The painting on the cover of this issue is, for me, something close to a memory. If you gave that grandfatherly physician a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a trim white moustache, you'd have the spitting image of the doctor who did my physical exam the summer before my junior year of college, who happened to be the same small-town doctor who was present at my birth.

Dr. Finis Q. Wyatt was a Norman Rockwell physician if ever there was one--round, merry and wise, like a Coca-Cola Santa sans beard. He probably saved my brother's life by finding an early-stage cancer in his knee. He saw me through chicken pox, measles and a case of scarlet fever. He knew just about everything there was to know about me, and he would always perch on a tiny stool and spend some time querying me about my life and plans as he peered into my ears or tapped my knee. I trusted him without reservation.

Today, my family doctor is a likable-enough guy, some years my junior. He's efficient, slightly aloof and terribly busy. I usually see him at about station four or five of the medical assembly line, briskly ticking things off on his clipboard. I suspect that he remembers my name because it's written on the chart in his hand.

But to be fair, my memories of Dr. Wyatt are really memories of another age. That was (the nostalgic) then; this is (the vivid) now. Health care today is a world Dr. Wyatt couldn't have imagined--a world of HMOs, high-tech medicine and Viagra ads on TV. Health care in America has never been so harried or so confusing. The rise of HMOs has been touted as the salvation of quality health care and lamented as its death knell. In one decade, prospects for universal health coverage swelled to help rout one sitting president, then collapsed beneath the feet of another. Physicians, in the meantime, have been converted from archetypal healers into quasi-bureaucrats.

It must be a hard time to be a doctor. In fact, it's no wonder doctors increasingly treat their patients like cogs in the medical machine. They probably feel increasingly like cogs themselves.

It's a profession, I confess, that I considered--or rather, that considered me--mainly during that summer before my junior year. It was during that physical exam that Dr. Wyatt asked me if I'd considered medicine as a calling. He explained that he sometimes helped students through medical school and would be willing to assist if I decided to give it a try. The offer was such a profound compliment that I really did give it some thought. In the end, partly out of sheer terror of holding another person's life in my hands, I said no.

To this day, however, I have an enormous respect for those young people who say yes--including an impressive percentage of every Pomona graduating class. I know their motives are usually mixed, even today, when the profession's prospects for wealth and prestige aren't what they once were. But whatever brew of motives may be at work, I suspect it includes an interest in people, a willingness to take personal responsibility for their welfare, an engagement with real human needs. In other words, I suspect--and hope--that there's a little bit of Dr. Wyatt in them all.

--Mark Wood, Editor

The strange odyssey of Eugene (Fr. Seraphim) Rose '56 had particular meaning for me, as I read PCM Spring 2001. We live in a condominium in La Mesa, and Esther Rose, Eugene's mother, spent her last years in the home next to ours. After her death her home was lived in for several years more by a granddaughter, twin sister to the one who has recently published Eugene's biography.

Mrs. Rose was indeed a stern and strong-willed lady, but also one of some talent as an amateur painter. When she heard that I was a graduate of Pomona she spoke several times of her son. I had hoped to meet him, but this never happened although I believe he visited here more than once. After his death she informed me that his monastic brethren were preparing to canonize him. It was clear that, despite earlier friction, she had already done the same.

I suspect that there are others among the alumni of Pomona, who (like myself) have had some experience in the cloister, whether brief or over decades. I can mention one, Fr. Robert Hale '59. He is a member and sometime prior of the Camaldolese (Benedictine) monastery in Big Sur. The group at Big Sur are very open to currents of ecumenism and environmental stewardship, as reflected in their writings and their hospitality to people of varied persuasions. While that too is an eremitic and "enclosed" community, it is in great contrast to the dour Orthodoxy espoused by Fr. Seraphim. I recall reading one article by him excoriating the decadence of the Western Church, both Catholic and Protestant.

I have before me a small scholarly monograph on St. Augustine written by Fr. Rose. It is an informative look at how Augustine relates to the Eastern Church, or actually vice versa. This posthumous monograph begins with an introduction by the Fr. Alexey Young mentioned in your article and concludes with a sympathetic photographic portrait of Fr. Seraphim.

PCM is an outstanding publication, often full of welcome surprises.

--Bill Pease '50, La Mesa, California

Do we shrink away with puzzlement--maybe horror or disgust--possibly fear, from such an article as that in the current PCM on Father Seraphim Eugene Rose '56?

As an old alum from the class of 1943, an RN from Stanford School of Nursing, a major in psychiatry, an army nurse in WWII and a Christian lady, I rejoice when any suffering human being finds the truth of life in our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

We all tread our own path to the truth of life and I shall not gainsay his.

I have studied homosexuality throughout my life (I'm 79 now) and I agree with Eugene Rose who said he had been in hell. It's not genetic--just a very rotten mixed-up choice.

Thanks for telling us about him. I shall give him a hug when I'm up in Heaven.

--Jo Jean DeCristoforro '43, Sacramento, California

More 47s

Your article about the number 47 in the Fall 2000 issue of PCM came out very well indeed, and I want to congratulate you on capturing the essence of a great Pomona tradition.

It seems that this tradition has followed me, even 10 years after my leaving Claremont. This fall, two College of Wooster seniors--Marty Coppola '02 from Medina, Ohio, and Sandy Tecklenburg '01 from Cincinnati--qualified for the NCAA Division III Cross Country Championships in Spokane. Their "runner ID numbers," independently and randomly assigned, were very familiar...

--R. Stanton Hales, Jr. '64
President, The College of Wooster
Wooster, Ohio

Regarding your Fall 2000 issue, which contained Sarah Dolinar's fascinating story on "The Mystery of 47," it has no doubt been pointed out to you that the subject headings which formed one border of the front cover ("The Sagehen Network--The Mighty Emeriti--Athletes at Work") contained precisely 47 letters. This should come as no great surprise. However, if precisely 47 people contact you to tell you they noticed this bit of trivia, then I will be forced to consider myself an incredulous convert to this most curious counting cult.

--Richard Waner '69, Seattle, Washington
Editor's Note: Actually, there are lots of 47s hidden in that issue. I was beginning to think no one had noticed. Thanks. (If you want more 47s, you might try checking out the illustrations in that issue). --MW

Mistaken Identity

Last week I received the spring issue of PCM, and was surprised to find a letter in the Forum section from my second cousin, Bobby Dozier Spurgin '49, concerning the Glee Club picture.

The person (second from left in the back row) was labeled as "Chas Boynton" but was actually my father, Edmund C. Boynton, 1900. Among the family photos I found some pictures that clearly establish my identification. Edmund and Charles Boynton did not resemble each other. My Uncle Charles never wore a moustache or beard, whereas my father had both until his death.

I realize that all this is really not terribly important, but it is to me. In his later life my father not only lived in Claremont but was a well-known and loved figure in the community until his death in his 98th year. He sang all his life the church choirs and barbershop groups. He is sadly missed.

You will notice that the identifying names are all in the same handwriting, which would seem to indicate that they were written somewhat later by someone who was not acquainted with the club members.

--Constance Boynton Nightingale '32, Nipomo, California
Editor's Note: Sadly, this letter was sent just prior to Ms. Nightingale's death in May
(See page 60). --MW

For and Against Frats

As a student who was heavily involved in the late 1980s in urging the College to end its support for single-sex fraternities, it was a little distressing to read Nate Johnson's article "Frats with a Difference," and learn that there still exist two Pomona fraternities that discriminate on the basis of sex--Kappa Delta and Sigma Tau. This exclusion of women continues despite the College's clear statement that sex discrimination is not allowed "in any of its policies, procedures or practices."

On the positive side, when my fellow students and I started working for such change, there were four frats that barred women. This decrease in the number of these sexist clubs gives me hope, and I look forward to the day when there will be none. I look forward to the day when the College chooses to live up to its bold nondiscrimination statement, and to the day when young men realize that all-male fraternities, with their cultures of sexism and homophobia, are irrelevant in modern academic life, and interfere not only with men's ability to relate to women, but to other men, as well.

--Bill Patrick, '90, Portland, Oregon

On the subject of campus fraternities, I feel completely vindicated. When, a number of years ago, then-President Alexander solicited alumni views (which he then ignored) on fraternities, I wrote at some length on their importance as 'social glue.' I noted the significant diminution of campus social life that accompanied the demise of the men's and women's associations during my four years at Pomona. I pointed out that even during my time several of the frats were in effect coed. Finally, I noted that the quality of social life that I saw on campus during the mid-'70s (when I was doing graduate work in Claremont) had declined markedly. [I also had some other, possibly biased, but more up-to-date information in that one of my employees had recently graduated from Pomona.] In any case, political correctness held sway and most of the frats perished. This was a bad idea from the start--it was addressing the wrong problem and in doing so exacerbated a more serious one.

--Charlie Jefferson, '67, Woodbridge, Virginia

Staying Plugged In

I read with great interest the article regarding the blackouts which occurred this past winter. The cost of the eight generators on top of the penalties applied by Southern California Edison must have amounted to a great deal of money. Coupled with the cost of diesel fuel, the maintenance cost of internal combustion engines, plus the pollution (noise and air), Pomona appears to be paying a heavy price to stay plugged in.

I hope every person involved realizes that generators are a quick and dirty solution to a problem which will not be going away, at least not by 2003. The college administrators and leaders at Pomona may have missed a real opportunity to invest in long-term alternative power generating technologies which are dependable, readily available, and (compared to fossil fuels) clean and virtually maintenance free.

Imagine an array of solar power panels on the flat roof of Big Bridges. Imagine selling power back to SCE on days when no one is on campus. Imagine being off the grid in sunny Southern California. Surely there is a faculty member or student at the College who is well versed in energy technology. Perhaps a timely senior thesis on getting institutions off the grid will appear.

Pomona definitely has the financial and geographical resources to be a trendsetter in energy generation. Bag the war mentality ("Fire up those generators, boys, we're in trouble now!") and come up with a good plan. Make it a priority. If you want it, you can have it. Any free thinkers down there?

--Bob Richardson '68, Port Townsend, WA

Editor's Note: You raised some points that deserved answers, so I went looking for some. According to Jim Hansen, director of campus planning and maintenance, the eight or nine small generators installed early in the energy crisis have all been removed. Our two 2-megawatt generators, able to power the entire campus, are utility grade--meaning they could be run 24 hours a day without exceeding the California Air Resource Board's noise and air pollution standards. For the longer term, an Energy Committee of faculty, staff and students has been formed to explore alternative energy sources. --MW

Memorial Verse 1

I enclose a poem I wrote April 29, after attending the memorial ceremony on the lawn beside Little Bridges. Mac McCloud is the pen name I use for all my poetry and essays on art.

Reading the Necrology
(for Richard G. Barnes '54, d. 2000)
by Mac McCloud

Before green lawns
Words rustle through the trees,
Fugitive crows flying
On the morning breeze.
I wonder if they know
They have vanished
like skin, like bones,
like poems, like stones?
There's a certain kind of music
we can't forget
and don't want to.
That's why we are here
on creaky metal chairs
quietly reckoning the losses.

--Mac McClain '55, Los Angeles, California

Memorial Verse 2

I hope you can find a place for this poem in PCM. It was written in memory of my classmate, Gene Morrill '70.

Rag and Bone Shop of His Heart
(in memory of Gene Morrill '70)

Geno wanted the world to remember
his favorite image of the college
with "Stop the Bombing of Cambodia!" banners
on Oldenborg Hall. He wouldn't let a phonathon
caller off the hook, a stray student

at a reunion escape, without a few
words of witness. I can't even
picture those banners now,
Though I was there.
What I see is Geno and me

sitting on the edge of Bridges'
portico, swinging our legs.
Never mind that that memory
is only six months old
not thirty years.

He's giving me a book
at first meant for the college library
until I showed him a poem of my own.
Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart,
the book that got him through

Divorce and single parenthood.
"For my friend Phyllis," he inscribes,
"who does what she wants
(like going to school at fifty
to become a poet or die trying.)"

But that is a summer memory
and this is a season of grief.
Geno the poet died decades before,
fatally wounded by an instructor's wince.
Geno the man just last month.

Geno the teacher and patron may outlast us all.
Open the book gingerly, never knowing
what gnashing of branches,
what gusts of birds and bullets
may blow out.

--Phyllis A. Meshulam '70, Sebastopol, California

We welcome letters about the College or magazine. Letters may be edited for length, style and clarity. When a letter questions a published article, the author or another appropriate respondent may be invited to reply. The editor reserves the right to cut off debate on an issue after a reasonable period of time.