MY DAYS AT HARVARD

#125 - ...so that I could drive the ninety miles to Boston to the campus in Cambridge. It’s just across the Charles River. (”I love that dirty water.”)

Welcome to Before I Forget . .

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My Days At Harvard

Finally, I was a college grad. It took long enough.

From Harvard. Yes, that Harvard.

Well, actually, I’m a graduate from an extension program offered at Harvard.

I have a Certificate in Mixology. Bartending, in other words. It’s from Harvard and that was good enough for me.

The certificate has been lost over the years. I think it got burned up in the fire that nutjob from Hawaii set in my apartment building’s garage where the storage units were.

The course was an intensive three hour a day, three-day course. It seemed to me we covered a lot of ground in that time. Who would have thought bartending would have such history and tradition.

I lived in Orleans, on the Cape, and arranged to take off work a little early Tuesday through Thursday, so that I could drive the ninety miles to Boston to the campus in Cambridge. It’s just across the Charles River. (”I love that dirty water.”)

The drive was against the commute and smooth each day. It took a good two hours from start to parking spot. Class began at 6:00p.

My brief walks from where I found parking to the classroom changed each day and became my memories of Harvard.

I could feel the history and esteem of the school.

Large buildings and complexes housed the schools of learning, - science, law, engineering. Stately buildings rose between tree lined walkways and open space.

Though late April, a recent storm laid down a few inches of snow. It wouldn’t last long but the slushy snow and cold temperatures contrasted with the trees leafing out.

I was surprised by the number of students enrolled. The class was full.

The seats in the lecture room were in a steep half circle looking down on the professor at the podium. I sat up high in the back.

About half of those attending were students at Harvard. The rest of us were from all walks of life.

I met Shiri, from India. She was about to graduate from some math program. She was intense but outgoing and had smarts just oozing from every pore. She was taking the course just for fun.

Allen, from Nebraska was getting his law degree, and was the least likely guy I would ever think of as a lawyer. He looked like he’d be more at home back on the farm. He wanted to know about the chemicals and fertilizer used on the golf course I worked at.

Like Shiri, he was just “rounding out his education” while at school.

There was Jason, a long-haul truck driver from Charlestown and he wanted to change jobs. He was between driving shifts. Said he was burnt out from the road and said it was an unhealthy way to live. His rather large belly did support his thinking.

He had a friend who could get him a job in the Restaurant Union downtown after his bartending course was completed. It was a good job, and it wasn’t easy getting in the union. Being Italian was an asset in his case.

I was there because of the novelty of it. A Bartending degree from Harvard. Had a nice ring to it.

At the time, there always seemed to be a need for bartenders, especially over winter. Like the tourists that flooded the Cape during summer, most workers in bars and cafes were gone after the summer ended.

For the relatively few people who remained year-round, bars and restaurants were the only signs of life when winter closed in.

Every few weeks I’d drive to the mall in Hyannis just to see people and know that the rest of the world was still carrying on.

One time I went with Dave, recently returned from the war. He had just bought himself a new Porsche. He opened that Porsche up on the twenty miles of highway to the mall. We made it in no time at all. It was the first time I’d been over 100 mph.

It was also the last. I don’t care for that much speed, even if I’m doing the driving.

Dave served two tours as a “shotgun rider” machine gunner on support and rescue helicopters. They didn’t have a long-life expectancy.

On his first tour he got hooked on “China White.” Said it was the only way he got through it. He spent a second tour in an army sponsored program getting off drugs before he, hopefully, made it home.

He did make it home and succeeded, at least for the time being, in beating his heroin habit. He wasn’t adjusting well to normal life. He had a hair trigger.

I was always a bit wary around him and know that there are many just like him, broken to some degree by what war can do.

The Cape is an idyllic place. Quiet and stunningly beautiful.

For me and my boss, Brian, we had the golf course pretty much to ourselves. I cut down a lot of trees and brush in the off season.

There were a few diehard golfers with their painted golf balls used for when snow covered the course. We would clear the tees and greens the best we could.

As the snow melted, I found lost golf balls by the dozens. I used to knock them into the lake across the road from the workshop. One day, archeologists will find them.

I played golf in college and was pretty good. I never played a round in the time I was there.

The Cape is well-known for its wind and fog. The coldest winters I’d ever experienced were on the Cape. I wore my long johns well into June.

Oh, yes, Harvard.

Our final test for the course was to make a drink from the numerous bottles of rum, scotch, vodka, whiskey, glasses, condiments, ice, and et cetera that were set up on three folding tables down by the podium.

The end leg of one of the tables didn’t lock securely, and after setting up the bottles, it gave way. The table didn’t collapse but fell a few inches and everything started sliding toward the low end. Destruction was imminent.

But a fellow student, at the right place at the right time, managed to catch the table end and level it in time to keep the whole thing from making a real mess on the lecture room floor.

The professor secured the table leg and both he and the student received hearty cheers and applause for saving the day and the alcohol.

The professor began calling out drinks one by one as we each took our turn at the tables. We had to drink what we made.

That was the real test. Some drinks turned out horrible as evidenced by the looks on contorted faces.

When it came my turn, I got an easy one. A Black Russian. Vodka and coffee liqueur, like Kahlua, over ice.

How we were allowed to drink on campus escapes me. It was a party. We all passed the course.

I did get a job at a local pub. I lasted the weekend. I’m not cut out to be a bartender.

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