POLITICAL SCIENCE PROFESSORS REUNITE IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
Reunions aren’t just for former students; former professors have reunions, too.
Such was the case recently as former Eisenhower professors Albert J. Ossman Jr. and James L. Troisi–who hadn’t seen each other in ten years—greeted one another with a firm handshake and a slap on the back as they gathered along with Michael Sciulla ’73 in Ossman’s suburban Washington, D.C., apartment.
The reunion was especially heartwarming for the pair of Syracuse University PhDs who have known each other since 1968, when Ossman became Eisenhower’s first director of the division of social sciences and Troisi accompanied Dr. Warren Hickman from Syracuse to Eisenhower as an associate professor.
The three-hour long conversation ranged far and wide from the sad passing of a number of their former colleagues to their frustration with the latest developments in the Middle East. Said Troisi of Ossman,” He’s still as sharp as a tack at age 87.”
That said, all agreed that the Eisenhower College World Studies approach is as relevant today as it was then—and perhaps even more so. “Unfortunately, we were just slightly ahead of our time,” quipped Ossman.
During the previous evening, Troisi and Sciulla dined at Gadsby’s Tavern in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, which has been serving dinner since 1770. “To be able to have a reunion with your two favorite college professors and mentors 40 years later is just priceless,” said Sciulla, who has been a Washington lobbyist, writer, and editor since 1975.
continued article from Fall 2013 newsletter:
B-STRONG: A PERSONAL ACCOUNT FROM THE 2013 BOSTON MARATHON
by Cathy Troisi
Volunteers at the BAA information booth are well informed by our captain, Linda Fechter, about virtually any and all questions that we could or would be asked by runners. All the information is in the handbook sent out to every registered runner; it’s the encyclopedia for the weekend in general, the marathon in particular. One of the most often asked questions is “Where do I get the bus on marathon morning?” Following the bus question, another question often asked is “Where can my ___(fill in the blank with the name of any friend or loved one of the runner) see me on the course and then at the finish?” But it’s almost impossible to do both—and truthfully it’s actually difficult to see a runner cross the finish line (unless you are one of the very few with a VIP pass for the bleachers at the finish line). Spectators can line the course along both sides of Boylston Street toward the finish line, and seasoned spectators, especially on a good-weather day, know where to be in order to see runners cross the line.
Some are adamant about seeing their runners finish. When I offer advice about where to (try to) see a runner cross the finish line, I encourage the family/friends to know the approximate finishing time of the runner—and to be ready to “plant” themselves somewhere along Boylston Street earlier than the projected finishing time, since it is many spectators deep. I also encourage them to be on the side of the street across from the Lenox Hotel across from the Boston Public Library. As runners are coming around the last turn from Hereford Street onto Boylston Street, they will take a tight left turn. Boylston Street is wide, and if you are trying to see your runner, you have a better chance if you’re closer to that side of the street. Some spectators will be able to navigate through the crowd; for those who don’t know the city, I explain that mile 26 is right at Walgreen’s. Anywhere along there, and towards the finish, could likely be a relatively good place to see a runner pass by and, depending on the crowd, maybe even see him or her cross the finish line farther down the road.
Throughout the five hours of my Sunday-morning shift at the BAA information booth, every runner but one who asked the question about where family or friends could see him or her finish was in the range of 4:00-4:15. If all of their family/friends had taken my advice as to where to be, they could easily have been within the range of either or both bomb blasts. It haunts me. I constantly watched the news that night and saw the multiple replays of the Boston Marathon finish line at 4:09:44. I knew I couldn’t identify any one of the runners or, in some cases, those with the runners who asked about where to watch, but I needed to look at the video continuously and each time hope and pray that I did not put someone in harm’s way. I will probably never know.
As for myself, Boston was going relatively well, and I was on target for my goal pace. Ironically, I forgot my sports watch (for the first time ever in any race, not just a marathon) that would give me mile splits as well as my continual running time from the start line. I had no idea how I was doing other than knowing that I was feeling fine overall, that I was glad I’d decided on a long-sleeved shirt under my Dana-Farber singlet. As I crested the climb after the overpass at 16 miles, I asked a police officer (who was there for traffic control, not anything to do with the bombs) what time it was, and he told me “three o’clock, straight up.” Unbeknownst to us, things were already happening in Boston; the official start time of the marathon was 10:00 a.m.; with the wave start, I crossed the start mat at 10:51:48. The first bomb went off at 4:09:44, running-clock time.
Another mile or so down the road as I was turning on to Commonwealth Avenue to start the hills, I noticed barricades across the width of the street—unusual, but I didn’t give it much thought. As I was noting that there wasn’t one spectator on Commonwealth, which usually has a ribbon of spectators the length of it even for the back of the pack, someone shouted, “Dana-Farber.” Since that’s often heard throughout the marathon for those of us wearing Dana-Farber singlets, I turned to see who called out. Another Dana-Farber runner was talking to a policeman and we were told we couldn’t go into town, that two bombs had gone off at the finish line. We were told we could go to the top of Heartbreak Hill, another four miles away, but we had to go over to the carriage road (which parallels the course) because we couldn’t be on the course. When we reached mile 21, it would be decided what to do with the congregation of runners at that point. But that never happened.
When we reached the top of the hill past mile 18, police at that medical/aid station said we weren’t allowed to go on, the race was called, and we would have to wait for a bus to come for us, although it wasn’t yet determined where the bus would take us. In fact, the bus never came, but private vehicles materialized an hour later to take us to Newton Town Hall at mile 19 to put us indoors. It was warm, had chairs, and a land-line. With area cell towers down, the land-line was our only way to contact loved ones to let them know we were ok. I called my husband and my sister. Already both had received many inquiries by e-mail and phone about my well-being.
We were in the town hall for about an hour when people started bringing in cots, and we were told that the Red Cross was providing hot meals. I looked at my friend and said, “It’s not looking good that we’ll get out of here tonight.” But police and BAA volunteers were making every effort to move as many runners as they possibly could to wherever they needed to go. My friend Nancy in Jamaica Plain, with whom I stay, was planning to be on Hereford Street to watch me finish. I didn’t know if she was now home or stuck somewhere in Boston (the subway system was shut down for a while). Since I don’t carry my cell phone when I run, I couldn’t call her, and I didn’t bring my keys to her apartment since we were planning to meet up after I finished. We’ve done it this way for the past several years—and of course she’d have her keys. I told the kind person who drove me to Jamaica Plain (the long way around, since many roads were closed off) not to wait if I couldn’t get in the apartment. I’d go sit (indoors) at the subway stop, 114 steps from the apartment. If Nancy wasn’t home, eventually she’d have to return via the subway and we’d connect. Fortunately, Nancy was already home. She buzzed me in to her apartment building, and before I could even open the door she was there to greet me. The hug was a bit longer and a bit tighter than the usual post-marathon hug, and I was never so glad to be in that building as I was then.
I only finished two-thirds of the Boston Marathon course, plus one mile. I hadn’t gone far enough that the usual marathon aches and pains, especially those from the Boston hills, surfaced. Without the opportunity to subject my quads and hamstrings to all the Newton Hills, I didn’t need my usual “OTC” intake. Nothing hurt. Except my heart.
Eisenhower College, The First Years (COMING SOON! A Reflection courtesy of Joe Ball ’72)