Let the Grecian dream of his sacred stream
And sing of the brave adorning
That Phoebus weaves from his laurel leaves
At the golden gates of morning.But the brook that bounds thro’ old Union’s grounds
Gleams bright as a Delphic water,
And a prize as fair as a god may wear
Is a dip from our Alma Mater.(Chorus)
Then here’s to thee, thou brave and free,
Old Union smiling o’er us,
And for many a day, as thy walls grow gray,
May they ring with thy children’s chorus!
These florid words are the Alma Mater of Union College, “Ode to Old Union,” written by Fitzhugh (or Fitz Hugh) Ludlow, Class of 1856. Listen HERE, at least as far as “the brook that bounds.” So worth it.
Ludlow’s other claim to fame is The Hasheesh Eater: Being Passages from the Life of a Pythagorean (1857), an autobiographical description of the author’s stoner-mystical experiences while using a cannabis extract. An homage to Coleridge’s Confessions of an Opium Eater, Ludlow’s work similarly bewails the dangerously addictive qualities of the author’s drug-of-choice – despite that cannabis, unlike opium, is not addictive. The Hasheesh Eater sold well and inspired scads of mid-19th century daredevils to try cannabinoids.
Not quite sure how all this relates to ReUnion 2017, but as both song and story made several public appearances over the course of the weekend, I thought I’d include them here.
For the Class of 1967, the fun began Thursday night with a tapas-and-drinks Meet & Greet at a Schenectady hot-spot. The tapas weren’t tapas, but the food was fine, the bar was open, and the alumni were pumped.
They were also white, affluent, and male. Male, because Union didn’t admit women until 1970. Affluent by birth and/or by virtue of intelligent application of their prestigious Union degrees. White? Not surprising, but a bit weird. I don’t often (ever?) circulate in such homogeneous circles.
Union has a tradition of providing full scholarships to brainiacs who would otherwise be unable to afford the tuition. That had been Roy’s ticket in. A happy side effect of this tradition is a more diverse student body. This year’s grads came in all colors, nationalities, and genders. In 1967, “diversity” amounted to a passel of genius Jewish boys from New York, most of whom became lawyers. In fact, an inordinate percentage of the alums were lawyers; the preponderance of attorneys from the Class of ‘67 defied all laws of probability.
At the M&G, alums said “hello” by bowing to each other. No, not a bizarre college ritual. A rite of re-acquaintance. First a bob (to read the moniker on the name tag), then a handshake (to confirm the Union bond), and finally a cry of victory (as a vaguely familiar name was successfully matched with a face that had aged half-a-century).
With typical aplomb, I started the evening by insulting one of Roy’s sweetest classmates. I opted to drink beer, but declined to drink his.
Nick Matt, owner of the locally – and rightfully – famous, award-winning, family-run Saranac Brewery had provided the feast with three of his best: an IPA (not for me, thanks), a pale ale (still too hoppy), and a blueberry blonde ale (wonderful, if I’d been in the mood for a fruit-laced pint).
I apologized by talking sensibly about suds. I love the stuff and can expound eloquently and at length on its virtues and my vice. Nick is a forgiving guy, and by the end, I’d wangled an invite to the Class of 1982’s (Saranac) Beer Tasting event later that weekend. (Go me!)
Roy unearthed but a single Sigma Chi at the M&G. None of his best buds from his frat days were there. Chances were slim they’d be making late appearances.
Maybe a shame, maybe not. Sometimes your best buds at 20 are no fun at 70. Sometimes when you’re older and wiser, you realize the guy you scorned when you were young and foolish is actually a kindred soul. The Greek letters that had defined these lads’ school-daze social lives meant little to them now. They were just happy to be there.
Having had considerably less to drink than Roy, I took the wheel back to Lee that night. That dark and stormy night. Lightning and thunder, downpour and wind. I love a good summer thunderstorm, and this was a doozy.
I don’t love driving poorly-lit roads in heavy weather, though. Icing on the cake, we’d become so accustomed to our Prius’ great mileage, we’d failed to pay sufficient attention to the gas gauge on the rental car. Can’t stop for fuel at any old exit on a Thru-Pike, either. Pit-stops are official, and few and far between. We drove for miles on fumes and anxiety before making it to a pump.
The extra-long travel day, the social stress, the storm, and driving 40-50 miles on empty pushed me to my limit. What pushed me over it was the ReUnion Committee’s unconscionably late email regarding appropriate attire.
Where I come from, the typical dress code is “no code.” From a night at the opera to a backyard BBQ, anything goes. As this is not the case elsewhere on the planet, I was careful to consult the ReUnion Committee’s official what-to-wear info before – months before – heading east.
“Business casual,” the doc said. Meant zip to me. I had my daughter translate. She sent me visual aids.
Wait, what? Professional attire spiffed up with heels and jewelry? For Thursday tapas, sure – but were cocktail dresses not de rigueur for a Friday night cocktail party hosted by the President of the college?
I re-read the instructions. No mistake. “Business casual” was the specified mode for each and every ReUnion event.
On the cusp of departure, I balked again. I had packed a pretty top, black pants, nice flats – but if I brought hose and my purple heels, I’d be cocktail ready. Yes, but according to the Committee, I’d be way over-dressed. The guidelines could not have been clearer. “Business casual,” not “cocktail attire.” I left the heels at home.
So, midnight, back in Lee after a helluva drive, prepping for the next day’s string of major events – including drinks and hors d’oeuvres with President Ainlay – I learned Roy had received an addendum email from the Committee a couple days prior (when we were already 3,000 miles from home). The email said, in essence, “BTW, ladies, there is one event where you just might want to dress to the nines. The Friday night cocktail party.”
I wept. I cried. I totally lost it. It’s not that I care about stupid dress codes or what anyone else is wearing. It’s that the absolute last thing an introvert like me wants to do at a fancy soirée is stand out from the crowd. The Committee’s last-minute switcheroo precipitated a major meltdown. I went through every option (spending the whole next day shopping and maybe finding something that would cost too much and I’d never wear again; staying alone in a disconnected house and missing all the fun), then said hell with it, and prepped the stuff I’d brought.
Next morning, we got out the door quick as we could and still missed the Class of ‘67 brunch. (Roy was in such a hurry not to miss the all of it, he took the wrong exit, then drove three times around the GE Plant before finding the road to Union.) By the time we arrived, the meal was so over, no one was even sipping their coffee anymore. If the last of the speakers (Nancy Borowick, ’07 – photo-journalist author of The Family Imprint) hadn’t still been going strong a good half-hour beyond her allotted time, the place would have been empty. As it was, we barged into on a packed, pin-drop silent house where everyone was attending to Nancy’s emotionally-charged presentation on the creative process of compiling a photo-memoir of her parents as they both slowly succumbed to cancer.
That put me 2-for-2 on ReUnion events and tactless blunders. Luckily, Marna Redding, director of Alumni and Parent Engagement, came to our rescue. She was at our side in a trice, and quickly ushered us to the corner-est corner table, where the kitchen kindly provide us cold, but welcome rations.
After killing time in Schenectady (a real cuppa, a nifty local folk-art shop, a few postcards home),
it was back to campus for three key events: the Medallion Ceremony, the infamous cocktail party, and dinner at Hale House. Medallion Ceremony dress code for alums was “jacket and/or tie.” Roy took the OR seriously.
On reaching their 50th, alumni join the Garnet Guard (Union’s colors are garnet and gray). The ceremony is held in the Nott Memorial, named for an early and extremely influential Union president, Eliphalet Nott, and affectionately known as “the Nipple.” The building’s exterior is iconic Union,
but the interior is even better, a vaulting rotunda of stained glass, metal-work staircases and stacked galleries, a tessalated tile floor, a pin-pricked ceiling that looks like a starry dome . . . my pic doesn’t do the space justice, so here’s a stock photo.
Another bit of Union lore repeated multiple times over the weekend – the college was designed in 1813 by French architect, landscape architect, and interior designer Joseph-Jacques Ramée. His brilliant diagonals-to-roundabouts motifs and stunning balance of classical structure and greenery is evident also in the design of the project he took on after Union – Washington, D.C.
After the Medallion Ceremony, the honorees and their wives promenaded to President Ainlay’s elegant residence.
Yes, wives. Or fiancés. I did not meet a single husband, same-sex partner, non-specific gender significant other, or boyfriend the entire weekend. Is it going too far to assume non-straight ‘67s declined to attend en masse because they believed their life-style incompatible with the ReUnion vibe?
The President’s home was room upon gorgeous room, stunning pieces of art, colonial antiques, and luxurious gardens.
There was also an open bar and a dining table groaning under mountains of delights . . . upon which I pigged out before remembering next stop was dinner.
Canapés and drinks in the President’s garden,
steaks in Hale House with Roy’s freshman roomie and swim team compatriot Chris Cassels . . . the craic* was brilliant that Friday night. Dinner entertainment included the Class of ‘67 rising to sing the Alma Mater (even more cray-cray with an all-male chorus) and the Dutch Pipers (Union’s all-male a capella performance ensemble) regaling us with several oldies, starting with “Hooked on a Feeling.”
Though the day ended oh-so well, it threw a spotlight on the most trying ramification of Ron’s and Linda’s absence. With our hosts away, their exquisite home was a spacious, luxurious, but excessively distant accommodation. All day long, people had inquired after our tardiness, our slightly frazzled state, and our (my) not-quite appropriate attire (I was indeed the only woman not in heels that evening, save for two whose wardrobe choices were clearly medically mandated). If I had a dollar for every wide-eyed looked of surprise, exclamation of incredulity, and solicitous “But why?” when we said we were staying in Lee . . .
With hotel accommodations hard-by the college, we could have slept in. I could have skipped select events and holed up in a private room where I could write or read or stream. We’d have had down-time between events to rest and refresh, shower and change, drop stuff off and pick stuff up. We could have changed our minds and made it work.
As it was, for Roy to participate in anything, we both had to be ready for everything. I was stuck at Roy’s side for the duration, we had to lug stuff around with us, and when we absolutely had to change clothes for the evening events, we had to change in a campus restroom.
Saturday, Roy’s call-time was 9:35am for a class photo. (Non-official versions below; in the 2nd pic, that’s Roy and Chris in the middle, the two mavericks not wearing blue blazers.)
The shoot was followed by the annual Alumni Parade, complete with pipe band and antique cars. I watched the years stroll by. Finally saw an alum-of-color with the ‘87s (a relief, somehow), but it was the Class of 1952 that won my heart – their 65th college reunion!
The parade led from the steps of the gymnasium to Memorial Chapel, where the organ was played, the Alma Mater was sung (as a tenor solo), addresses were made, praise was bestowed, and awards were given. Most of the awards were for fundraising. We’re talking millions, which is reasonable considering that a substantial portion of the take goes to scholarships, and a 4-year degree from Union currently costs $60,000. The Class of 1957 won the “best costume in the parade” award. Well deserved, as they were the only class sporting any costume at all; they wore Halloween-quality tri-cornered hats.
There was a final, sweet ritual when the Chapel ceremony was over. With the graduating class lined up along the center aisle, out the doors, and down the stairs, the newly-minted Garnet Guard recessed past them, each alum shaking each grad’s hand. They had been warned against chatting (or the recessional would take forever), but there was time for a quick word of wisdom. Roy had four words, divvied up in two alternating phrases. “Take risks,” he’d tell one 2017-er, and to the next he’d say, “Seek bliss.”
Between the morning and evening events, Roy shipped his fancy clothes home. Then, at last, the moment I’d been waiting for – the Class of 1982’s Beer Tasting. As the official and approved party-crashers, Roy and I were on our own in a sea of much younger alums. They welcomed us graciously.
At one end of the room was a spicy popcorn and pretzel bar. At the other, Nick and his wife had 8 Saranac beers to taste, ranging from their old standby Utica Club (not bad!) to a bourbon-casked Imperial Stout.
I tasted them all, and I’m here to tell you, the Saranac brews are beautifully crafted. Unfortunately, they are only available in upstate NY and, for some reason, in Denver.
Each brew has its devoted fans. The Hoppy-Hour Hero was wildly popular. Roy’s fave was the Cold-Brew Coffee Lager. Not a coffee fan, my #1 was the to-die-for Strawberry Tart, a crisp wheat ale divinely balanced between subtle sour and a hint of sweet that comes from real strawberries.
Marna and I chatted management for at least an hour. Nancy (the photo-journalist author) and I talked Guam (where she and her husband live), Jewish families, and death-and-dying (in a good way). Chris dropped by; he and Roy reminisced. The last to leave, we lent a hand to restoring the room, then moseyed over to the lobster feed.
Open-air tents in the quad by the Nipple, a live band, a whole lobster apiece with melted butter and/or lemon, bags of steamers (steamed clams), salad, sweet corn, fresh rolls . . . we sat with Dominic and Frances (Dominic was one of those guys Roy didn’t know back then, because Dom was studying while Roy was partying), and stuffed ourselves to the gills.
This is my last pic from ReUnion 2017 – Roy at the Idol (a Chinese lion lies buried under all that paint). Enlarge the pic, you’ll see his medallion around his neck, just above his giant name-tag/pass.
The commute had been killer, but staying in that gorgeous house had been a gift. Roy’s worst fear had proved unfounded; his old classmates had not all become avid Trump supporters. The Sigma Chi bros hadn’t materialized, but we had made new friends, and the familiar haunts and fond memories had worked their magic on Roy’s soul.
As day dusked into night, we said farewell to the brook that bounds and old Union’s grounds, and headed back to Lee.
* Craic: good food, good drink, good music, good times, good company, great fun. (I wouldn’t have gone all Irish on you, but there’s no English word that covers all the right bases.)