April 1, 2008

Dear Parents,

For the first time in over 17 years my wife and I reached the so-called spring vacation realizing only one of us had these two weeks off, and it wasn’t Laurie. Our joint life in academia had always allowed us the March break to plan something together. Not this year, however, for Laurie’s full-time job meant that she was a nine-to-five employee much like most of you may be. So, alas, I was faced with two weeks, save weekends, of individual planning and entertainment. Our country home this mid-March was not at all ready for the tending of our yard. I managed to repair the snowplow-damaged driveway and begin the clean up from the winter-scattered tree limbs. Other than that foray into property management, I was left to busy myself with reading, a bit of indoor house painting, a few long walks, and two train trips.

Nat and I have been friends since kindergarten. He lives in Washington D.C., and since becoming a widower six years ago, Nat has sold his law firm and taken to travel and exercise and communication. Twice a year Nat (Nemo to old high school pals) makes a New England sojourn to several chums. We have a strong bond, having been freshman roommates at Deerfield, as well as having dated daughters of the same local family. Now I felt it was my turn to visit him. I took the train from New Haven to D.C. to stay for two nights. I thoroughly enjoyed my seat in the “quiet” car of the Acela Express. I read the paper thoroughly, began a book about the practice of medicine, and watched much of the megalopolis corridor pass by. As observed in the song “City of New Orleans,” we passed many graveyards of rusted automobiles. Crossing the Hellsgate trestle, the extraordinary sawtooth panorama of the Manhattan skyline emerged. We slowed down to pass rail yard crews, most of which were made up of six or seven men in fluorescent vests standing about contemplating how to solve a rail bed dilemma. I was reminded of the old Maine joke about the codger who announced that he had just saved the state of Maine a great deal of money by inventing a shovel that could stand up by itself.

The most memorable aspect of this stay with Nat was the road trip we took to Quantico to visit the recently opened United States Marine Corps museum. (Nat had enlisted in the Marines after graduating from Harvard Law School.) He was anxious to see just what this museum was all about. It was quite impressive from my point of view.  This was an imposing martial structure, and once inside the massive rotunda where full-scale fighter planes and helicopters hung from the rafters, one could move from display room to display room and view dioramas and movies of famous battles of the Korean War, World Wars I and II, Iraq and Afghanistan. I could judge that Nat’s Marine heart beat proudly and nostalgically.

From the museum we went on to the Quantico Marine Base. We stopped at the gate and presented our photo identification and drove on. Our first stop was in the town of Quantico – just a main street with shops and joints that cater to Marines’ needs – to look for the tavern he fondly remembered. Alas, the old watering hole is now a laundromat, but abutting the old place is a new tavern that boasted the best burger in town. The burger was pretty darn good. Nat and I were the only two customers, and after lunch we drove back to wander through the base hoping to find his basic training barrack. Nat told stories of his exhausting first weeks trying to sleep and being awakened every twenty minutes by the train engine’s blast as it reached the crossing a scant thirty yards from his cot. These barracks, just like the old tavern, were no longer where he remembered. They had been razed, and new ones erected across the tracks on the main base. We now crossed the tracks onto the base itself and pulled over by the parade ground to watch several squads of officers in training marching smartly and calling out, “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

One last wish of my old friend was to locate the town and a small apartment complex that he and his wife of just six months had inhabited.

Nat’s instincts were pretty good, and while he questioned whether he should be making a right turn here and left turn here and there, we did end up at Loftly Acres. It appeared much smaller than he recalled, but he was satisfied that his journey had filled his quest and back to D.C. we went.

The return trip home was once again placid, and upon arriving in New Haven, I walked back to my apartment to think about what trips to take next.

St. Patrick’s Day arrived. There would be a parade in New York. I knew that. I wangled a dinner out of my older sister and her husband, stating that there was a certain train I had to meet so I couldn’t linger over their meals and wine as they are wont to do. The true purpose of this Metro North trip from the Wassaic stop on the Harlem Valley Line to Grand Central was to visit my two grandchildren, Miles and Wyatt. I stepped out of Grand Central onto Vanderbilt Avenue and soon found myself immersed in Irish dancing groups and a police band, and brushed aside by some young clan clad in something green and imbibing something green, as well. I followed the parade until I reached 90th Street where I found my son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren and back we wandered to 5th Avenue to partake in the last moments of the 246th St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Unfortunately, the parade terminus was at 88th Street, and only a few straggling high school bands continued their formation up to 90th Street where they would disband and race toward their buses. The two boys seemed disappointed, so when the North Caroline High School marching band from Maryland stood before us about ready to call it a day, I importuned the band’s director if they might just play one tune for my grandchildren. It was quite a show, I have to admit. The lanky drum major blew his whistle, lifted high his baton, called out an order, and for the next seven minutes the ratatat of drums and tantara of tubas and trumpets reverberated on our corner. The boys were entranced. Looking at the 50 or so members of this musical group, I was reminded at how often mismatched high school body sizes are. The big guys lugged the sousaphone, the little guys were on the snare drums, there were a lot of gals playing clarinets, and the banner twirlers looked a little bit chilled after their long day in less than 40 degree temperature. Nonetheless, it was a great thrill for the kids and the grandfather to witness this annual spring ritual. It reminded me also of a story my mother use to tell. When she was a girl she would go to the parade of animals when the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus came to New York City. She recalled in wonderful detail how an elephant walked by, paused, swung his truck and nabbed her little hat off the top of her head. Who knows what young Miles or Wyatt may recall in the years to come.

So, we are now at school looking at a long stretch of April and May and then to graduation. There always seems to be a mad dash to the end of the school year. Will the teachers be able to fit everything that they hoped into their yearlong curriculum? Will some students’ wardrobes last two-and-half more months until we break for summer? No doubt there are some things that you as parents of students returning for next year will be wondering. For Lower School students there is the question as to what class and which teacher will be welcoming in the fall? I just want to remind parents at this time that these decisions will be made much later in the spring, perhaps not until early summer. When forming the classes, the Lower School teachers and administrators think long and hard about what is best for the child, considering learning styles, friendships, activity level, personality, talents, communication skills, academic strengths and weaknesses. They are committed to creating a rich mix of children in every classroom so that each child has as broad and joyful an educational experience as possible. Some of you may have favorites and wishes and desires to impart. Please recognize that it can lead to disappointment if expectations placed in front of your child won’t be met. Patty Chamberlain asks that if you have specific information that is important for you to impart, please let her know, but also trust that the school only has the best intentions and outcomes in mind.

I personally look forward to a happy and productive springtime and the continued pleasure of the company of your children as I watch in amazement and pride as to how they have grown and blossomed. And, as ever, I thank you for the support you offer this school and its mission.

Respectfully,

C. Dary Dunham

Head of School