Three Days at Yale
“The first time I came here, I left my car running in case I wanted to leave immediately,” the woman said, smiling at me over lunch under a big white tent.
I hadn’t left my engine running, but I knew exactly what she meant. I’d thought long and hard before deciding to accept an invitation from the Yale Class of 1952 to attend their 55th reunion — the reunion that should have been my late husband’s.
“I’d like you to meet Dr. Joe Jaffer,” a friend said to me more than 40 years ago. Earlier, the same friend had told me Joe was a chemical engineer with a doctorate from Yale.
It’s hard to imagine anything that could have impressed me more. At the time I’d never even sat in a college classroom. I was in awe of Joe’s education and the institution where he’d received it, and I remained in awe throughout our life together. Joe said Yale was where he learned to think. He learned well. His knowledge encompassed many areas,from the lofty to the most practical. It was easy to leave everything to Joe; he would take care of it.
Even when he began to slip into dementia, a state that lasted ten years before he died in 2005, Joe impressed people with his intelligence and demeanor. His time at Yale had made a major contribution to the person he became — the husband, father, and employer who made everyone feel safe. I’d always wanted to attend one of his college reunions. I hoped to share a little Yale spirit with him, and capture some of what I’d missed before we knew one another. But he had his horses to take care of and a business to run, so we stayed home.
Then early in 2007 a handwritten note arrived, inviting me to be a guest of his class at their reunion. Did I jump at it? Hardly. My initial excitement was quickly replaced by anxiety. The Yale reunion was not the one-shot dinner-dance I’d always envisioned. This reunion took place over several days. Did I want to drive for three-and-a-half hours to a city I’d never visited, to spend three days in the company of 250 people I’d never met? Would I even be able to find the place? Did I have a clue what to wear?
For weeks, my answer to those questions was no. The Yale schedule of events called to me from my desk every so often: tours, lectures, workshops, dinners, dancing, the Whiffenpoofs — seductive stuff! But when I fell on an icy road in March and injured my knee, I thought, That’s it. Can’t go to Yale. Yes, my knee hurt. A lot. But it was still a feeble excuse.
It took me a couple of months to realize that if I attended the reunion, chances were excellent that I’d never regret it. And if I didn’t go, chances were excellent that I’d be profoundly disappointed in myself. Thus, late enough in May that I was definitely down to the wire, I went online and accepted the invitation. And then I memorized a map of New Haven and went shopping.
I guess I really did memorize that map. After a pleasant, uneventful drive, I arrived on schedule at the Yale garage on a Friday in June. I parked my car and wheeled my suitcase to the appointed spot where a shuttle van would pick me up and take me to the reunion. As I waited, I overheard someone directing a traveler to one of New Haven’s main thoroughfares.
“You exit over there,” he said, pointing, “and turn right on Trumbull …”
“No!” I practically shouted. This poor stranger was messing with my firmly entrenched mental image of the city. “Trumbull is a cross street.”
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