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Class of 1909
For the men of Lathrop Hall, the years passed like seasons. In the beginning, when time was the only luxury they could afford, they spent it freely: swimming in Lake Mendota, followed by football games on the quad. Back then, they knew nothing of cramps or ailments. Their lives, like their bodies, were still limber: stretching endlessly into a future they could barely bear to glimpse. Yet on Thursday evenings the men retreated into the past: mumbling declensions in unison while Dr. Harvey, a relic himself, placed a wrinkled finger to a hair-filled ear and struggled to hear their chant. Four years later, time was no longer a luxury those men could afford. In the last week of May 1909 they dragged their trunks to the curb. They had no wrinkles yet, no hair-filled ears, though these days, when they peered in the mirror, they were in search of them. As they stood there in the quiet rain waiting for their rides, they began to wonder how they had allowed time to betray them. After all, life, once, was forever. Ad infinitum. And now, it seemed, life was only once. Words by BJ Hollars. Audio narration by Ken Szymanski. Audio recording by Scott Morfitt. |