The Princeton comments resonate with me. Just down the road I attended an old distinguished all-boys boarding school. A full scholarship paid my way. I was a ragamuffin kid from a family that had no connections with other students. Most of the boys there resembled the photos that accompany your sketch. They wore fabulous shirts of pastel colors like the Gatsby’s closet in the movie scene with Redford and Farrow. They looked down on anyone who wasn’t like them. Or dressed like them. Or summered with them.
I remember looking at my roommate’s closet and comparing it with mine: containing four pairs of K-Mart kaiki slacks, five blue button down shirts, two white button down shirts, one pair of WeeJun loafers, and my late uncle’s Jermyn-street tweed blazer, which I inherited and while threadbare, fit me like a glove. I didn’t have a suit for Sunday chapel— a requirement—so I wore a sunny blue blazer and dark gray slacks. In the New Jersey gloom nobody spotted me. I can’t imagine how many lunches my father took to work to pay for acquiring all the rest of that clothing at once. “No thanks, I’m eating at my desk today—I’ve fallen behind.” He brought mayonnaise sandwiches on white and a thermos of tea.
My roommate always forgot to put out his laundry. When he ran out of clean shirts he walked across the street and purchased new shirts. By Thanksgiving there must have been fifty shirts of all colors and styles at the closet’s bottom. Each worn once or twice.
We had classes six days each week. Since I had five blue shirts I had to wash, hang dry and borrow my housemaster’s wife’s iron on Thursdays so the shirt would be dry enough to press on Friday night. To wear Saturday. But I learned how to press a shirt.
When I went home one weekend per term, one of the masters (fabulously wealthy) would put a $10 bill in my mailbox for the return train fare. An anonymous act of generosity.
[To avoid the reader misconstruing all of this: my experiences there did not incite class hatred, turn me into a Communist or a Socialist. It made me want to resemble them. Not become them but resemble them. In fact I’m immeasurably grateful for the free education. And the privileges that came with it.in fact I sent my sons there—paid the full freight]
So several decades down the road I had the pleasure of launching unrequited takeovers of their fathers’ companies, their fathers having become too lazy, jaded, complacent and sloppy to manage them properly. I don’t think they even recognized my face in the final board meeting.
The experience I had at the school between yours and Princeton, was not nearly as pleasant. Academic scholarship that at the time wasn’t appreciated nor was my presence. Love to chat more about those times.
I was at Rolling Stone roughly at the same time. We hung out at Jean Lafitte on 56th near 6th. Peter O’Toole used to come in, and walk around in his socks peering at the paintings on the walls.
This is the best subscription ever. Its always a surprise what you’re going to say. The writing, the way you look at the world, the disciplined emotion like a punch in the heart are so devastatingly beautiful I have to catch my breath and marvel that you exist.
My favorite was reading about the retired rear admiral that was your babysitter. It took me back to my curious childhood and the love of maps, tracking explorers such as Magellan and Vespucci. I could read all day about that alone.
I can imagine the mountains and valleys folded in that map you keep in your heart.
Walter learned so much from his elders before schooling had started for him. What that knowledge did was set up his mind for the bigger picture at large. His young mind soaked it up like a sponge. I will end with, we are the recipients of his wealth of knowledge, that has been creatively curated for us all.
It's the little things that stay with us, once you've collected enough the bigger picture just seems to follow naturally. Well done Walter. A great glimpse into the observations that make you a unique voice.
A terrific piece. My sister just moved to place in the country south of the cities. Her address is Northfield but it's about 15 minutes outside town. Small town Minnesota has changed a lot over the last few decades but in some other ways not at all. Did your dad ever express regret over opposing that poor S.O.B.'s liquor license? He's not to blame of course but still, in the great scheme of things what's a couple of 3.2 beers between friends?
I lived in Northfield for a year when taking a break between my sophomore and junior years of college back East. Worked at a bakery to pay the bills but had no car and had to walk to work at 4 in the morning, in winter. My breath would freeze into ice on my eyelashes. Every job I've had since then has seemed like a sinecure.
That is such a great piece. Some of it is helping me to remember and reappraise my own early formative experience. Like you, I went to private school on scholarships which helped me get to Oxford... but was never truly one of the flock having come from a background of emigration and zero disposable income. That and other experiences that give one a different perspective and a bit of x-ray vision. Loved your Bullshit piece and look forward to reading others.
Walter, thank you for the snapshot into to your formative years. It’s so interesting to me that your observation skills were so sharply developed at a young age. Perhaps the navigation skills you learned from your caregiver/mentor we’re the perfect base from which to launch you on your way to navigate this crazy world.
The Princeton comments resonate with me. Just down the road I attended an old distinguished all-boys boarding school. A full scholarship paid my way. I was a ragamuffin kid from a family that had no connections with other students. Most of the boys there resembled the photos that accompany your sketch. They wore fabulous shirts of pastel colors like the Gatsby’s closet in the movie scene with Redford and Farrow. They looked down on anyone who wasn’t like them. Or dressed like them. Or summered with them.
I remember looking at my roommate’s closet and comparing it with mine: containing four pairs of K-Mart kaiki slacks, five blue button down shirts, two white button down shirts, one pair of WeeJun loafers, and my late uncle’s Jermyn-street tweed blazer, which I inherited and while threadbare, fit me like a glove. I didn’t have a suit for Sunday chapel— a requirement—so I wore a sunny blue blazer and dark gray slacks. In the New Jersey gloom nobody spotted me. I can’t imagine how many lunches my father took to work to pay for acquiring all the rest of that clothing at once. “No thanks, I’m eating at my desk today—I’ve fallen behind.” He brought mayonnaise sandwiches on white and a thermos of tea.
My roommate always forgot to put out his laundry. When he ran out of clean shirts he walked across the street and purchased new shirts. By Thanksgiving there must have been fifty shirts of all colors and styles at the closet’s bottom. Each worn once or twice.
We had classes six days each week. Since I had five blue shirts I had to wash, hang dry and borrow my housemaster’s wife’s iron on Thursdays so the shirt would be dry enough to press on Friday night. To wear Saturday. But I learned how to press a shirt.
When I went home one weekend per term, one of the masters (fabulously wealthy) would put a $10 bill in my mailbox for the return train fare. An anonymous act of generosity.
[To avoid the reader misconstruing all of this: my experiences there did not incite class hatred, turn me into a Communist or a Socialist. It made me want to resemble them. Not become them but resemble them. In fact I’m immeasurably grateful for the free education. And the privileges that came with it.in fact I sent my sons there—paid the full freight]
So several decades down the road I had the pleasure of launching unrequited takeovers of their fathers’ companies, their fathers having become too lazy, jaded, complacent and sloppy to manage them properly. I don’t think they even recognized my face in the final board meeting.
Isn’t America a great country?
The experience I had at the school between yours and Princeton, was not nearly as pleasant. Academic scholarship that at the time wasn’t appreciated nor was my presence. Love to chat more about those times.
message me at uncleduke911@gmail.com like to share my experiences
I was at Rolling Stone roughly at the same time. We hung out at Jean Lafitte on 56th near 6th. Peter O’Toole used to come in, and walk around in his socks peering at the paintings on the walls.
This is a great piece.
This is the best subscription ever. Its always a surprise what you’re going to say. The writing, the way you look at the world, the disciplined emotion like a punch in the heart are so devastatingly beautiful I have to catch my breath and marvel that you exist.
I agree!!
Love this piece, Walter! How well I remember you at Vanity Fair—24 years old, funny, smart, great to be with. Loved you!
As you know Walter, I can vouch for every comment re the 500 population river town. Loved it all
My favorite was reading about the retired rear admiral that was your babysitter. It took me back to my curious childhood and the love of maps, tracking explorers such as Magellan and Vespucci. I could read all day about that alone.
I can imagine the mountains and valleys folded in that map you keep in your heart.
You’re like a nonfiction version of a character from The Great Gatsby - but you escaped with your soul seemingly intact.
Ahhhhh, yes!!!
Walter learned so much from his elders before schooling had started for him. What that knowledge did was set up his mind for the bigger picture at large. His young mind soaked it up like a sponge. I will end with, we are the recipients of his wealth of knowledge, that has been creatively curated for us all.
Thank you,
Thank God for writers.
And by the way, I worked for Walter Cronkite on the Evening News crew. He was the real deal.
It's the little things that stay with us, once you've collected enough the bigger picture just seems to follow naturally. Well done Walter. A great glimpse into the observations that make you a unique voice.
And so relatable.
A terrific piece. My sister just moved to place in the country south of the cities. Her address is Northfield but it's about 15 minutes outside town. Small town Minnesota has changed a lot over the last few decades but in some other ways not at all. Did your dad ever express regret over opposing that poor S.O.B.'s liquor license? He's not to blame of course but still, in the great scheme of things what's a couple of 3.2 beers between friends?
I lived in Northfield for a year when taking a break between my sophomore and junior years of college back East. Worked at a bakery to pay the bills but had no car and had to walk to work at 4 in the morning, in winter. My breath would freeze into ice on my eyelashes. Every job I've had since then has seemed like a sinecure.
Why am I only discovering you now?!
Totally enchanted- as soon as I can do a founders level subscription, I will.
Great work. Love it.
That is such a great piece. Some of it is helping me to remember and reappraise my own early formative experience. Like you, I went to private school on scholarships which helped me get to Oxford... but was never truly one of the flock having come from a background of emigration and zero disposable income. That and other experiences that give one a different perspective and a bit of x-ray vision. Loved your Bullshit piece and look forward to reading others.
Walter, thank you for sharing. Another gem! What a lucky boy you were to have Robert Knox be your first eyes on the bigger world.
It was my favorite too.
Walter, thank you for the snapshot into to your formative years. It’s so interesting to me that your observation skills were so sharply developed at a young age. Perhaps the navigation skills you learned from your caregiver/mentor we’re the perfect base from which to launch you on your way to navigate this crazy world.