1941
Who else but Frank Simpson? Nobody. Nobody but Frank, that is, would write to me with the envelope addressed to "Colonel. " The connection, of course, goes back to WWII. Frank and I were among 30-some of our class to sign up when Marine Corps recruiters invaded the campus in March of 1939. That took care of the next two summers, produced a commission to go with a sheepskin, and led to three years in the Pacific for some of us. Frank and I, among other classmates, served with the Ist Marines on Guadalcanal, but we had no contact until we wound up at the same time, thanks to malaria, in a military hospital in Melbourne. The course of treatment called for 17 days of confinement followed by 14 days of sick leave. And we hooked up for the fortnight's trip to Tasmania in 1943. That's the story. Not too fascinating, I'll admit, especially if your name isn't Simpson or Larson (or even if it is Simpson—GeorgeSimpson, that is), but I beg the reader's indulgence for this old geezer's reaching deep into his bag of reminiscences.
Frank and Shirley have retired from innkeeping at Dexter's, turning over the key to the next generation—"Free, free, free at last," writes Frank—but they'll still be in residence nearby the inn when not traveling out and about. What prompted Frank to write, by the way, was that grimacing Ironweed likeness, and Jack Jenness '44, former chief honcho of alumni interviewing on Long Island, did the same. (Frank blamed me for a "terrible nightmare," and Jack said I had practiced my film persona while putting candidates through their paces.) Ironweed was an adventure, and looking at the making of a movie for two days, from the catbird's seat, was as much fun as walking on and sitting in. The walk-on was cut, but the sit-in, in the library with my Dartmouth cohort, Meryl Streep '81h, survived Babenco's blade. Dickie and I dropped a bundle to take in the premiere, thus to close the circle on the experience, and I'd have to admit that the film, although faithful to the book, is not one to be remembered for its distinction. But the performances given by Meryl Streep and Jack Nicholson, particularly the latter's, are truly superb.
You noticed, did you not, that the Alumni Fund's 1988 calendar dated its picture of the Fifth Down Game to 1949. Faithful to my trust, as your secretary, I dispatched a correction before the calendar could be put to work. Associate director Kristin Farrish '82 has replied with appropriate contrition, and I suggest therefore that we need not cut back on our contributions to the Fund this year.
And there is, as all too often seems the case, serious bad news to report: the death last August 16 of Ev Stevens, and GeorgeFlather's on December 19. DAM obituaries will follow as usual. I have some information about Clem Costello, courtesy of his brother Jack '37, that was not available when I wrote his obit. Clem played varsity hockey before leaving Dartmouth, junior year, for four years in the navy, largely in the Pacific, rising from seaman to lieutenant (j.g.). He had two children, not one as I erroneously reported, and his son David survives him.
I learned that last summer's Alumni College student body included none of us from 1941, but a note from Ed Martin indicated that he and Jan are thinking of making the scene this year. (July is the month, not the usual August.) Bruce Brown tells me Holden Higbee is no longer a widower, having married Beth Hough in October, and the same source discloses that Bill David led another tour to Belize in January. (I know that place—stopped there en route to Nicaragua, and "60 Minutes" gave me a tour.) I want to wind up this potpourri on a high note: I saw Dartmouth win in hockey, a rarity in recent years, when the Green topped RPI in Troy on January 2. Peace and Joy.
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