610910 - From Danbury to Stockbridge

It was early Fall and Grand Central in those days was a late summer field of herringbone, flannel and button down oxford shirts as preppies boarded their trains to schools in New England lugging the burdens of privileged boyhood: skis, rackets, trumpets, guitars, pet snakes and secreted condoms.  Invariably, the more domestic items -- bedspreads, towels, desk lamps -- would have been sent on ahead.  

Marguerite had done her surrogate best to equip me appropriately, although in this she failed as i had virtually none of the accoutrements or apparel de rigeur which, in those days, included loafers, desert boots, cords, cardigans and duffel coats with hemp loops and peg buttons.  Marguerite had dressed me up in a dark suit with a plain overcoat that belonged on the likes of Andrei Gromyko and which had been purchased (i must confess) in a place called "Alexanders".  It would be up to me to correct these deficiencies during the Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks.  

Ordinary Privilege

The difference between then and now, i suppose, was that the "preppy look" was something we had more or less elaborated ourselves within the constraints of convention rather than being the head-to-toe contrivance of style merchants. I doubt any of us would have met muster under J. Crew and Abercrombie "standards" today.  There were no "Preppy Handbooks" other than the approval or ridicule of your peers.

Marguerite remained uncomprehending as to why, at the last minute, i should have turned down an acceptance at the very traditional, Episcopalian De Veaux Academy for a place called "Stockbridge" run by somebody called "Hans". Even if she hadn't dressed me right, she knew what a proper prep school ought to look like. She insisted on accompanying me to Grand Central and did so with an air of forced cheerfulness that said "Don't blame me when things don't turn out." It wasn't the heartiest send-off and i was glad when the train slowly pulled out of from Grand Central's underground platforms and rail-warrens.

Where I didn't Go

Things were pretty quiet in the long Pullman car of faces and jackets until we had cleared 125th Street, at which point -- as if at last and surely away from home -- the racket broke out, ebullience unable to contain itself.

All of New England was being fed with a stream of preppy tributaries from New York going to places with names like Woodbury, Middlebury, Waterbury, Marlborough, Colchester, Norwich, Milford, Haverhill, Dover...  and so on.  With each stop, the racket got a little less until, at the end of the line, there was no one left except a handful of preppies who, if they did not already, would soon know one another.

As Stockbridge was in the Berkshires, my train rode up through the Housatonic River Valley to Danbury where I had to change from the multi-car train to a single car Budd electric.  I didn't know it, but in a sense this was the end of the line because, given academic year scheduling, no one from the Windsor School or any other academy was on board.  

Four boys and one girl sat facing one another toward the front of the car.  They obviously knew one another and were carrying on rather boisterously, as the train rocked from side to side, almost like a boat.  The girl, Mollie, was sitting on Mike Kiddon's lap, dropping grapes into his mouth, as he laughed and choked at the same time. 

I looked out the window, figuring it would be impolite to stare too much at such astonishing behaviour. I was just 14 years old but, even so, i had never seen such carrying on in Mexico where, "nice" girls were still chaperoned even to parties in the afternoon.  

After a while, Mollie looked over and noticed me.  "Are you going to Stockbridge?" She asked.  I was, i replied.  "Oh good!" she said as she flopped herself into my lap with a bunch of grapes in her hand.   I froze.