It’s 9:17 am on March 26, 2024 in San Miguel de Allende when an old man reflects upon the moment when the die was cast.
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It was May Day, 1970. Rumors were swirling that there would be trouble in New Haven over the weekend. The Black Panthers were gathering in support of Bobby Seale. The Yale campus was at the epicenter.
I lived on the 12th floor of The Tower at Morse College. It was the pinnacle of the epicenter. I had the lowest pick in the room selection lottery the previous year, and ended up with the worst room on campus, but the table was reversed for Senior year, and I had the first pick. I chose a single room on the 12th floor, overlooking the Paine-Whitney Gymnasium. Nice that I had a good view of North America’s premier athletic facility, because I never stepped inside. It is, if not the highest point on the campus, it is the loftiest student dwelling.
The rooms in Morse— all of them— had floor to ceiling, vertical windows. Only the top half opened, so you couldn’t fall out accidentally. A floormate, nick-named Cello, had a cat that sat by his window, endlessly watching the world go by on Tower Parkway. One day he was playing his cello when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The cat was not on its familiar perch. Cello lurched over to the window, just in time to see his cat hit the sidewalk.
Spring was in the air, but so was something else. Something metallic. I didn’t like it. I went to the window. There was none of the usual traffic, but rather ranks of soldiers and armored vehicles. The Connecticut National Guard had been called out for whatever the weekend held. The trees were blossoming.
This was the culmination of turmoil that had been building since November 22, 1962. Not everyone could draw a straight line from there to here, but I could. 3 assassinations, a war, football, graduation. rock ‘n roll, The Navy, the Draft Lottery, The Little Prince … it had all come to this. “This is nuts,” I said to no one. It was time.
I drifted back to my bed, littered with the detritus of open books, half-finished assignments, and the Rand-McNally Road Atlas of North America. This was my comfort, my balm, my narcotic. I am a map reader. Reading them, I go into the same trance of concentration once reserved for the Hardy Boys, Superman comic books, baseball cards, or cereal boxes. I love “reading” maps.
I flipped through idly. Also open on my bed was The Whole Earth Catalogue with its newsprint pages teeming with access to tools. The stage was set. The only thing missing was the beer. I flipped the page of the Atlas, landing on Nova Scotia. I said the name out loud, then again, then, as if a revelation had occurred “New Scotland,” then to no one, “No-va Sco-tia.”
And thus, the die was cast. My life would not be the bang, but the whimper. The whimper would be peace, not war; country, not city; words, not money. Back to the garden for me (never having been there before).
I went home that weekend, and had a pleasant, quiet weekend in Providence with my parents. I convinced my good friend, John Newberry to join me in this quiet act of sanity, but he was overcome by the call of duty and abruptly left to return to campus. The weekend in New Haven was not Armageddon, but thankfully so. Consensus afterwards was that Yale, the Institution, by welcoming, housing, and feeding the Panthers had avoided a worst case scenario. Some claimed that outcome as triumphant victory. I didn’t care. Let them all blare into their megaphones. I was checked out, Nova Scotia bound.
And from this present perch, well south of Nova Scotia, surrounded by flowering trees and distant, arid mountains, I am glad to say I have never looked back. Marriages (2), kids (2), grandkids (2), houses (9), cars (at least 23 that I can think of), books (12 mine, 250 others), articles (1000+), lifetime achievement awards (0), dogs (4), lovers (not many), Draft Lottery # (338), hips replaced (2), trees planted (35?), videos on YouTube … this is getting silly. You get the picture.
Great idea to take stock in one’s life-accomplishments and advantages. Not everyone is (or was) as fortunate as we are.
The older I get, the importance of events like this becomes.
It all adds up to a unique,good,principled,creative, and very happy life. Keep on keepin’ on…
It is the changes of direction that makes life interesting.
I’m with ya. My running buddy (by that I mean hanging out buddy) Lee Parrott and I went to Cheshire and stayed with his girlfriend’s family. A neighbor was a Minuteman, and offered us arms if we wished to go back into New Haven and enjoy the ruckus. We declined. Shortly afterwards, when President Kingman (🤣) offered the terminus of the year for those interested, we were outa there.
By one definition we were cowards. By my reckoning (and yours, it sounds like) we were simply avoiding a conflict where we had nothing to gain and lots to lose. It’s nice to hear a contemporary’s parallel experience.
You never set foot in Payne Whitney? That’s a loss.
I was a 3 sport jock in high school and serial athlete ever since. The fact that it’s such a hole in my experience while at Yale is a head-scratcher even now. I think a lot has to do with who you hang around with. It’s a big regret.