University of Colorado - Coloradan Yearbook (Boulder, CO)

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Winter came late in 1963, so late that ski enthusiasts and snow bun- nies had been silently gazing at the sky for months and praying for the freedom of the slope, where man is really his own master, if but just for a moment. Christmas choirs sang joyous hallelujah, bells jingled, but not from sleighs, for no one needed to go to Nassau for vacation when the sun was still here in Colorado. But winter did come and was just as beautiful as always; legs were broken, and faces were cold and red. People slipped on the ice and fell and went skating and fell again. And everyone was glad. Finals approached and went, and with exaltations of relief the exodus to Aspen began. New friends were made, old ones forgotten, and the Red Onion replaced the Sink — at least for a few days. Some people even skied. . . .

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And then it was spring. Four groups vied for campus political honors, the basketball victories somewhat erased a sorrowful football season, hard liquor didn ' t pass the vote, and bicycles had to be registered with the University. Somewhere along the way in this spring or a previous spring when the grass was very green and everyone sat under trees and sang and eyehalled and was gay and convertibles blossomed, man met his Eve; and he looked at her and he loved her. And the grass seemed even greener and the air even more fresh. And she became a part of his life, a new and vital part that stayed with him forever or brought an ache when there was nothing left but memories. And at last it came, the day that culminated all that had gone before, and man put on his robe and mortar board and walked proudly and looked ahead. Life at Colorado University was over; but what he took with him would remain a part of him always. For him there was a universe to find, perhaps not as Scott Car ' penter had done, but in some way, his own way. In that way which he had found as he had grown. To this man is the 1963 COLORADAN dedicated, a memory, a look into the past, and a reality for the future. . . .