Three Days at Yale
He turned to see who had interrupted him. If he was taken aback by my rude outburst, he didn’t show it. “No, Trumbull is this street right here.”
“It’s not,” I insisted. I may have glared at him. I hope not. “This is Temple. He should turn right on Temple. ”
“Oh, you know, you’re right.”
But if I was on firm ground with directions, the rest of the weekend was full of surprises. The first was that many of Joe’s classmates remembered him. He always said the Engineering School was somewhat removed from the Liberal Arts community. But at that Friday luncheon under the tent, minutes after my arrival, I was approached a number of times by gentlemen, most of them not engineers, who told me they’d known my husband. Over the course of the reunion, I even met two classmates who had gone to Andover with him as well.
My biggest surprise (other than the dorm bed, clearly suitable only for those under 20) was the feeling of community I experienced at Yale. The widows were welcomed with such warmth. Over and over, I was thanked for coming. Since the class had absorbed the $400+ fee for my attendance, I thought I should be thanking them. And I did. But a classmate’s wife explained that they were grateful the widows were there to represent their husbands. Their presence made the class gathering more complete. Just as I’d been proud of Joe’s remarkable education, I was proud to be a Yale Widow. I thought of it that way, too, with a capital W.
And then there was the fun. For three days I smiled, laughed, shook hands, and hugged. We ate fabulous food (lobster, filet mignon, all the fresh raspberries we wanted), drank excellent wine, and danced. At the Class Dinner I coveted the aprons worn by the wait staff — navy blue with a crisp white YALE embroidered on the front. The charming gentleman seated next to me (at 87, the oldest member of the Class of ’52) arranged to have one given to me.
The daily activities offered another kind of tempting menu. What made Mozart a musical genius? A professor of music history was prepared to tell us. Did I want to learn about astrophysics? Well, maybe not, although Joe might have attended that one. A class on the biology of feathers sounded intriguing. And who could resist a lecture entitled, “The Middle Ages: A Thousand Years Without a Bath”?
In the end, I passed up lectures and tours (the Yale Art Gallery, the Gilmore Music Library, the Payne Whitney Gymnasium) and chose discussion groups on singing (we didn’t talk — we sang) and writing (we didn’t write — we talked), and a glee club workshop that culminated in the members of our workshop opening the Celebration of Yale Singing that night at Woolsey Hall. I stood on the Woolsey stage, the massive pipes of the magnificent Newberry Organ in back of us, and looked out at the audience. Joe might have sat in every chair. Our chorus sang football songs, and as I joined them, wishing poor Harvard all manner of ills, I could see his smile — Joe, who knew that my understanding of football consisted of knowing that one team wins and one team loses.
Between activities, I put my camera around my neck and walked. One of Joe’s classmates had suggested that I photograph Timothy Dwight College and the stately brick Colonial building where Joe had roomed in his undergraduate years. I started there. I followed the sidewalks of Temple and Elm, Chapel and College, and envisioned my husband walking those streets in front of me, shoulders square, youthful head held high.
If I had any doubt about whether or not I belonged at the reunion, it was dispelled on the first day. That Friday afternoon a memorial service was held at the beautiful Battell Chapel. The Class of ’52 Whiffenpoofs sang, and names were read aloud of the more than 80 classmates who had died since the 50th reunion. Joe’s name, of course, was among them. Afterward, walking back to the dorm, I stopped cold when I came face-to-face with a large poster board on College Street. It was covered with red and white flyers, all identical.
A year-and-a-half earlier, when I received the middle-of-the-night call that Joe was dying, I arrived at the nursing home with a music CD. I turned off the country gospel tunes well-meaning nurses had been playing in his room and replaced them with Shostakovich’s Fifth. The symphony was a great favorite of Joe’s, and it had special meaning for us because it was the first piece of modern classical music he’d introduced me to when we were dating. Shostakovich’s Fifth was the last music he heard on this earth.