OLD GUARD
Most of you have probably heard at some time the expression, “the Old Guard.” Originally, it was the French title (Vieille Garde) given to Napoleon’s Imperial Guard – elite veteran regiments of his army who were intensely loyal to him. (Hey, these were the guys who made the last French charge at Waterloo . . . .) In more recent times, the expression has taken on a different meaning – referring to people in an organization or society who oppose change, whose beliefs belong to a period in the past, who are unwilling to accept new ideas.
At Princeton University, however, the phrase has another meaning entirely (although perhaps not totally free of that resistance-to-change notion). The framework here is the annual class reunions, which are a big deal at Princeton – especially the “major” reunions (multiples of five years since graduation), with the 25th and 50th being the most significant ones. But Princeton draws the line at the 65th reunion – after that, any Tigers in an older class who return to the campus for late May’s annual Reunions weekend are relegated to a classless category referred to as – you guessed it! – the Old Guard.
Why, you may wonder, am I telling you all this? Well, it’s because this month marked the year that yours truly and his Class of 1956 mates, returning to campus for the 66th time since graduation, entered that classless category. There we were – the youngest members of the traditional Old Guard. It was a new experience for me, and I’d like to explore with you some of its up-and-down ramifications.
The campus headquarters for the Old Guard is a pleasant University facility called Forbes, which we shared during reunions with the class celebrating its 65th (this year, the class of 1957). Mark it down to incipient paranoia, if you will, but I had the sense that many members of that class in attendance were studiously ignoring the presence of OG alumni in their midst, even through some of us (like me) were only a year removed from 65th status. Perhaps, I mused, it represents their unconscious attempt to shut out the reality that they will fall into that same category just one year hence.
The Old Guard ate its meals in a large conference/dining room, and (at least for dinners) the attempt was made to escape the classless bounds and sit at a table with one’s classmates. As a result, the tables varied in size; ours, for guys only a single year into OG status, was one of the largest; but, as might have been expected, those hosting classes a half-dozen or so years into Old Guardom were generally less populated . . . .
That last observation, I’ll confess, is a sort of backwards way for me to allude to the inescapable fact that however peppy we might be this year, there’s only one direction for us to go in the years to come. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean a brush with the grim reaper – you can still be alive, although perhaps dependent on a walker or wheelchair and thus less likely to make the rigorous trip down to Old Nassau.
There was, however, one moment of genuine pathos that has stuck with me. My eyes lit on a guy from the Class of ’46 – ten years older than us – who looked to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. Many years ago, I had a friend in that class (let’s call him A.B.) who always looked quite spry as he attended every reunion, but wasn’t in evidence this year. So I introduced myself to the ‘46er and asked, innocently enough, “Is my old buddy A.B. still around?” “Oh, no,” was his instantaneous reply, accompanied by a certain dire shake of his head – a shake signifying to me the answer would have still been the same had I asked for anyone else in the class of ’46. I took it as a subtle tip that I shouldn’t waste my time (or his) even bothering to inquire . . . .
It was that sort of thing that caused me to indulge in a little black humor I deemed appropriate to the situation. For the weekend excursion, I had packed the bulk of my worldly possessions into a huge rolling suitcase, – making certain that I wouldn’t lack any of the countless articles of clothing/possessions/health etc. that loom large in my life nowadays. As I had anticipated, my entrance into and exit from Forbes, rolling the massive suitcase, did invite a few sarcastic comments from onlookers. But I’d cooked up in advance what I considered a worthy riposte to those who dared to make comments of incredulity on my surplusage – “Well, I brought along most of my worldly possessions and even included my tombstone.” . . . Ugh . . . .
When the Old Guard gathered together for drinks prior to dinner, we were serenaded by an undergraduate a capella singing group. Such groups have flourished at Princeton over the years, although back in our day there were only two troupes – both all-male and all-white – the Nassoons and the Tigertones. Those two still exist today; in fact, the Nassoons appeared later that evening at the 65th Reunion class dinner, looking exactly as they had 65 years ago – still all-male and all-white, wearing dark blazers, white shirts, and orange-and-black striped ties, and singing a medley of the old songs about “Going Back” to Nassau Hall and such.
By contrast, the relatively new singing group serenading the Old Guard was cut from different cloth. It looked much more the way Princeton looks today – featuring men and women of all colors, wearing a variety of unmatched garments, and singing (quite well) some modern songs I’d never heard before that had nothing to do with Princeton.
I confess to having experienced an initial moment when I flirted with reverting to definitional Old Guarditis – rejecting the singing group’s version of change – but my better angels came through and I readily adapted to their new ideas, looks and fashions. (I did note, however, that the reception accorded them by the Old Guard seemed notably less passionate than the enthusiasm shown the Nassoons by the almost-OG denizens of the Class of 1957 – but this can probably be explained by the decrease in volume two hands clapping can generate as the years go by.)
I’ve always considered myself to be a relatively polite person, especially to my elders or members of the fairer sex. So I was a bit surprised to discover that this worthy quality might be fading. Here’s the setup. In Forbes, the large public men’s room was located on a lower floor, a long stairways down (and then back up) from the main area. There was a smaller facility in the main lobby area – a one-at-a-time entry available to both sexes. Although it usually involved waiting on a short line, I latched onto this handy haven for occasional visits, thus avoiding the big down-and-up climb. Several times over the weekend I had advanced to next-entrant status, with an elderly woman just behind me in the line. In earlier years, I’m sure I would have bowed politely and invited the damsel to take my place. Not this year, though! (When you gotta go . . . .)
There’s a Steinway grand piano in the lounge area of the Forbes headquarters that I had my eye on. After an early Friday dinner with classmates, I met friends nearby for a drink and then returned to Forbes around 9pm, envisioning a lively crowd pre-gathered around the piano awaiting my return (as had often been the case in the old days).
But that night, forget it. The entire Old Guard had gone off to sleep by then, and I was all by myself. I winced a few times but then sat down to play for about an hour, with the only people in attendance being two semi-appreciative security guards taking a little break between their shifts.
When I returned to that same piano before dinner on Saturday, a number of people were in the lounge. In fact, two of them had appropriated my piano bench to sit on while conversing with seated friends. I went over to them to reclaim my bench, and then, in a spontaneous fit of generosity, offered to bring in two chairs from the next room to replace their seats. They liked the idea. But the chairs proved to be quite heavy, and these two geezers offered no help – a painful lesson that there are some limits to what an Old Guard guy can do on his own.
Still, this audience did seem to appreciate my playing, and the hours spent there, both before and after dinner, passed pleasurably. Afterwards, one of the attendees made it worthwhile when he emailed me, “Thanks for the amazing and wonderful piano playing at Old Guard to create a great atmosphere and setting.” Now there’s a guy I’d like to take along on all my gigs . . . .
An attractive feature of college reunions – equally available to both Old Guard and younger attendees – is the ability to briefly renew relationships that become otherwise difficult to sustain in separate locales as the years go by. A particular highlight for me this time was a visit I paid to the home of Mary Ellen Bowen, whose husband (the late Bill Bowen) was Princeton’s very able President during those four very pleasant years in the early ‘80s when I was on the Board of Trustees. Mary Ellen is a delightful woman, a sparkling conversationalist, and I thoroughly enjoyed my visit with her.
The big event of the weekend was the traditional Saturday parade (called the P-Rade), in which, for about three or four hours, all alumni march class by class on a mile trek through the campus before a large enthusiastic audience. For me, the plusses and minuses of the experience this year aptly summed up my first brush with Old Guard status.
Prior to the pandemic, I had attended every annual reunion for at least 60 years and always marched in the P-Rade. By contrast, almost all the Old Guard attendees who participate in the P-rade ride in golf carts chauffeured by undergraduates. Not for me, I loudly proclaimed to my mates – I’m determined to keep my walking record alive.
The problem with my show of determination, however, was the weather. Excessive heat, well into the 90’s, permeated Princeton that day. I started out walking right behind our 1956 banner, at the tail end of the Old Guard contingent. But after several hundred yards, I was passed by classmates in golf carts, and then I fell progressively further back. At some point, the banner for the 65th reunion class of 1957 also passed me by, and I found myself marching ever so slowly in their space – hearing cheers from thousands of onlookers for a class that wasn’t mine.
I finally gave up the ghost about half-way through the route. My son Erik, who had joined me in the trek, made sure I was comfortably ensconced ‘neath some shade trees and near a water fountain, but I was basically through for the day. As I sat there, though, I worked up a neat rationalization – just give me a day with normal temps in the 70’s, and I’ll make it all the way home.
Meanwhile, my day’s drama hadn’t ended. Because of the heat, I had removed my reunion jacket, placing it on the back seat of a golf cart (to which I’d secretly planned to retreat if the walk became too uncomfortable). But by the time I dropped out of the P-Rade, the particular cart was so far ahead of me that I wasn’t able to retrieve the jacket. This was disturbing, because some significant items were in the jacket pockets – most notably a small pouch containing a pair of new, quite expensive (and uninsurable) hearing aids.
“Don’t worry,” said Erik, “I’ll continue walking in the P-Rade and catch up with the cart.” What a son!, I thought, and relaxed over my prospective good fortune. But by the time he reached the P-Rade’s terminus, the cart has been abandoned and the jacket was nowhere in sight.
When Erik reported the bad news back to me, I went through a little agonizing – would I ever be able to reclaim the jacket with the pricy hearing aids? We left messages with the Lost & Found office, but frankly, I held out little hope that things would turn out okay. A day that had started out full of exhilaration appeared to have turned into a hot and soggy mini-tragedy.
But hold on . . . . Just as I was giving up hope, I received a call from the wife of a classmate, who reported that she had retrieved my jacket and was returning it to our Forbes headquarters. A sense of exhilaration returned, the heat was forgotten, and this Old Guarder was jubilant once again.
That is, until I got back to Forbes and reclaimed my jacket. Reaching into the pocket that had held my hearing aids, I discovered that the pouch was MISSING! It was unbelievable – I had recovered the jacket but not the object in the jacket that I really wanted . . . .
Glum thoughts now intruded. It must have fallen out of the pocket at some point in the jacket’s long journey. The hope of someone finding the small pouch and turning it in was much fainter than finding the distinctive jacket itself. And – curses! – I realized that I had never put my name or contact info into the pouch. Now I sank back into despair, convinced it would never end up in Lost & Found.
And it didn’t. BUT when I finally reclaimed my car to leave Princeton Sunday morning, THERE WAS THE POUCH on the floor of the car, where it must have fallen out (unobserved) when I laid the jacket on the front seat BEFORE the P-Rade even started. EXHILARATION AGAIN!
So you can see what I meant earlier when I said that my P-Rade adventure ably conveys the ups & downs, the plusses and minuses, of my first Old Guard experience.
But now, let me end my narrative on a high note. In fact, the peak pleasure of my weekend antics occurred within a few hours after arriving on campus early Friday afternoon.
For a number of years, an event called “The Battle of the Alumni Bands” has been held – composed of musical groups from various classes performing in a tented setting for a rotating audience of alumni, often keyed to the class that is then on stage. When my sons attended one of my major reunions, we had entered the Battle as a trio – Erik on drums, Tom on guitar, bass and vocals, me on piano. When the boys weren’t in attendance, I managed to secure small snippets of time to play piano and sing by myself. After a few years, I became the oldest living participant among the Battle performers.
This year, I squeezed myself back into the line-up. After a raucous 45 minutes of Grateful Dead songs and such by a group of younger performers (and with the likelihood of more of the same to be coming on stage after me), I sat down at the keys at 2:30 to play and sing three songs in a much quieter mood. Although a good chunk of the audience had left by the time I started, there was still a healthy group hanging around willing to listen to the “oldest living” . . . well, you get the picture.
I started out by saying that I was born in 1934, which was the same year that Princeton’s annual “Triangle” show featured a song by an undergraduate named Brooks Bowman that became a great popular standard ever since, East of the Sun.
I urged people to sing it along with me. Then I played my favorite jazz piece – I Remember Clifford, Benny Golson’s exquisite tribute to deceased trumpeter Clifford Brown – adding the hope that someone would write one of these for me when I passed on. And third, I sang and played (with a good deal of honest emotion) my favorite song about staying youthful, Bob Dylan’s Forever Young.
“May your hands always be busy /
May you feet always be swift /
May you have a strong foundation /
When the winds of changes shift /
May your heart always be joyful /
May your song always be sung /
And may you stay /
Forever Young”
Believe it or not, the youngish crowd gave me a standing ovation.
And so, as I’ve later reflected on things, the sizzling temperature we encountered the next day didn’t really matter, nor did the sense of impending doom caused by lost hearing aids, and not even the general awareness of getting old. Moreover – unlike those who might have adhered to the Old Guard’s traditional character – I wasn’t tempted to reject a single new idea, let alone storm the Waterloo ramparts. Instead, just a few hours after setting foot on campus, I reached a peak that will surely sustain me for the year I became a new member of the Old Guard.
