The envelope in my mailbox on April 17 was a thin one.

Without opening it, I knew: I was a Princeton reject.

Correction: I am a Princeton reject. Somehow we never

quite forget that introductory hour of judgment when a

selective college announces (quite tersely in 1952, as I re-

call) that our first major Here-Am-I Statement has

"passed" or "failed." The College Admissions Office plays

a heavy and quick hand in adolescent flirtation with self-

worth.

Around the family dinner

tears, then anger.., then a

drawal to take stock.

table that evening there were

quiet, slightly resentful with-

Maybe Princeton just couldn't bear to include my Hoos-

ier trappings on their Freshman roster? I was graduating

from Broad Ripple High School ("The Ripple Rockets")

and had prepped for Broad Ripple at John Strange Ele-

mentary School. To top all, the Strange School had a prin-

cipal named Mr. Quear (I swear to God: Check Ripley's

roster of wonders, late '40s). And it didn't seem to matter

to Princeton that Ripple's colors were orange and black.

It did matter to Princeton that my academic involve-

ments had been rather thoroughly displaced in favor of

running every schoolboy organization in sight--that is,

when incessant schoolboy song-and-dance performances

provided intermission for more serious activity. But tough

courses and disciplined study?--No.