College of the Holy Cross - Purple Patcher Yearbook (Worcester, MA)

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Highway l2, joe Petty, Purchase, N. Y., Pensacola, lVlaury's, Golliwog, and Stockholm overlooking the valley. Waiting at Logan or by a doorway in Northampton. Staring out from Cape Ann. Dozing down the Berlin strip. And among the inexpressibles that the soul knows best is the name of May. May of third year college is spring with extras. Emblematic of a certain maturity is the Ameri- can spectacle euphemistically called Junior Prom. Midway between the red of Easter and the green of june arrives this traditional rite of spring-a weekend of poetry, society and braggadocio which indicates by its fiscal budget, bu- reaucracy and excess that its promoters and patrons deserve the right of passage to their last year of protective interlude. lndeed, Promade is a yearned for liqueur, a potion pro- ferred annually to but one class, a fluid of dangerous delight which must be nourished the school year long and gulped in sybaritic frenzy come the weekend. Such a May was ours, such rite, such passage. May was again the annual pass or pass out examination month. May was nearly June. But May was also the silent punctuation to all the politicking, self-conscious caution and spiteful ascendancy that infected us-infects all-from the first day in Fenwick, O'Kane, or Wheeler. May, 1962 was this emphatic period. The prizes and offices were finally filled, concomitant angers and jealousies forgotten. With senior year would come an end to the fierce interest in rank-seeking, and a beginning for the customary apprehen- sion about the inevitabilities outside the commencement gate of our Pakachoag decompression chamber. Such realization wavered in the limbo of half-conscious things in that last-but-one undergraduate May. The honey of what father remembered forever as the good old college days was full sweet on our lips. But the salt of hammering winters, easy sins and scarring disappointments had by now crusted us with the familiar cynicism of growing boys. Maybe, the sad man whispered, happiness is only in the retrospect. The true taste of our awareness hovered there between the two extremes. Honey, saltg ideal, realg yes, but oh yes, no. And we retired toward August to confirm or adjust our one-summer-richer sense of being. vt ow it all comes back . . . Perhaps we shall mutter it a generation hence when some innocent child's eyes demand pictures of the four dark white years when we camped on lndian l-lill. Our mind will remember and forget, as it wishesg and, depending on the values we hook to these days of scho- larship and silliness, we will deliver up that child to truth or fiction. But the gray zone between is im- i iv mense. We drove up that Linden Lane in September before the Cuba fright to taste that neutral color. President Carton quietly assum.ed office, the staid old lady Crusader slowly drifted into a blue funk of monotony, and the Patcher soundlessly gathered research to chronicle the full tale of emergence. The story on these three pages that we are all reading and writing together is nothing more than one mind's eye reflections on our joint journeying, and its senior chapter-as a year's record-is far surpassed by the re- mainder of the Book 1963. ln one sense, this exactly docu- mented record of our last year is important. ln another, the record is less important than the four-hundred-odd personal judgments which come from dimensions outside pictures, captions and names. The dimensions are legion. We are buying her the skimpy hot dog under the stands between halves of the Syracuse game. No, girl, l don't know why they still insist on calling it Homecoming. Now, girl, that's rather silly small talk. l told you what l want to do next summer. See Istanbul, Port Said, Nairobi, Buda- pest. Write a book. Smoke too many cigarettes. Fall off a cliff, but get caught in a tree halfway down. Get shot at a few times in a dark alley on a Moroccan midnight. Love a beautiful woman. You want a Coke with that, honey? Yep, 94th percentile on the LSAT. Guess it'll be Michigan or Columbia. Well, naturally, l'll apply there too. What the hell. Dad, mom, sis, l'd like you to meet some of my friends: he advises Art Schlesinger, he denies evolution, he says Luther was intemperate .... Let me hear that once more: You say the Development Oflice thinks tiddlewinks presents a bad image of the College? And we skied off the Christmas slopes of Vermont and New York State into the same cold Worcester sunsets. Seven-eighths an alumnus. Fuzzy and unanswerable by now were those much earlier urgent questions of identity, place, and purpose. Rephrased to fit a frame of mind now older in outlook but younger in its sense of complexity-rephrased, the questions were now of immediate nature: which graduate school, when the wedding, how soon the draft. Rushed by the exigencies of more schooling or wage-earning, we gallopped through winter, skipped more Kimball meals and put aside the en- snarling, ultimate doubts about l, it and them. And the people who provide love and tuition met me in O'Kane the evening before His Excellency Governor Peabody would urge us to go now to give ourselves out- right to the land vaguely realizing westward. Which doesn't necessarily mean go hike up a mountain, but suggests that there is a freshness in the tired word frontier. The sign, tarnished brass letters on black, acknowledged our final going and the man in the campus cruiser secured the gates behind us, lest worms and thieves creep in. And the story ends. as at as as at On the contrary. Those thirty-six months present and nine' months absent, once lived out, take up distracting residence in the glue of memory. It is not easy to forget them at first. But that is a country for old men we are comme.ncing toward and the efforts of realizing westward will sap us. Almost certainly there will come that particular day in the next century when an innocent child's eyes will probe our memory for the story of our l-loly Cross. We will not at all be able to relate what happened, for names will escape, incidents fog, insights blur. ln suburban Boston, bayside California, or colonial Moon, yesterday in Wor- cester will distort itself in haze. The grace and passion that we wore four years in the colors of honey and salt-they will have been bled out beyond recall by age, motion and place. l-loly Cross was IZO years a college when we came away. A college may not well remember all it's boys and the boys gradually men have talents for sand-papering memory of its edges, its hurt, its salt. ln men gradually dust, place and motion and age will replace full recall with fiction. And so we will look into the child's eyes and say: l will tell you the story-perhaps not with the truth of facts-but it is my story and it begins this way: . . . l am talking now of thirty-six months present and nine months not present in Worcester, Massachusetts in the time that l lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a student .... Each man of us was a whole dimension.-Christian Zacher

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,II-. t is a distinct pleasure to welcome you to the cli- mate and traditions of I-loly Cross College . . . The atmosphere is one of masculine and fraternal democracy and friendli- ness. The transitional period could easily be be- wildering with extrinsic complications like home- sickness . . . but l think you will find here an ex- perience which will absorb you, compensate you for a temporary pain of loss, President Donaghy had told us in l959. We came back a second fall to get more compensation. And fall was all-absorbing. Scene: lvy stadium in Cam- bridge, circular stands nearly filled. Whistle. Deep in the visitors' territory a mean-faced sophomore from next-door Brookline seduces the ball and runs like a legend the length of the field. Fade out with bedlam. One evening the same season Robert Frost paid the first of several visits to Kimball and lifted us for a time above or- dinary things. I haven't got more than a hundred years left to live, we believed him. l-le said some of his verse, then spoke with humble humor of a simple theology: Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee and I'll forgive Thy great big one on me. And he left his signature in our minds. I ask society only to respect my variance. For out of it comes my future. The day after Frost, Syracuse sent a football team East to barely win a game it largely lost. When the sun dimmed before Christmas, someone wrote in the Purple, Winter is a forest funeral. Milhouse Nixon fell, fatally injured, while climbing lVlt. Olympus and different gods of Irish stock began to rule the Republic. All of us were magnetized by politics for a spell, some just wore buttons, others looked forward to jobs in Washington in June. And while the country went crazy over Caroline, an English professor from Westboro had helped rearrange the College honors programs under the label Special Studies and established certain responsible liberties to accommodate the urgencies of qualified talent. Between the passage to second term and the NIT in green New York, we volunteered some of our finest friends for Key and Scroll selections. We all pondered majors, signed up, changed minds, finally came to rest. And, hearing rumors of spring, we sent a man out over the cool green Berkshire hills and heard his comforting reply: the Sparrow starts, and clicks his eyes in a grass theater. And color continued to choke us. Purple derbies fgetcha dehrby heyahj and ten new purple blazers for next year. Three more white markers in the cold field beside the Chapel. White grape globes positioned at corners, stairways, gates, lighting our way across campus, down to Southbridge and past the secondhand rubble of industrial progress. But this town is a fine town. That is, -it has a park with benches of concrete and slat boards painted the universal green. The disarray of colors on Ephraim's racksg the color of Warner's celluloid. But the color of Worcester. And as we thread our way back through three-deckers and drop-forges, the hor- rendous brick walls of Checkerboard lights beckon us on and up, forcing the reaffirmation of identification. On and up, into Alumni for the boxing matches, into Dinand mead- hall ut cognoscamus te solum Deum et quem misisti Jesum Christum . . . and in the ringings of ten o'clock the recur- rent questions of purpose and design beseige the brain: images blur past. His fatherly adviceg her sunburned faceg his dull lecturesg the mysteries of epistomology, the Waste- land, flying saucers and the soul of the man next door. Ten o'clock and all is well, consider only how far we all come, how far we all come away from ourselves. The Hyer waiting under your door urges Vote No On Plan HE. but we never see it for it is now summer, 1961. -III- e who said we can't go home again was sadly mis- taken. Because we did so in June, and did so again a third September. Good old Carlin and Alumni. Preaching N. Machiavelli, the divine-right theory and Romans 13:1 fThere is no power but from Godj, the zealous ofhcials of the junior class wasted no time in launching the Big Year- long pursuit of anything superlative. Quoth Dorian Gray on the year's pros- pects: The Biggest. All together, we lunged at excellence. Boston College was burned on the gridiron a second year in succession, outflanked, outpassed and outguessed by three lrish backs. ln late May a l-loly Cross baseball team flew to the Omaha World Series and fought right down to the last day's last inning. And of course, that Christmas tourney in the Quaker City and a third straight NIT on St. Patricks Mr. Ken l-lappe, back at his College after some years at Yale, transformed the Drama Society from a stodgy, second-rate group into a compact band of skillful artists. fNow if the audience would just start snarling and jesting like they did in Kimball . . ln another media, Re- flexionsn made the Crusader interesting, in January Amrein began top editing the paper for a year with new setbacks and successes. Schmidt held a mirror up for us one Thurs- day issue and we confessed academic sins with him, ad- mitting that there was for us the question of commitment, which is something personal and varies with conditions. We all ran, which also is forgiveable, though not condoned. lVlurtaugh rose through the Cross and Scroll ranks to sit in the plush chair and promise us senior year guest lecturers like Auden, Luther King, Ciardi, von Braun, Spivak-and, naturally, but for his final appearance, Frost. Kolb and Keogh spent a few long-anticipated days in formal debate at West Point and departed as the third ranked college team in the nation. Rumor was the two lads took more trophies than bluebooks. Lang was made chief keeper of the Purple Key. Keogh, Snyder and Kelly-one of them prime matter for l963's Man of the Year-were presiding over Alpha Sigma Nu. ln other words, the year was pure blossoming. The class peaked as a group: in the Dean's Lists, on the field with leather, at the Fenwick footlights, on speakers' rostrums, in newspaper prose and magazine verse. Names trigger things, happenings. Those who led their activity or society or year, the names prominent in and beyond the classroom-these are necessary ingredients of a class history. But they and their actions only outline the story, the substance of our tale, what makes it meaningful and memorable must be discovered beyond the names. lmagination's feats of association, the illogical patterns of memory, the near incommunicable mesh of day through month experience . . . these and other unspeakable gyra- tions of the soul are the more reliable records of a history. For us here now, a class's history. There will be the places with and without names. Wheeler and Beaven and the terraced, staired hill between with that amazing flagpole foccasionally Confederatel and birch trees of coin-leaves. The blank museum corridors of the city Auditorium. WORC leaking into the pipes and walls of the upper chapel. Names of Yellow Barn, Connecticut

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THE P RPLE PATCHER Volume LV 1963 Staff EDITORIAL STAFF KEVIN KEOGI-I, Editor A. Martin Keating, Managing Editor Christian K. Zacher, Class Historian James Vanecko, Campus Editor. Steven L. Bashwiner, Leland C. Fay. Francis R. Bidinger, Activities Editor. Joseph Delfino, Edward P. Doherty Paul O. LeClerc, Robert Martin, Daniel M. Murtaugh, Daniel B. Ryan. Gerard W. Moynihan, Sports Editor. John T. Andrews, Jr., Richard T. Angell, Charles Buchta, John W. Catterall, Richard Glasheen, Henry Hand, David Hart, Kevin Contents THE CAMPUS A. Lawler, John A. Matthews, III, James S. McCarthy, Aword and Picture Chf0niClC Of the Yeafis Joseph R. McGinniss, Edgar Michels, James R. Murphy, David F. Ryan, James Sheridan, Michael Toner. Robert F. Hueston, Faculty Editor. F. William Bernet, John R. Cervione, Philip F. Gallagher, William R. Hauer, events and the people who made them. THE ACTIVITIES Michael Hueston, Jr., Daniel Hussey, Stephen John- . S - R 1' ' son, William P. Kelly, John A. Matthews, Ill, E. Eugene Academic 'gl ervlce JA elgmus Miller, James G. Phillipp, Carl Sylvester. Media J Music Anthony G. Koerner, Seniors Editor. William Banfield Peter Carroll, Michael Cavanaugh, Gregory R. D'Ono- frio, Gerald Fogarty, Jr., Richard D. Gorman, Samuel C. Gowan, John B. Hedge, Michael T. Hogan, Charles E. Hoye, Thomas F. Ireton, John A. Lowe, Gregory S. Lukow- ski, Robert Martin, james S. McCarthy, Frederick P. McGehan, Michael E. Moynihan, David E. Pauley, John A. Primavera, George Schuetz, Gerald Sheehan, G. Clin- ton Sornberger, Richard L. Varco, Peter R. Walson. THE ARENA Fall Sports J Winter Sports Spring Sports THE FACULTY Kevin MacCarthy, Chief Photographer. Thomas F. Fratello, Administration -J Professors Robert E. Hoxie, Thomas H. Kieren, John M. Long, James E. McGregor, John T. Moran, John Pyne. W. Paul Maloney, Copy Editor. Thomas F. Harrison, Law- rence M. Kenney, Hugh B. McCormick, Robert E. McDon- Undergraduates J Class of 1963 ald, Edward Mullaney. Joseph D. Skokan, Layout Editor. Michael A. DelVecchio, John A. Zawacki. BUSINESS STAFF JEREMIAH W. O'CONNOR, JR., Business Manager William T. Collins, III, Circulation Manager. Peter M. Ac- ton, .lohn L. Belford, Edward Condon, Henry Hand David G. Mahaney, David H. McMahon, William R. Sheri: dan. William L. Waldert, Homecoming Committee Chairman. Charles Buchta, Daniel Forrestal, R. Jerrad King, Thomas W. Noering, Gerard Sheehan, Joseph H. Thi- bodeau. Paul W. Finnegan, Advertising Manager. John S. Carusone, Charles P. O'Connor, David E. Pauley. Julius F. Friese, Patrons Manager. PATRCNS i ADVERTISERS 7 Page 8 60 J' 102 136 182 280 282