A Graduation Adventure

One afternoon in May, 1977, I found myself driving a a rented car through congested downtown Boston traffic, from Logan Airport to Chestnut Hill.
What was I doing there? you might ask, Dear Reader, which is what I was asking myself at that very moment!

I was bound for the Boston College Registrar Office, to see if my name was on the graduation list for that weekend.
In those days you had to check this list in person (or ask a trusted friend to go over there for you). These days, of course, they post the list on the University website, for all the world to see!)
I had taken the day off, Friday, to fly to Boston to take part in graduation ceremonies the next Monday, without knowing my status!
The folks at Mount St. Vincent University registrar office here in Halifax had not taken well a couple of weeks earlier to my request that they send an official transcript with my results of two final course requirements to Boston College. It was done, after some active persuasion by me.
Upon arrival on the Boston College campus, I DID check the notices, and my name was included!
Rather than let out a 'whoop' (or say a short prayer of Thanksgiving - we’re at a Catholic school, here!)) I had no one to share my news with, so I had to wait to inform my cousin, when she returned home from work.
Right now, a number of things now had to be done:
- Rent a graduation gown, the appropriate hood and a mortarboard;
- Find a place to stay.
Let me tell you something about the Boston area, Dear Reader: it is home to at least 168 degree-granting institutions, and most of them were having their graduation ceremonies that weekend!
Not a single motel room available within a 70-mile radius.
I know, I checked!
So, where to stay?
I had spent my 1975-1976 year living/working at Perkins School for the Blind, in Watertown, a suburb just a few miles to the north.
Therefore, I called the school’s main switchboard, asked for the principal, reached him, and made my request for a place to lay my head.
At that moment, I still had no idea whether he remembered me, or even if a room were available. But, true to form, (because Perkins is such a small, friendly, place, even with 150 students, everybody knows everybody else), he replied, “Sure, come right over.”
After congratulating me, he was kind enough to: escort me to a residence, assign me a room, and provide a key, for the length of my stay.
Those things done, I was able to visit with my cousin a number of times over the weekend and look around a bit, while I anticipated the actual graduation day.
It dawned sunny and warm, it became warmer throughout the morning, and as we 4000+ graduates in our black gowns, hoods, and mortarboards marched into Alumni Stadium at 10 a.m., the temperature had reached 90°F.
Black absorbs heat.
I had never walked on artificial turf (which also was black) and had never felt the radiation / reflection of heat by that material. We were in for a warm stretch of speeches and presentations.
Only two of us from my class of 25 attended, but I met my classmate (from Montreal) in the crowd, and we sat together and speculated about what our American classmates were doing at the time!
The graduation committee was kind enough to provide drinking water stations in various locations around the stadium. No one fainted.
I don't remember much else about the hour-long ceremony, but it was truncated because we were about to break up into individual "schools" for the actual degree presentation, starting at about noon.
I had made air travel arrangements for later that afternoon, and realized that I would have to make a quick decision at that moment before the school ceremony.
I located my course Director, explained to her that I had to get back to Logan airport to catch a plane to Halifax, and would I be able to have my degree in my hand before the second ceremony.
A few minutes later, the Dean of Arts appeared; Father shook my hand, congratulated me and presented me with my degree: Masters of Education, Visually Handicapped. In Latin.
I thanked him, ran back to return my gown, hood and mortarboard, located my rented car, and drove off to Logan airport.
There is a another pleasant little cap to this story: when the plane reached Canada, we landed in Yarmouth, and had to enter the terminal, with luggage, to look after Customs procedures.
When the Officer asked me if I had anything to declare, and how much I had spent and the United States, I replied, "I have this masters degree from Boston College, on which I spent about $4000 over last year.”
Even in the process of checking my luggage, he stopped, offered his hand, congratulated me, returned the degree to my valise and sent me on my way!