I was on the "Hill" in 1961 through 1964 when the following events took place. These were mellow, good years, before we lost so much to that pariah, Vietnam. The "Hill" then was a place of laconic charm, where studies took second place to soaking up something indescribable in the air. Maybe it was the quick smile of a rare coed or the deluge of spring fragrances from the arboretum, or maybe something spiritual: these things are hard to understand. In 1962 I took a political science course, one of those required in my block of studies. These courses enrolled a motley array of about a hundred students who would never see each other again after the course was completed. The professor was a stubby fellow who always wore a blue or green tie and was known simply as "Doc Jenkins." (1) never knew if Doc noticed me in class, but I used to pass him on the red brick sidewalks not far from "Silent Sam," the bronze Confederate soldier near Franklin Street, and Doc would usually tip his hat, then address me as "Mister Brown" or "Mister Randolph."
