from the Summer 2017 issue of Bucknell Magazine
For me, [John Wheatcroft] practically walked on water, and he shaped and styled my life from the moment I entered his classroom.
I well remember being in the dorm on a beautiful spring day with my friend Helene Dietrich Tremaine '63 and thinking it would be wonderful to go down by the river and pick armloads of the lilacs that grew there.
Halfway there, we realized that while there may have been classes we could cut, one taught by "Sweetie Wheatie" was not among them. What if he missed us? What if his feelings were hurt? (The fact that he would not have recognized either of us, quiet students in the back row, was beside the point). And so we dashed back and up the hill to slip into class.
After graduation, I was almost afraid to read good book for fear I would miss something that I should have seen. And when I went back for a reunion, I was stunned to see that towering personality and impressive intellect were found in the body of a rather short, real, person. Nonetheless, he was a giant and a wonderful memory of life at Bucknell.
Penny West Suritz '63
When a friend confirmed that the fab cover of your Spring issue was not an hallucination, it made me cautiously optimistic that our favored nation might, somehow, intelligently evolve to fulfill Its FUTURE destiny and reach the age of twelve score and ten peacefully in 2026, notwithstanding the domestic polarity unleashed by those witchy old pot buds — quietly during the global upheavals of the hungry thirties, then uproariously during the seismic rumblings of "My Generation" in the flippy sixties.
The obvious key to that peaceful evolution is consciously vigilant respect for marijuana's potent psychoactive power, which is increasingly being enhanced by savvy growers, and, above all, knowing how to hit the brakes whenever abusive escapism overpowers creatively intelligent use — one heavy pitfall for callow users, especially nowadays.
Moreover, pot's future is clearly edibles rather than wheezing headaches. Anyway, whatever transpires in the decades ahead, the old genie is definitely out of the bottle, bueno problem. So fasten your seat belts in case of likely turbulence, 'migos — possibly regional, as our western states rapidly evolve into pothead havens, contiguous with two bordering nations ready to legalize, especially Canada.
Finally, "For What It's Worth" — even while looking ahead — perhaps, somehow, it's also particularly timely, relevant, insightful, and worth looking back to the ancient Lakota word for "now," which is WA'NA... hokahey.
Dave Felcher '67
La Grange, Calif.
I read with interest the letter to the editor in the spring edition of Bucknell Magazine.
I'm happy to know the writer (BU '68) had such a good life after her enriched education at BU, an education made possible in part by the service of countless veterans now gone, including two Bucknell Medal of Honor recipients.
As a fellow alumnus, I am struck by the extreme difference Bucknell made on our lives. The writer's experience led her and her betrothed to turn their backs on their country during a time of great trial. My experience gave me the wherewithal to serve our country, and in a small way give something back to it.
The writer and husband found sanctuary in Canada which enjoys prosperity under the same umbrella of power that ensures the defense of freedom the world over. Canada is indeed a beautiful country and fine neighbor. Imagine where it would turn for help if it faced a national threat or catastrophe.
Perhaps the draft did indeed do us a favor. It gave the writer and husband refuge without sacrifice. I am proud of my Bucknell experience, because it led me to serve before any draft notice came to my door. It led me to volunteer my service to the country that has saved the very idea of choice, freedom and opportunity for the rest of the world to enjoy. I know I was not alone in my choice, many of my fellow classmates made the same decision as I.
I wish the writer and her husband no ill will, they must live with their decision as I do mine. I sleep well at night.
Jim Dusenbury '66