the scene of the crime

Carlisle, Pennsylvania.  Twenty years ago I became a college graduate.  It’s still hard to wrap my head around  that.  Even harder to believe:  I’ve not been back to Dickinson College since.  Through the years, alumni weekends have proved eminently resistible.  Up until now, that is.  Maybe it’s the severity of a generation passing – or maybe it was the endless harping of my friend Amy  to go revisit the scene of our feckless, formative youth; for some reason this weekend I drank the Kool-Aid and made the trip back.

Carlisle and the college are as gorgeous as I remember.  (Founded in 1773, the school is grey limestone mix of colonial and federal architecture)  What I didn’t remember  so well was the pungent smell of the dorms – or the skill set required for a session of beer pong.  Since I waited til the last minute to  find a room, I ended up having to spend the night on campus  in the old Phi Delt frathouse, where I was quickly reacquainted with both of those long forgotten memories.


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