<p>[url=<a href=“http://www.chilit.org/PROSNTZ2.HTM]PROSNTZ2[/url”>http://www.chilit.org/PROSNTZ2.HTM]PROSNTZ2[/url</a>]</p>
<p>FORDS</p>
<p>by
Howard B. Prossnitz, HC 1973, Stanford Law School 1976</p>
<p>Delivered to The Chicago Literary Club February 22, 1999
Copyright 1999 Howard B. Prossnitz </p>
<p>The first time that I heard of it was in the spring of 1968. It was a gray, cold March day in Evanston. I was inside a windowless classroom at the High School studying American History. My teacher was Harry Wood. We were cramming for the upcoming AP exam and had just finished reviewing three quarters of history in 40 minutes. I was not feeling that sanguine about the exam, especially since Steve Ellmann was sitting next to me. His father was Richard Ellmann, the renowned Joyce scholar, who was a professor at Northwestern at the time. Steve was as keen a student as his father, he was a year ahead of me and would graduate as valedictorian. I could not help but notice that he had filled about twenty pages of notebook paper with his detailed precise study notes whereas I was contemplating my own sloppy handwriting which had produced two and one-half pages of a sketchy outline.</p>
<p>With only a few minutes left in the period, our teacher said, “You know it does not have to be like this. When I was in college, we took our exams outside on green lawns near a duck pond. Or if we wanted to, we took the exams back to our dorm rooms and worked on them there. You see there was an Honor Code which meant that we had no proctors. We scheduled our exams for ourselves whenever we wanted to during a two week period. Our classes had eight students and we often met at the professor’s house.”</p>
<p>As one of 1,250 juniors at Evanston High School, I wondered where this mythical place was. None of my other teachers ever talked about their colleges. Harry Wood seemed to be very old, at least forty, so obviously this had been a special place for him. I did not have to wait long to find out the name of this Shangri La. At the end of his reminiscence, we learned that the name of the school was Haverford and that it was a small Quaker college near Philadelphia. Over the remainder of the academic year, Mr. Wood continued to pepper his classes with fond stories of his alma mater. </p>
<p>The following summer, when my father and I made our tour of Eastern schools, I went to visit the place and I was not disappointed. It was as promised, an oasis in the middle of the already tranquil Main Line with expansive green lawns, old towering trees, a duck pond, a cricket field and a club house where tea was served during recesses in the cricket games. A small cadre of Evanston graduates had gone there before such as Jack Rakove, son of Milton Rakove, a political science professor in Chicago known for his books on Mayor Daley. Jack himself is now a professor – he teaches history at Stanford. I felt that I had been let in on a great secret and now many years later, I still feel the same way.</p>
<p>Tonight, I will talk about the history of the College as well as two Fords that I particularly admire, Isaac Sharpless, one of the College’s early presidents, and Charles Robinson, class of 1928, whom I had the honor to know personally. I will also try to answer the question of what is it about Haverford that creates such loyalty among its alumni? Why is it that I return four times a year for meetings of the Alumni Association Executive Committee? Why do many of my classmates feel the same way? For instance at our most recent reunion (number 25), we had our traditional class meeting. One-third of my graduating class of was present. We were seated in a seminar room in a large circle. As has become our custom, we went around the table with each person providing a brief narrative about what had transpired in his life during the last five years. One of my classmates expressed a thought that we all shared. He said, " when I come back here and walk into this room with all of you present, I feel like I am at home again. There is no other place that I feel this way. I know that I can speak freely and from the heart here. There is none of the pretense and posturing that I encounter in my everyday world." What is it that provokes such sentiments? Is it merely nostalgia or something more?</p>
<p>…</p>