the beginning.” The door of our triple opened, and the first thing I noticed was the attractive smell of linseed oil and fresh paint. I looked in the two small rooms off the center room, and noticed one had a single bed and the other, a bunk bed. I asked my dad, “Which room should I take?” He looked at me like I was an idiot, and said, “Are you kidding? The single.” (He would have been thinking, “You can study without interruption when you're alone.” Neither of my parents had any concept of stereos in dorms and the level of noise they generated.)

Around the time my parents were leaving, roommate Roger Lasley walked in with his electric guitar (a really cool, cherry-red Epiphone), a Fender amp, and boxes and boxes of records. I was a green kid who’d grown up mostly in a bubble, the all-white suburb of Edina, and on those records were bands I’d never heard of, like Paul Butterfield, The Grateful Dead and The Band (Music from Big Pink)—along with the near-complete works of musicians I had, like Bob Dylan. Many thanks to Roger and his record collection for my musical education during freshman year. I felt guilty for appearing selfish in taking the single room, since Roger got the bunk bed across the room.

Last to join our triple was John Ferguson, who drew the top bunk above Roger. For some reason John never took to Carleton. Despite our group’s fall term camaraderie John left us and transferred to Madison during winter term, never to be heard from again.

First Impressions, Part 7: Now for Something Completely Different

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 02:34:00 +0000

Submitted by Chris Rautman

Well, in the infamous words of Monty Python, ".... and now for something COMPLETELY different,” I will weigh in with my own story of applying to Carleton.

As several of you folks probably already may know, I am a bit of an even-odder-than-normal oddball Carl, in that I did my first two years at a junior college (a long-but-irrelevant story there, too), and then transferred to Carleton as a junior in the fall of '70. So I applied to, and was accepted by Carleton, not once, but twice! (Whatever where they thinking?)

Like most of you, I first applied in 1966-67, and again like many of you, I visited the college during the summer of '67. Actually, this was, by no means, my FIRST visit to Carleton, as my folks had taught at Carleton, in the 1945-1948) time frame. We had passed through Northfield, on a very informal basis numerous times while I and my siblings were growing up, "to see where Mommy and Daddy used to live." My mom's folks lived just across the Mississippi, a bit southeast of Mpls in Wisconsin, so we spent each summer in the Midwest.

I had met with a mountain climbing accident at Philmont Scout Ranch in northeastern New Mexico in the summer of 1966, and so by the summer of '67, I was still not 100 percent back to normal, sufficiently to do my usual Boy Scout wilderness-camp thing. I was cruising the Upper Midwest with a high-school buddy, who also had relatives in the Minnesota-Wisconsin area, and whose aunt in Minneapolis had given him his own car (a '57 Ford). My folks "encouraged" Mark and me to drive the 50 miles or so, from my grandparent's house to Northfield, and to look over the campus. This was July, so the place was largely deserted.

I was rather "uninterested" at the time (way too far off in the future), but I distinctly remember driving around the circle drive in front of Laird and Leighton, seeing Gridley where the MDC now stands, and other salient features of the campus (not sure the 'Hue was even there, then). I probably also talked with the admissions office, but it seems to have been a particularly un-memorable conversation. I returned to my grandparents' place, and subsequently went off to visit other relatives in the eastern half of Wisconsin, and to drive back to Florida with my friend (and my uncle) at the end of the summer.

Fast-forward to the fall of '69 and the spring of '70. Junior college ending after two years, I was again confronted with the issue of where to go to finish up what I now knew would be a major in geology. The prospects were many. One of my buddies and I were going to go to Florida State University, in Tallahassee, where we were both going to finish our degrees in geology. Having now had two more years of parental supervision and control, I was also thinking of "getting away" — as in, "far" away. As in, I applied to the University of Oregon, Oregon State University, one of the geology schools in Washington state, and probably some additional ones elsewhere (Arizona?).

Carleton was about as far from my mind as was possible, particularly all the more so, as that was where my folks wanted me to go. Actually, it was more like "you may go anywhere you want, so long as it's Carleton." Or so it seems in my memory, lo, all these thirty-seven-plus years later, and with all due apologies and respect for my deceased parents. I frankly do not even really remember "applying" to Carleton. Probably my mother dug out and dusted off my earlier application (the essay and all), and presented it to me. I probably grudgingly updated it, signed it, and mailed it off, all the while contemplating the exciting geologic environs of western Oregon and the freedom ahead.

I do know that I headed out to Philmont Scout Ranch again that summer, immediately after junior college "graduation," which was at the very tail end of spring quarter at Carleton. Since in those days, the easiest way to get from Florida to northeastern New Mexico was to fly into Denver, I took a plane to Minneapolis (was TPA-MSP-DEN really the best routing, or did my folks orchestrate that, somehow? One would think O'Hare would have provided better connections).

It was arranged (note the intentional use of the passive voice) that I would stop over in Minnesota, take the Jefferson down to Northfield, talk to the admissions folks, stay overnight in a dorm room, and then proceed westward to my summer job at Philmont. By this point, I was, like, "whatever," with respect to this "pipe dream" of my parents.

I dutifully flew in to Minneapolis; stayed overnight at the downtown YMCA; took the Jefferson; disembarked at the Stuart; walked up Musser hill, backpack on my back; talked to not only the admissions folks, but also to Eiler Henrickson and Ed Buchwald in the geology department, and who showed me around their facilities; discovered the PDP-8 computer lab in the basement of Laird; ate Saga food (did I really say that?); walked in the Arb; and spent the night in Goodhue with "Kenny _____, who must have been a junior, and whose roommate was somewhere else.

(As an aside, it's probably just as well that I can't remember his last name (in to protect the guilty), as he ended up being the senior leader of my now-ex's freshman-orientation group, and we learned that he was a real druggie: Naive frosh question: "Is there a drug problem at Carleton?" Sophisticated senior response: "No, there's no problem here. What do you want?")

The rest is history. I fell in love with Carleton and its "home" Midwest setting, I was much more impressed with the geology department than I had been with Florida State, and I could scarcely wait to return in the fall. Which, of course, I did. I'm not sure I ever wrote Oregon State et al. letters declining their acceptances.

Something happened during those two intervening years, and most likely during that sophomore year. Doesn't "sophomore" translate as "wise fool"? Perhaps the "fool" "wised-up" a bit between '69 and '70. Certainly that time was a time of "wising up", in any number of ways, for many of us — Kent State, anti-war protests, strikes, riots, etc. But it would seem that I changed a lot, hopefully some of it maturation. I went from being someone who barely managed to be rehired at Philmont because of my previous summer's performance reviews to a staff member actually "fought over" by several groups who wanted me by the end of the summer. I latched on to what would become my life's work, and later managed to get into my first choice grad school in geology with a fellowship (yup, also in the Midwest, the University of Wisconsin - Madison).

By the way, it was not until thirty-plus years later, that I learned that my Florida State buddy, with whom I had been going to do "real" college, had flunked out of FSU (can you spell "Par-ty! Par-ty!", a la John Belushi?) and ended up joining the Navy as a boilerman.

Interesting. Who knows what might have happened, but for that fateful campus visit .....

First Impressions, Part 6: Another Long Distance Choice

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 20:58:00 +0000

Submitted by Fred Rogers

Me too. I graduated from high school in Beirut, Lebanon, with no chance to visit any of the schools I applied to, except that I had been to my parents' reunion at Oberlin when much younger. I think I first walked on the Carleton campus that summer when we came to campus to deliver my "stuff" in a trunk, which we stored somewhere. Then I went off to eventually spend the end of the summer with relatives while my family flew back to the Middle East. I arrived again on campus with the freshmen in September, with wide eyes and very vague expectations. And, in so many ways, my expectations were exceeded!

First Impressions, Part 5: Shuttle into the Unknown

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 20:54:00 +0000

Submitted by David Davis-Van Atta

No, Galia, you are not alone. It never even crossed my mind that students might visit campuses before applying or enrolling. And I don't recall anyone suggesting the idea to me. So I just applied, got my letter, and came in September. And thought this was all perfectly normal. (It was more normal back then than it is now.)

Thus my first memories of Carleton are of a very dreary, rainy day — low, wet, and gray. Didn't look good at all! I now know that the transportation (whatever it was — I don't recall) came down Hwy 3 from the airport. Farmington was then more as its name would imply: a very small town, all but purely agriculturally-based. Having grown up in rural Ohio (Oberlin), it just looked like a thousand little towns I'd been through, and I felt right at home. And it looked especially wet and forlorn in the rain and light fog.

I wonder who else was on that same shuttle ride?! As I recall it, we were all pretty quiet. Nervous. At least I was.

I remember picking up my trunk with (nearly) all my worldly possessions for college, which we had bought at the Army-Navy store in Oberlin and shipped weeks before. It was smashed! Broken open, stuff coming out. Which just went along with the mood of the day. I really was trying to be excited! But mostly — I was just scared. The trunk was also really unwieldy in its broken condition, hard to carry without losing more stuff. And, of course, it was raining which got things wet. Somehow, again I don't recall how, I managed to get it to my room, but it was quite difficult. I remember that the little bit of home and familiarity my stuff offered felt good.

When it rained a little as we were standing in line for graduation (remember?!), I thought it was kind of appropriate. We had come in the rain, and now a little rain fell as we were leaving.

First Impressions, Part 4: Sight Unseen ...

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 07:16:00 +0000

Submitted by Galia Goodman

Am I the only one who never visited the campus before choosing Carleton?

I was a jr. high student when I first fell in love with the college. The son of my first pre-school teacher was a student at the time, and he was doing a little recruiting during his summer break, and I was allowed to go to the event: There was a movie, a talk by an older alum, and Dan's enthusiastic comments ... That was it. I never looked seriously at any other school, and when I was turned down for early decision, I panicked. I quickly applied to several other ACM schools, thinking that if I got to within shouting distance maybe I could transfer in after my freshman year at Oberlin or wherever else might accept me.

Fortunately I didn't have to resort to that plan — I got in on the regular admissions date, and never even opened the envelopes from the other schools. (My mother did, though. I actually did get into Oberlin!)

So the first time I saw the college was a week before my birthday in late August of '68. What a great birthday gift!

First Impressions, Part 3: The People I Wanted as Classmates

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:52:00 +0000

Submitted by Nancy Dixon

First visit to Carleton? Summer of '67. Our family vacation that year was visiting colleges in the Midwest. My parents thought I was not focused on finding a college and told me the vacation would be in Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa and Minnesota. I was to write to colleges and pick the ones to visit. Now, you must understand that at that point, family vacations were camping vacations. Add to that my parents insisted on "appropriate attire" for the college visit — suit for Dad, dresses for my Mother, sister and me. Not sure about my brother — he was 10 so was probably the most casual. What I remember was pulling into campgrounds dressed for visiting a college, opening up our camper and then going in to emerge in jeans and sweatshirts. The reverse would happen in the morning — suitably attired for a college visit, we broke camp.

Carleton was the last. When we came into Northfield, my parents, who had observed that all liberal arts colleges are on hills, noted that Northfield had two hills, one for each college. As Missourians, we paid our respects to the Jesse James robbery. Other campus memories have superseded so I don't have specific recollections of the visit though I know by then I knew the questions to ask and was impressed.

The second visit was that fall. The 'rents said I could pick two schools to visit while the students were there. I was pretty sure I wanted to go to Carleton and took advantage of the opportunity to go again. Took the train up. Went to a class. What I remember most, was the people — they were what I wanted as classmates. If Carleton would take me, I was ready to go.

First Impressions, Part 2: The Worst-Considered but Best Decision I Ever Made

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 17:46:00 +0000

Submitted by Ann Iijima

The first time I came to Carleton was to visit my brother, probably a sophomore at the time. Everything was in bloom: lilacs, cherry trees (I think). I'll never forget the view over Lyman Lakes. That was all it took for a geeky little kid from South St. Paul (that and a dare from my brother, that is). Looking back, though, I think that there was a great deal more working behind the scenes than a pretty picture and the intra-familial competition: The stories and phrases that Wes brought home each break must have caught my attention: silly, smart, sly, playful. Enrolling at Carleton may have been the worst-considered but best decision I ever made.

First Impressions, Part 1: Remember the First Time You Came to Carleton?

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Sat, 21 Apr 2007 00:37:00 +0000

Submitted by Stan Seltzer

'mates,

I recently received a piece of mail that poses the question: Remember the first time you came to Carleton?

In fact, I do — barely — and it dawned on me recently that this past week (spring break at Ithaca College) was the figurative, if not literal, 40th [!] anniversary of my prospective visit to Carleton.

Curiously, the most memorable part of that trip occurred the previous day. Sam (my father) and I started the two-day trip from upstate New York with a 600-mile drive to Skokie, where we spent the night with family friends. The plan was to take turns, which we did for the most part; but somehow I started a shift in western Ohio or eastern Indiana and drove the rest of the way. As a driver, I was relatively inexperienced (I'd had my license since December, a week after turning 16), and the end of the trip involved negotiating rush-hour traffic (albeit, interstate) the likes of which I had never encountered. When we arrived, Sam pronounced me "a driver" and declared that he would never worry about me behind the wheel again...

I think many of the memories of that trip have been overtaken by those of the four years that ultimately were to follow. (Well, actually, five; but this is not the time to get literal.) I certainly recall spending a night at the Stuart, visiting Burton, some sort of admissions interview, and meeting Frank Wolf (who was chair of the math department). I went on to take my first and last math classes from him (Fred [Rogers] may remember the last; he was the grader), and he was also department chair about a decade later when I spent that fifth year in Northfield.

Apparently the impressions on both sides were sufficiently positive.

Music, the Clapton Concert, and the Sacred Brownies

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Fri, 30 Mar 2007 13:02:00 +0000

Submitted by Todd Lund

A couple months ago I came across a quote from Tom Robbins (Even Cowgirls get the Blues) about the 60’s:

... the sixties were special; … a time when a significant little chunk of humanity briefly realized its moral potential and flirted with its neurological destiny, a collective spiritual awakening that flared brilliantly until the barbaric and mediocre impulses of the species drew tight once more the curtains of darkness.” (from Jitterbug Perfume)

Although I can’t explain it, I still remember how the music of ‘68 to ‘72 felt. Some of it came close to magic. No doubt this was partly about feeling young, but for our generation it was more—both the music of that time and our experience of it were unique. There were no rock concerts before our generation; we really were making it up as we went along. Around the time I read the Tom Robbin’s quote, I learned that Eric Clapton was coming to St. Paul. I hadn’t been to a rock concert in years, and thought it was about time to go back to one of my sources of indelible inspiration. I've always admired Clapton's guitar playing; no surprise there. (He told a self-deprecating joke about getting old, describing how a kid on the streets of London recognized him recently, and said, "Hey, you're Eric Clapton, aren't you!?" Clapton admitted that he was. The kid responded, "Wow, you're history!!")

I assumed there remained tucked away in our freezer some marijuana brownies that I’d been carrying with me from house to house for the past 34 years. They’d been baked in 1971 using some of a friend’s personal crop grown on an abandoned farm in an unused horse paddock rich with manure. When I started dental school in 1973 I figured I better quit using marijuana for good, so I did. But eating one of those potent brownies before a Grateful Dead concert had been a sacred rite, and I just couldn’t bring myself to throw the last two ones out. So ...

So the afternoon preceding the Eric Clapton concert I’m thinking, “What the hell—I could benefit from a little mind-altering experience at this point in my life.” So I spend an hour taking the freezer apart looking for the last two marijuana brownies. The problem with having (a) a large freezer and (b) a wife who’s a self proclaimed pack rat—in all things in life—is that it gets harder and harder to find things as time goes by. In the freezer, the older things are the more covered they get with frost and ice. You have to scrape things, chip away the ice to figure out what they are. (Do we really want to eat this?—What the hell is it and how long has it been in here?!) But I had a job to do—find those brownies.

My wife walks in the back door, and sees the entire contents of the freezer spread out on the kitchen counter(s).

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m trying to find the last of Arne’s marijuana brownies for the Clapton concert tonight.”

She gave me a look that said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Then she said, “OK, what did they look like?” as if my describing their original appearance would help us to distinguish one frost covered lump from another.

I knew she’d seen brownies before; but I calmly tried to describe them.

[I need to interject a little background material here—when you have dogs, they may occasionally get worms, intestinal parasites, from sources unknown. And for the Vet to make a microscopic assessment, s/he will require that you bring in a stool sample—it should be fresh, although freezing it prior to delivery to the Vet’s office is sometimes acceptable. You see where this is going, don’t you?]

I explained that I had the brownies double-bagged in a small Tupperware container, which I’d (foolishly) neglected to label.

“Oh that! I threw that out—I thought it was just old frozen dog poop.”

I am speechless. The sacred brownies from 1971 have been mistaken for frozen dog poop, and have been thrown away. Not only are they gone, they were discarded in the most base and profane way.

Not wanting to start a fight, I managed, “Oh, that’s too bad.” (The price we sometimes pay for domestic peace.) I tried to console myself: “Well, looks like the Universe didn’t want me to get stoned one last time for this concert. Anyway, these days it probably would have been a migraine trigger for me.”

So we went to the concert with our consciousness unaltered. Funny, walking into the St. Paul Excel Energy Center (what a name for a civic arena—corporations rule!) there was marijuana smoke everywhere. The crowd was a mix of young and old, biker types, aging flower children, younger students and a few almost conservative-looking types, women and girls, men and boys. Walking through the crowd I could nearly remember what it felt like to be 20. Just being alive is good; your body is light and moving feels as effortless as Eric Clapton’s guitar sounds. Our bleacher seats (@$150, not cheap!) were too small and close together to move in them; I got cramps in my legs from sitting for 2 1/2 hours. We sat next to a couple our age, and during intermission shared stories about the music back then. We all remembered being told by our parents, “That’s not music; it’s noise.”

I wondered how Eric Clapton must feel about singing the song, Cocaine (J.J. Cale), what with his now being a recovering addict. Moreover, it’s abundantly clear to everyone just how violent and corrupting the influence of cocaine on the drug trafficking business really is. I guess if Cocaine (the song) is popular and makes money then he’s still going to play it:

Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm! Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm!
"If you wanna hang out, you’ve gotta take her out, Cocaine!"
Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm!
“If you wanna get down, get down on the ground, Cocaine!”
Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm!
"She don’t lie, She don’t lie, She don’t lie, ...Cocaine!"

I was listening to the song, and as I was looking down (binoculars are great fun at concerts) from our bleacher seats I noticed how many old guys like me there were in the audience with male pattern baldness. (I’ll admit, it bothers me a little—but what can I do about it?) Anyway, as Clapton was playing Cocaine I thought of some alternate lyrics for old farts like me:

Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm! Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm!
"If your head’s lookin' bare, where you had a lotta hair, Rogaine!"
Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm!
"If you know you're getting old, and your scalp is feelin' cold, Rogaine!"
Ba da-da-dah, b’Dumm!
"It’s alright, It’s alright, It’s alright, ... Rogaine!"

OK, OK, I know it's a bit silly--I don't care. I feel better when I make fun of things that bother me.

Todd (twlund@earthlink.net)

What We Had in Common

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Tue, 27 Mar 2007 18:07:00 +0000

Contributed by Todd Lund

Although we didn’t know it, when we came to Carleton that September in 1968 the Three Fate Sisters (Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos) had already made profound decisions for each of us. They’d imprinted on each of us a personal question, one that we’d spend our lifetimes trying to learn and answer. Now, whether this was literally true or simply a metaphor or a myth doesn’t really matter; the truth behind it is just as compelling.

Imagine the Three Fate Sisters working like this: A child is about to be conceived and born into some particular circumstances on earth. With the infinite wisdom of divine short-order cooks the Three Fate Sisters choose a soul from among those waiting their turn to be served up for reincarnation, they chose a soul for whom those circumstances on earth will be perfect. That is, they make certain that the reincarnated soul will have exactly the right advantages and hardships for them to discover what they need to learn from that lifetime. (Could our shared fate have been going to Carleton?)

They gave to each of us our circumstances at birth with exquisite and divine teamwork. Lachesis assigned to each of us a personal destiny and a daimon to guard that choice, Clotho spun the thread of destiny into its pattern—its earthly manifestation, and Atropos made the web of destiny irreversible. Atropos carries her shears still, ready to cut the thread in its final unwinding. That thread has already been cut for some of us. How long we live is not as important as how we live.

As it happens, we learn our personal truth just before our birth. As The Fate Sisters convene to decide our fate, the soul who’s hanging around nearby waiting to be born overhears them. In that moment we understand all of it—our life’s question, and what our individual struggle is all about. However, to prevent us from later on saying out loud what we’d heard from the Fates and thus remembering our truth, just before we’re sent across the Plain of Oblivion and on to our birth an angel touches her finger to our lips to close them. Her touch makes the mark of the philtrum, that little dent in our upper lip; the spot we tend to touch our finger to when we’re trying to remember something. This divine ‘sealing of the lips’ prevents cheating—we can’t remember what we overheard after we’re born. We can only understand our truth if we find the courage to figure it out for ourselves later on.

Although not even the gods have the power to interfere with the decision of The Fates, as mortals we still have the power and the responsibility to act with free will. We have the opportunity to discover and understand ourselves during our time on earth. We also have the option of trying to avoid the pain of this process, by electing to remain unaware and ‘sleep-walking’ through our lives.

While the Fates had given to each of us upon our birth the lonely task of self-discovery, when we came to Carleton we shared our experience as we tried to make sense of our personal questions. “What really matters? What’s the purpose of my life? What must I understand to have a successful life?” We were each doing our best to find our own answers, whatever our values or interests were. We made some of the most essential, identity-affirming choices of our lifetime during our college years, as well as mistakes that perhaps were so painful because it was such an important time.

While encountering our personal challenges, successes and traumas each of us was alone. But we shared a common experience between 1968 and 1972, when we were each struggling to understand the question chosen for us by the Three Fate Sisters.

Riding the Cyclone

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 21:01:00 +0000

I was trying to describe my college years to my son. After several attempts, I finally hit upon an analogy that (mostly) works, I think:

My time at Carleton was a roller coaster ride. And not a ride on one of those ultra-smooth, high-tech, miniature-Bullet-Train kind of roller coasters. But a ride on a clickety-clackety wooden one. The kind that you’re not entirely sure won’t jump the tracks at any moment, maiming or killing you and everyone else on board.

If you attended Carleton between 1968 and 1972 or thereabouts, you may have felt the same way on occasion. Unless you are a complete adrenaline junkie, you may also have disembarked from the experience not exactly sure how you felt about it all.

So tell us – How did you handle the ride? Did you cower in one of the cars at the back of the ride, your eyes clamped shut? Or did you toss your cookies and pray the end would come soon?

Did you go through the motions, but never thoroughly embrace the experience? Or sit in the front car and scream your fool head off?

Did you leave feeling dazed and disoriented? Determined to never again subject yourself to that kind of madness?

Or at various times, did you – like me – experience “(e). all of the above.” Click on the word “comments” below and let us know.

Whichever your responses, I’m betting that underlying them there’s also some pride:
• That you qualified for the Carleton ride in the first place
• That you were brave enough to try it
• That you survived it

If you’re like me, there’s probably some abiding exhilaration as well and a deep affection for those with whom you shared the trip. The ones who held your hand, who screamed along with you, who encouraged you as you began the adventure, and who supported you as you stumbled toward the exit.

We can’t promise that 72 dpi will be the same kind of wild ride, but we’re going to try to make it interesting, as well as a source of useful information pertaining to our 35th reunion – June 14-17, 2007, in Northfield. We’ll be ponder the events of the times, everything from the Vietnam War and the first Earth Day to Iraq, global warming, caring for aging parents, and aging ourselves. We’ll be laughing and weeping, too, and comparing life stories and sharing hard-learned lessons.

I hope you’ll join us – here at this blog, at the class website, and at reunion itself in June – and that you’ll invite friends and family to tag along on the journey. It promises to be another memorable one.

Nancy J. Ashmore

Belated Carleton Follow-up

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn) — Thu, 08 Mar 2007 15:25:00 +0000

I never know when something when something from our Carleton days will shed some light on what I am doing now, or the other way around. Currently my Monday nights are devoted to an Irish language class. This just triggered an example of the latter case.

The Wonderful World of Blog

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Sat, 03 Mar 2007 05:22:00 +0000

We’ve come a long way, ’mate! Few of us even touched a computer during our years as Carleton students. As a matter of fact, we’re probably (undoubtedly?) part of the last generation to actually use slide rules in high school or college. Who’d have thought that as our 35th reunion approached we’d be getting announcements about things called “online registration,” a class “website,” and a class “blog”?

That’s what’s happening, though. We’re writing to alert all classmates with known e-mail addresses to visit the college’s online registration site and sign themselves up for a weekend of reconnecting with old friends and new ideas.

The quicker you register the better, of course—there’s an Early Bird discount of 10% if you register before May 1, and we’re trying to set a 35th reunion record for number of attendees (140 or 34%). You’ll get printed materials in the mail early March with all the details.

While you wait for the snail mail to arrive, visit The Class of 1972 website. Be sure to explore our Zoobook pictures, painstakingly scanned by Chris Rautman and expertly assembled by webmaster Glenn McDavid.

In the mood for something slightly more interactive? That’s what this place, carleton@72dpi, the class weblog, is all about. “72 dpi” stands for 72 dots per inch, a measure of digital resolution. It’s not the kind of crispness you’d want for a printed brochure, but it’s just fine for things being viewed on a computer monitor — like the posts and comments you’ll find there. Some nuts and bolts to keep in mind:

• Posting will be limited to people approved by blog coordinator Nancy J. Ashmore. Want to chime in regularly? Click here to drop her a line, and she’ll help arrange for that. Use this address, too, to alert her to classmates in the news or other items you’d like to see included in the blog.

• Anyone (including non-Carls) can comment. We’re not going to impose a lot of rules about responses except to say this: They should be respectful and sensitive to the fact that (1) the main purpose of the blog is to re/connect members of the Carleton Class of ’72, (2) class members are (still) not all of the same political, religious, or economic stripe, and (3) it’s a poor conversation that tolerates only one point of view.

• Posts and comments are visible not only to other Carls, including readers on Planet Carleton, but to the wider world as well. Please be aware of this, and submit personal information accordingly.

• Want to get new posts as they happen? You can sign up to receive feeds or have them sent to you as e-mails. Look in the right-hand column of the blog for details. If you need more assistance, contact us and we'll walk you through it. If we can remember how.

We look forward to connecting here in cyberspace and then again June 14-17 in the Great Space, Great Hall, and the Bald Spot. Let the wild rumpus start!

Snow(im)mobiles...

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Fri, 02 Mar 2007 20:35:00 +0000

The Weather Outside Was Frightful ...

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Fri, 02 Mar 2007 20:01:00 +0000

But inside Sayles-Hill it was undoubtedly delightful. Getting there can be a hassle. But the prospect of mail from home, some hot java, books to browse, and chance encounters with friends provide all the motivation that's necessary. At least until it gets really freeze-yer-butt-off cold, anyway.

The southwest part of the state is shut down today, a day after this pic was snapped, due to white-out conditions, but in Northfield things are moving fairly smoothly. The sun is even beginning to shine!

Memorial Service for Mike Casper

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn) — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 19:20:00 +0000

See From Hilbert Space to Dilbert Space.

Congratulations to Edith!

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn) — Thu, 15 Feb 2007 21:37:00 +0000

Sr. Edith (Erna-Lynne) Bogue's blog Monastic Musings was nominated in three categories in the Best Catholic Blog awards:
Best Individual Blog
Most Spiritual Blog
Best Blog by Clergy/Religious/Seminarian

When It's So Cold Your Nose Hair Freezes ...

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 06:15:00 +0000

When it's so cold your nose hair freezes, it's a great time to stay inside by the wood stove, watch the snow fall, and contemplate the warmth that we'll enjoy (physical and psychological) when June and reunion roll around.

The temp in Northfield is "up" to 4º now. Across town, Carls are trudging to class through fluffy flakes the size of dimes. Here, in the shadow of St. Olaf, I'm taking a break from putting the final edits on an inspirational collection of essays by Carleton faculty about collaborating -- with each other, with students, with other departments. The place has changed in the last 35 years, and the climate certainly could be improved upon, but things continue to simmer on and around the Bald Spot.

In the months to come, we'll put you in touch with some of the latest Carleton ideas and initiatives. We'll also reminisce about the people, events, and things that made our time on campus unforgettable — and invite you to do the same.

All who wish can comment, but posting is limited to people approved by the coordinator (let me know if you want to join in; I'll see if I can work you into the schedule). We're not going to impose a lot of rules about the nature of responses except to say this: They should be respectful and sensitive to the fact that 1) we're (still) not all of the same political, religious, or economic stripe and 2) it's a poor conversation that only tolerates one point of view.

Keep in mind, too, that what you share here is visible not only to other Carls, but to the wider world as well. Submit information accordingly. — NJA.

Not the Warmest Blanket...

noreply@blogger.com (NJA) — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 22:32:00 +0000

It wasn't the warmest blanket a Minnesotan could wish for during this cold wave, but at least it covered the dents left from last summer's hail storm. The one so vicious that it totaled many of the cars in town and prompted replacement of a good two-thirds of the roofs.