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John McPhee '53

Having been born in Princeton and gone K through eight in 185 Nassau, I suppose I have enough potential nostalgia to fill the Wilson School pool. But the pool is dry for the moment and perhaps should be left that way. Better to open the file of anti-nostalgic memory. And up rises the felonious moment at age 12 when I came out of a window in the old sculpture studio with an armful of stolen clay. A proctor grabbed my leg and said, triumphantly, "I tracked your feet in the snow!" The old sculpture studio was in a small, freestanding, brownstone building, the only structure among the white pines between Nassau Street and the Chapel. At about the same time, geneticists hired me to drown fruit flies in the basement of Guyot Hall. I must have killed seven million fruit flies, and I will face every one of them in the afterlife. I spent more time shooting baskets in the ancestral gymnasium than I did killing flies. The old gym - exactly where Dillon is now - was all wood, and it burned up completely in 1944 in the most spectacular fire this town has ever seen. Undergraduate sailors in the dorm next door were ordered on loudspeakers, "Now hear this! Now hear this! Abandon ship! Abandon ship!" My father, a doctor, had an office in the gym, and all his data from research and publication in sports medicine fell into the basement destroyed. What else don't I miss? Anything at all as an undergraduate? I don't miss the custom of publicly posting every student's grade in every course four times a year on long printouts hanging in the rotunda of Alexander Hall. I could go on, but I might wax nostalgic.   

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