Back Talk

An Education in Letters

The trunk had sat locked in various basements for well over 25 years. It was one of two trunks I’d used to ship my belongings to Grinnell back in August 1971, and it still had my name and the Grinnell College address painted in green letters on the outside.

Last year my wife and I sold the house where we’d lived for two decades and downsized to a condo. While cleaning out the basement, I came across my old trunk. When I finally pried the lock open with a small crowbar, I discovered a different sort of treasure than what I’d imagined; the trunk was full of letters. Some were in shoeboxes, others in manila envelopes, and a few in batches held together by aging rubber bands. The letters covered several decades of my life, including my time at Grinnell, junior year abroad at Durham University in England, my graduate school years in Minneapolis, and my first 20 years or so in the Boston area.

My first response to seeing all these letters was to feel overwhelmed, and I had a momentary impulse to throw them away. But when I plucked one of them at random and read about what a Grinnell friend was doing the summer between sophomore and junior years, I knew I couldn’t get rid of them without reading them first. Instead, I transferred them to a large box and moved them to our condo.

A couple of months ago, I located that box and began working my way through the letters, one batch at a time. The letters that interested me the most, I soon realized, were those from Grinnell friends and acquaintances. Those coming-of-age college years have a profound impact on people’s development, and I had formed a particularly strong bond with a small group of college friends.

“No one will ever open a trunk in a basement and find a cache of emails.”

What struck me first was the sheer number of letters in the box. We wrote each other constantly: during summer vacations, winter breaks, and even short spring breaks. And after we’d graduated from Grinnell, we kept writing on a regular basis for decades.

The length of our letters also amazed me. They often consisted of four to six pages of small print, sometimes more. We had clearly spent many hours of our lives writing these letters.

Reading letters from my Grinnell friends stirred many memories — of people I barely remembered and events I’d long forgotten. And the experience was often as painful as it was pleasurable. We had our fair share of unhealthy relationships and bad choices, the reminders of which were sometimes difficult to relive.

We also displayed some of the pretentiousness and self-righteousness that are often features of that age period. But beneath the occasional posturing, I observed something more admirable taking place: an attempt to sort out who we were and where our passions lay. And as the Grinnell years gave way to the post-Grinnell years, I saw something else happening in these letters. I watched my friends forge their lives, recover from false steps, figure out careers, find long-term partners, start families, face down serious illnesses, suffer painful losses, and keep going through it all.

By the time the 1990s rolled around, the once steady stream of letters had slowed to a trickle. And when my core group of Grinnell friends arranged to attend our 25th Reunion in the year 2000, letters were fast giving way to emails. That makes me sad to think about now. No one will ever open a trunk in a basement and find a cache of emails.

As I read through my letters, I began to separate them into piles. Then I put each of these piles into a large manila envelope and sent them all off in the mail. I wanted to share with my Grinnell friends a window into their younger selves: to show them where they’d come from and remind them they had not made the journey alone.

Peter Guthrie ’75 majored in English and history at Grinnell and then received a master’s degree in American Studies from the University of Minnesota. After teaching English for six years, he eventually returned to graduate school and received a master’s in clinical social work from Simmons College. He worked as a psychotherapist at Wheaton College in Massachusetts for 18 years and now maintains a private practice in the greater Boston area.

Stories of Good in the World

Sally Campbell Galman ’96, a professor of child and family studies at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, has earned significant acclaim for her arts-based social science research. This spring, her “Look for the Helpers” series of cartoons that ran in her hometown newspaper, the Daily Hampshire Gazette, has brought her sharp insights to a wider audience.

Read also:

  • Visit her website, or
  • Follow her on Instagram at @sallyanncampbell.

Campbell Galman’s newspaper cartoons are a familiar sight for many Grinnellians. Her popular comic, “Stating the Obvious,” ran in The Scarlet & Black for years. It was published as a 1996 book collection, titled Obviously, the proceeds from which were used to purchase new outdoor play equipment for the College preschool. Cartoons even played a role in her admission to Grinnell: “I sent cartoons in lieu of college essays,” she says.

The three cartoons here are excerpted from the larger “Helpers” series, which has attracted worldwide attention. Campbell Galman says it is gratifying to see that the work is resonating. “Robert Louis Stevenson wrote that we are obligated to share our courage with others, even if we ourselves feel fear,” she says. “I put out there the reassurance I would want to see.”

Helper's Mr. Rodgers cartoon

Helpers Music cartoon

Helper's Chickadee cartoon

How Place Anchors Memory

Neither of my daughters considered attending Grinnell. Its distance from Honolulu wasn’t the reason, as both ventured even farther for college. So it came as a surprise when the older one, Hana, who lives and works in Boston, suggested we attend my 40th reunion together.

I’d not planned to make the trip, distance being one factor. Another was a fear that what memories I had would be sullied by the realities of 2019 — the needs to rely heavily on nostalgia and to discuss medical procedures with my classmates. But Hana’s offer to join me in Iowa provided the opportunities for two reunions, and proved too good to ignore.
If Hana has a bucket list, I suspect it didn’t include rural Iowa. She’d likely heard enough about Grinnell growing up.

Paul Migliorato (right) and Hana on rural roadMy flight to Des Moines arrived a bit earlier than hers, giving me time to stop at the Friedrichs Coffee stand in the airport. The sign indicated the business had been around since 1903, the year the Wright Brothers first flew. When the woman behind the counter called me “hon,” I realized there was something special about the place.

The bus ride with a group of reunion attendees, none from my era but all happy to converse, gave us a sense of how much spring flooding there had been. It also initiated a flood of place-related memories.

Although I’d understood how place shapes experience, I wasn’t ready for how much place also anchors memory. Certain scenes and even sounds and smells brought back memories from decades back. A train horn early the first morning felt familiar and soothing to me; it jarred awake Hana, who was sure it was a tornado warning.

Jet lag convinced me to get up early and walk about the campus and town, triggering more memories. There was so much I hadn’t thought about in decades but recalled so clearly: a once-controversial sculpture on Central Campus, a dorm basement where I’d reluctantly done laundry, the Louis Sullivan bank building where I’d created my first checking account. The list grew as I walked. The place that is Grinnell did so much to make the interactions that defined my experience there.

The place we went that was probably the most informative and thrilling was the Conard Environmental Research Area, a reconstructed prairie and field station. The tour/hike was among the best things we did, even though it meant skipping a class photo. The prairie shaped and made possible what became Grinnell College.

I realized, perhaps for the first time, that a good deal of what I took away from my years in college went beyond the events and opportunities described in an admissions brochure. A large part of Grinnell was the peripheral experiences the physical place made possible. They remain possible all these years later.

There is a social aspect to this, too. Returning to Grinnell, made more pleasant by having a daughter as buffer and part of many conversations, meant interacting with people I hadn’t known while a student. Because we shared the geography that was Grinnell, we shared a past that had become our present during the reunion, allowing us to behave and feel like old friends. It was as reassuring as the “hon” that greeted us a few more times during the weekend.

While each Grinnell graduate’s experience is unique, I felt the fundamental kindness of Grinnell and the people it attracts. And an optimism.

It was a joy to see Hana interact with the people I knew would be there, from returning classmates to Grinnell faculty and residents. If the weekend was scripted, we largely ignored the instructions, bouncing between people, places, and memories. It couldn’t have been any more enjoyable or exciting. Inviting my younger flyover daughter, Saki, to join me at the 45th reunion now seems like a fine idea.

After studying in Japan his junior year, Paul Migliorato ’79 returned there for grad school and worked in finance. He and his family lived in Japan for 25 years before moving to Honolulu in 2003.

No More Time to Procrastinate

My 7-year-old and her friend were playing fairies. Her friend said, “If I could have any wish, I would wish that magic were real.” Annabel responded, “Really? Not to stop global warming?”

I couldn’t help but smile. Annabel articulated exactly the wish that I would have chosen. It also struck me as a bit of a metaphor for where we are as a nation, as a world, on global warming. Wishing, hoping, thinking magic would come and fix it.

Before 2018, climate change wasn’t something I thought about every day. I was aware of it, but not really aware of it, not the seriousness of it, or the urgency of it. Then I saw the newest United Nations report that said we have 12 years (now 11) to drastically reduce greenhouse gas emissions or we’re in serious trouble. I started reading more. I wanted it not to be true. To find another article, or talk to someone who could tell me that it was going to be okay, we’ve figured it out, don’t worry, go back to your normal life, we’ve got this. We’ve discovered the magic.

But no one could tell me that.

Forty years ago, people talked about how climate change would affect future generations.

Today we’re still talking about how it will affect future generations. But we are those future generations. We already feel the effects of global warming now, and given the level of greenhouse gas emissions that we continue to emit, the impact will only worsen.

I have to admit my first response was protective — to buy a big plot of land, build a greenhouse and get chickens, load up on canned foods and water purifiers, teach my kids gardening, sewing, and self defense. But that didn’t sound like the way I wanted to live the rest of my life, nor a guarantee of anything.

I started talking to people in my life, hesitantly at first, not sure how they would react. Many of them were a little bit aware and a little bit scared and not sure what to do either. The unique thing about climate change is that every single one of us will be significantly affected by it, yet few people have taken the time to truly understand the scope of what we face. It is easy to be complacent when we look outside our own windows and see life going on as usual. It is easy to put our heads down and ignore the canaries in this big coal mine chirping very loudly around the world.

There is so much work to be done and such little time. We, Grinnell grads, have been given an amazing education. We’ve cultivated our minds to think critically and creatively. So what do we do with those skills and talents? Do we have an obligation to use them now, with all of us facing what has been called an existential crisis?

Each of us changing lightbulbs to LEDs on our own, though important, will not be enough. But we are all a part of many communities: families, churches, cities, school districts, states, companies, nations. What I have really taken to heart over the past year is that we can’t wish global warming away; but when we stop being complacent and overwhelmed by the problem, when we engage our communities and find our voices, we can make our own magic. We can have influence.

Greg Schrieber ’02, an amazing community organizer and friend, once said: “You can’t procrastinate if you’re going to change the world.” Never have Greg’s words had more meaning than they do now.

Learning French in Prison: À Quoi Bon?

Roughly translated, this phrase means, “what’s the point?” This is what Cliff said to me on the first day of French class in the Newton Correctional Facility. To be more precise, he said, “I don’t want to take this class. I’m not gonna learn anything.” His lack of enthusiasm was echoed by a couple of the 15 men enrolled in French 101 via the Liberal Arts in Prison Program. Most of them, though, were excited by this opportunity.

The Liberal Arts in Prison Program offers incarcerated students a full-fledged college program equivalent to the first year at Grinnell. Unlike students on campus, incarcerated students do not get to choose their courses, and thus Cliff was obliged to take what was on offer in fall 2018 — French 101.

Undaunted by Cliff’s rejection, I introduced myself, as I do in any first class, with an overly theatrical “Bonjour!” and a handshake with each student.

Je m’appelle Claire,” I slowly and clearly declared to each student, pointing to myself, eyebrows arched, voice rising as if engaging with a newborn. “Comment t’appelles-tu?”

Stunned silence. Dinner-plate-sized eyes stared back at me in unspoken terror — you’re not actually gonna make us speak French, the eyes said. Not on the first day at least!

“Gemma Pell Carl.”

We made it around the room. The ice was broken. Ça va? My voice went up. Ça va. My voice went down. They dutifully repeated after me, rising intonation, falling intonation. And just like that, they were having their first French conversation, introducing themselves and asking and answering “How goes it?” “It’s going.” We added on “bien, mal, and comme-ci, comme-ça” and soon they were all doing a Gallic pout and shrug. “Ça va comme-ci comme-ça.

By the end of the first lesson, Cliff was still dubious but he continued to show up along with the others for the next 13 weeks, learning to conjugate verbs — first the irregulars “to be” and “to have,” and then the regulars — to love, to travel, to study; memorizing vocabulary about the classroom, about family and friends, about sports and free time activities; engaging in ever more complex conversations — describing people, ordering food, organizing a trip to Tahiti.

À quoi bon?

It was not lost on me, nor on the French majors who accompanied me to tutor in the prison, that many of the topics we covered in French 101 are far removed from these students’ daily lives. What’s the point of learning to kiss hello the French way or order a coffee in a typical French café, or plan that trip to Tahiti? What’s the point of learning conjugations and vocabulary that slips away as fast as it is learned?

The class was hard. As hard as it is for first-year students on campus. It moved quickly, so as soon as they learned one grammatical point, they were racing to the next. And the men don’t have access to technology like our on-campus students do. They didn’t have cute little instructional videos or self-correcting workbooks to guide them on their homework. They had to learn a lot of the material on their own and with the help of tutors, so that they were prepared to speak in class. During class, we played games to make it fun — Pictionary for vocabulary, relay races for verb conjugations, fun role-plays.

But still, à quoi bon? Cliff complained.

I told the men about learning strategies to make learning stick, namely spaced repetition and retrieval (aka self-quizzing in 20-minute chunks a few times a day). “You don’t have to work harder or spend more time,” I told them, as I do my on-campus students. “You just need to exercise your brain like you do your muscles — with sets of repetitions. And this is advice you can use in any other learning situation,” I said. “It’s not just for learning French!”

And there’s my first answer to the “à quoi bon” question: learning French is an exercise in intellectual discipline, a way to create learning habits, to set and achieve goals. It is also, of course, a way to open the doors of the prison, to get a glimpse of another world and other ways of being, to learn about different education systems, about café culture, about football/soccer, and even fashion, to make cultural and linguistic comparisons and connections across Francophone cultures.

And this is fundamentally what a liberal arts education seeks to do, as the College’s mission statement tells us: “Knowledge is a good to be pursued both for its own sake and for the intellectual, moral, and physical well-being of individuals and of society at large.”

My incarcerated students, my tutors, and I were all patently aware that they may never have the chance to speak French in a real Francophone context. But they are also equally aware that the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake and the expansion of their horizons is in and of itself good.

When I asked Cliff if he’d learned anything, he thought for a minute and replied, “I learned that France has a really strong soccer program because of the waves of immigration after the war. I learned that I have to say cwah-sant, not crescent, in a café. I learned that knowing a language gives you a much deeper appreciation of the culture than, like, when I was in Iraq in the Army and only knew a few words. Most of all, I learned that I could learn a foreign language.”

Claire FrancesClaire Frances taught for 21 years at Grinnell, including eight in the Department of French and Arabic. She also directed the Alternate Language Study Option (ALSO) program and in 2017 created the Language Learning Center.

School Bus Daze

Unlike other boys, I never wanted to be a bus driver when I grew up; if I had, Grinnell would have given me the opportunity to fulfill my childhood ambition. But such was not to be. 

It was early spring, after I’d been driving a school bus for two semesters for the Grinnell schools. The dirt roads leading out of town had been oiled the previous summer to keep the dust down; under spring rains the hardpan was beginning to break up and the surface was slimy with yellow Iowa mud.

I was navigating a long stretch of yellow slither. The crown of the road was comparatively high and sloped down to wide drainage ditches on either side. I felt the front wheels “go;” they were no longer gripping the road and the bus was on a long, gradual skid toward the right drainage ditch. I’d thought I was an expert — I’d done well on the Iowa chauffeur’s driving test — and I turned the wheels slightly in the direction of the skid, gave it a little bit of gas and kept my foot off the brakes. To no avail. The bus continued on its inexorable course into the ditch where it came to rest, listing dangerously on its right side, the side of the passenger door.

I switched off the engine. There was utter silence. “OK,” I said. “Nobody move,” which I didn’t have to say because nobody was moving. The image of Charlie Chaplin in a cabin teetering on the edge of an abyss in The Gold Rush popped into my mind. Every hiccup made the cabin groan and inch towards its doom.

Earlier that winter we’d crossed a small bridge on the packed snow; on the other side the road sloped upward. Despite snow tires, we didn’t make it but slid back down and came to a jolting halt against one of the bridge’s stone walls. Nobody was hurt. A farmer arrived with a big John Deere tractor, hauled us back up the slope, and we drove on. As was the custom, he billed the school district for his services.    

I didn’t want another rescue, an apologetic explanation to the superintendent of schools, a black mark against my record, an additional expense for the schools. “Right,” I said, “Frank,” (a husky high school senior) “get up real slow, open the rear emergency door, and climb out. Everyone else stay put!” I then told two more older boys in the back to climb out one-by-one; the remaining junior and senior boys and girls then lifted the little ones out into the arms of the three boys outside and then climbed out themselves. I told them to stand by the side of the road and wait.

I figured the bus had lightened up enough to avoid tipping over on its side. It was then that impetuousness kicked in. I started up, released the handbrake, put her in first, gunned the engine, ripped along the ditch, and climbed up and over the right side and into a plowed field: cheers from the road. I lurched along the furrows, heading for a drive that led to the road. The kids were already running to meet me. Everyone piled in and we drove to school.

When the superintendent called me in that afternoon, he began, “What the devil did you think you were doing? How did that cockamamie idea enter your head? The farmer was mad at me over the phone because you tore up his newly sown field. Parents called up … ” He was reduced to incoherence. That was the end of my non-boyhood fantasy of driving a bus — or almost the end. The plan was to keep me on until a substitute driver could be found, then I was out. Before that happened, I got viral pneumonia and was in the hospital for two weeks. Was that a punishment by the Great Superintendent in the Sky?

The Power of Grinnell

We have all experienced meeting Grinnellians in unexpected places. Our group of four Grinnell friends took this to an international level during a trip to Tuscany to celebrate our collective bicentennial. We were visiting Lucca, Italy, in 2018 and taking a cooking class. While learning from Chef Giuseppe how to roll the perfect gnocchi, we chatted with our classmates — when lo and behold, we discovered a fifth Grinnellian in our midst. 

The roots of our friendship trace back to 1985 during our freshman year at Grinnell. The unique alchemy of place and time that happens at Grinnell provided the genesis of a deep and enduring friendship. We could regularly be found eating at Cowles or Quad, at a party, on a study break, or lounging in one of our rooms. Throughout our years at Grinnell, we listened to and supported each other through ups and downs; and during our senior year, the four of us lived together in a house off campus. The sum of these small, shared, seemingly insignificant moments served as the building blocks of a profound friendship that has lasted over 30 years. 

Post-Grinnell life took us in different directions, and the intensity of our connection waxed and waned. Periodic touch points occurred via weddings, visits, and on-campus reunions. Our 25th Reunion marked the first time all four of us were back on campus together. We pledged to see each other more regularly and decided to take a big trip together to celebrate our milestone 50th birthdays that would soon be upon us. Returning home, our routines took over all too quickly as we slipped back into our old habits. 

Luckily, Lara’s work was investing in wellness, and as a result of a coaching call she got the wheels moving on “the trip.” She set up a conference call and gave assignments to narrow down potential dates and destinations. A lengthy planning process of Wednesday night meetings using Zoom cloud videoconferencing ensued in which we considered the entire world and eventually settled on Tuscany. Though the weekly calls disrupted our routines, the process of planning proved invaluable, since it enabled us to organize and reconnect. We selected dates in May 2018 for travel and developed an itinerary. 

We were elated when we met at Boston’s Logan airport, after nearly a year of preparation that required time, dedication, and great understanding and support from our families. The trip itself was wonderful! Highlights included wine tastings, museums, the city of Florence, and the cooking class at which we met fellow Grinnellian Lisa Piediscalzi ’85. Though we have returned to our busy lives and no longer hold our weekly conference calls, this trip will always be one of our fondest memories. It reminded us that in addition to the academic foundation Grinnell gives its students, it also provides a community and a place to build lifelong relationships. Our trip was more than a birthday celebration; it was a tribute to our friendship. 

From Bubblegum to Butterflies

Last spring, I participated for the first time in the Everyday Class Notes (ECN) care package project and found it was a wonderful way to connect with current students, in more ways than one.

ECN is a Facebook group of Grinnell alumni of all ages who regularly communicate, celebrate, and sometimes commiserate our everyday lives after Grinnell. Since 2014, a subset of that group has provided care packages to current students as a way to support, encourage, and connect with them (usually in February to help alleviate midterm stress). Some alumni also team together to fund items or shipping costs or to do the shopping, packaging, gathering, delivering, distributing, etc. The packages are as diverse as our alumni community and might include snacks, sweets, games, activities, toiletries, winter gear, blankets, ethnic foods, gift cards, and more.

I included a letter with each of my packages, detailing my time at Grinnell (1989–1996), offering advice, sharing insights, telling stories, and including an invitation to look me up if they are ever in the greater Seattle area. Sometimes students write back, which is a delight in itself, but I got a special treat in October 2018 when Michi Soderberg ’21, who had received one of my Asian-themed packages, flew out during Grinnell’s fall break to visit a friend of hers who is a student at the University of Puget Sound. While her friend attended classes, I played tour guide and took Michi to Seattle’s famous Pike Place Market.

Since Michi hails from the upper Midwest, it was such a delight to introduce her to the sights, sounds, and even smells of the Pacific Northwest: salt water, seagulls, ferry boats, and the delicious smells of the market. We visited the infamous Bubblegum Alley (where tourists stick chewed bubblegum on the brick walls of a “hidden” back alley), watched fish vendors throwing fish (a very iconic market scene), and hiked down (and up) hundreds of stairs to the waterfront and back.

We also feasted our way from one end of the market to the other. We snacked on salmon jerky from the famous Pike Place Fish Market, salmon-filled pastries from Piroshky Piroshky (a Russian bakery), Greek yogurt from the corner market, cheese crackers from locally-famous Beecher Handmade Cheese, assorted chowders from the award-winning Pike Place Chowder, pumpkin cheesecake fudge from a local chocolatier, and sampled what Michi described as the best tea she’s ever had from a tea-tasting vendor called Vital-T-Leaf.  

 We also rode the Monorail to the Space Needle and the Butterfly Garden at the Pacific Science Center, and even made a side trip to Daiso (the Japanese dollar store), where I picked up a few things for the next round of care packages. Like me, Michi also is of Japanese heritage, so that was a treat for both of us.

The weather even cooperated. It was an unusually dense fog for most of the day, so Washington State’s iconic Mount Rainier wasn’t out, but the notorious Washington rain held off until we were done … and I didn’t even get lost navigating my way out of Seattle’s maze of crooked four-, five- and even six-way intersections and one-way streets.  

The best part, of course, was being able to share stories of Grinnell then and Grinnell now and realizing that even as Grinnell evolves, some things — like the ability of Grinnellians to connect with Grinnellians — remain the same

Music: A Language of Compassion

“They called themselves the Velvetones…like velvet,” said my mother, Catharine Herr Van Nostrand ’59, as she reminisced over her 1958 photo of my father, David Van Nostrand ’58, singing with Herbie Hancock ’60 and two other students at the piano. Dave was a biology major enthusiastically singing in vocal ensembles and listening to jazz LPs, and Herbie was spending every possible moment at the piano and studying jazz. Over the years, my family religiously listened to every new Herbie Hancock release with pride, but it took me half a lifetime to discover that the photo captures one of the most precious moments in our family’s lore.

A clue surfaced in 1989 when my boyfriend (now husband) Byron Ricks ’87 mentioned Dave to Herbie after a concert in Philadelphia. Herbie said, “Ah yes, Bun and Dave!” (my mother’s nickname was Bunny). 

More than 20 years later, Herbie performed at Seattle’s Paramount Theater. I contacted his agent with news of my father’s passing (November 2014) and was granted two backstage passes. When he saw my daughter Julia and me, he said again, “Ah, Bun and Dave!” Then I showed him the picture. “We were best friends,” he said. Though their paths had taken them in different directions — Dave had gone on to be a surgeon and humanitarian (and much more), and Herbie a 14-time Grammy Award winning jazz pianist, UNESCO Ambassador (and much more) — their Grinnell experience had created a lifelong bond.

Herbie was even more generous this past March (2018) when he told Byron, Julia, and me backstage in Seattle, “All you need to say is ‘Dave Van Nostrand,’ and you are in.” This turned me into a family ambassador. I expressed gratitude for the way his creativity continues to influence my family, and for his collaborations that bring people together around the world. In turn, he gave us his undivided attention on everything from my work in music to Julia’s electronic compositions. He impressed me with, “We had a group! What was the name of it again…something like the Mellotones?”

I finally asked my mother to reach deeper into her memory. “It seems there was a piano near the dining hall, and they would hang out at it and run through a few numbers, perhaps after waiting tables together,” she recalled. 

As the story goes, she transferred to the University of Iowa, and told Dave that she would accept his South Younker pin if he were serious — pinning being a symbol of true devotion. This gave Dave something to think about. Meanwhile, the romantic twist inspired Herbie to arrange a couple of songs for them. Upon a return visit, she recalls hearing the Velvetones harmonize on “How Can I Tell Her” by the Four Freshman, and an improvised number by Herbie which he introduced as, “This one is for Bun and Dave!” 

They were pinned, had a marriage that lasted 54 years, and three musical daughters, the oldest one being jazz pianist Laura Caviani.

This memory grew sweeter and more precious with time, the meaning crisper in retelling. It formed the foundation of a friendship that mattered — regardless of status, profession, or time. Herbie and Dave delighted in not only finding another fellow who could simply swing an eighth note, but in sharing the universal language of music, a strong and creative form of compassion for their unknown futures. 

Photo from left to right: Herbie Hancock ’60, Janice Pearson ’58, David Van Nostrand ’58, and (we think) Anne Moore ’59. Photo from the collection of Catharine Herr Van Nostrand ’59.



The Ice Rink Lesson

David Hagstrom ’57, who lives in Portland, Oregon, has received encouragement all his life; he now watches for each opportunity to encourage the deep desires of others.

Typical January temperatures in Fairbanks, Alaska, hover near 20 below zero. Some of my jogging friends would brave the cold and continue their pastime outdoors. I chose an alternative venue, a narrow track circling the Olympic-size hockey rink at the University of Alaska-Fairbanks.  

When the hockey team was practicing, my run was energized as I watched the puck careening at lightning speed back and forth across the rink. When the team was away, I still used the track for my fitness routine. And, on one occasion, such a quieter time presented me with a lesson that significantly changed my life.

One late afternoon, I noticed a university colleague of mine and his 8-year-old son in the middle of the immense rink. Peter was teaching his son, Andrew, how to ice skate. As I circumnavigated the rink time and time again, I noticed Peter’s calm and patient teaching style. 

While Andrew was in the locker room, I said to Peter, “I was so impressed with your way of being with Andrew out there on the ice. What’s your secret?”

“Andrew’s a kid who’s always struggled,” Peter said, “in school, and at home. So, early on, I just focused on what Andrew seemed to have a zeal for. Ever since he learned to walk, Andrew has been totally enthralled with hockey and skates. It’s his major delight. We attend all the university home games. And so, I’m trying my very best to help Andrew learn to ice skate. For some time now my motto has been ‘find out what he’s passionate about, then pour it on.’” 

Although born naturally positive — even optimistic — I’d not given much active thought to the practice of thoughtful encouragement. In subsequent conversations, Peter and I talked a good bit about what caring encouragement requires. It entails attentive and meticulous observation in the moment, a steady sense of inconspicuous watchfulness over time, and finally, asking honest questions and deep listening throughout. That’s what Peter and I came to believe. I believe it now, more strongly than ever. 

These days my thoughtful encouragement practice remains primarily focused on family, friends, and colleagues. And, over time I’ve come to understand that this way of being with them is not always that easy and straightforward. For instance, what’s to be my response to a person who constantly belittles other people in an effort to always be right or in control? 

During a recent social occasion, I observed John finding fault with each and every comment made by another person in the room. Toward the end of the evening, John approached me. I had watched for this opportunity all evening.  I asked him, “What are you yearning for in your life, John?” 

After a period of silence, he put his hand over his heart and offered a watery-eyed response: “I just want to find a small piece of land where I can live out my life in peace and quiet.  I’m not much good with people, but I’m okay on my own.” At that point we were interrupted, and he said, “Thanks, David, for listening and encouraging me.” 

Find out what they’re passionate about, then pour it on. It’s been 30 years since I first heard that jewel of wise instruction. I don’t know whether Andrew has gone on to be a hockey star. But I do know that I’ve learned to be a better encourager.