Jacob G. Stockinger, Jr., '68

I don't think about my years at Lawrence, I hear them. I hear the energetic chants of pep rallies and anti-war demonstrations. I hear the crack of ricocheting billiard balls on the pool table in the Viking Room. I hear the muffled voices of professors (especially Gervais Reed, Anne Jones, and George Smalley) coming from behind the doors of their Main Hall ofÞces while I stand waiting outside. I hear the latest record by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, or Bob Dylan echoing through hallways of Plantz and Trever. I hear shakes mixing and burgers frying, while Clarence or one of the women behind the counter at the Union calls out my name. I hear the jukebox at the Wursthaus and the pinball machine at Jim's Place. I hear the foreign language soundtrack of Sunday night Film Classics. And I hear the pinging bells of the UPI machine in the Union the night RFK was assassinated.

But the sounds I remember most came from pianos I played. I played the pianos in Ormsby and Sage and especially in Colman before and after dinner and in the Riverview Lounge when I didn't know where else to go. I once even played the Bosendorfer in President Curtis Tarr's home. But I never played a piano in town or in the conservatory (probably because I felt guilty about dropping out of it the first week of class my freshman year). I played Bach and Chopin mostly. No one applauded, but they listened and I could tell they liked the music and liked me for playing it. At reunions, I still play the piano and my classmates still listen and they never seem to hear the wrong notes. That's how it is when you play for family.

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