Wintertime at Conn: Past and Present

Photo Courtesy of Brooke Sponzo.

Though the spring semester has only just begun, it’s clear that students are more determined than ever to make the best of this unusual year. The Camels are unwilling to let the pandemic dampen their spirits any further—a resolve that was evident in the aftermath of the first snowstorm of the semester.

On Feb. 7th, late-waking students arose to find Tempel Green littered with snowmen and other frosty creatures of all shapes and sizes. The hill in front of Cummings was covered in sled tracks of abused container lids and laundry baskets. In the Arboretum, a snow angel graced the powder-coated bog and boot prints ventured cautiously out into the freshly iced pond. 

It was as though every onboarding student had reached the same realization: they were not above having a good old-fashioned snow day.

But this was certainly not the first time that Connecticut College has entertained such a blizzard, nor was it the first time that Camels became penguins for a day. 

“The trays came out of the dining halls and the Lyman-Allyn museum hill (Conn. College’s best kept secret) was visited by many adventurers,” pens student Ross Dackow in a 1986 TCV Letter to the Editor documenting a similar February storm. “Cross country skis hit the terf, snowballs hit you in the face, and the class idiots were walking around in their Bermuda shorts catching pneumonia.” 

In 1938, a writer simply known as “Blackstone’s Snowlady” reported that: “not Spring, but SNOW, has arrived to this, our college, and it would seem that C.C. has gone ski crazy. From eight o’clock on the mad rush for skies continued. Those who owned a pair began waxing and polishing, and in general, overhauling their prized possessions, but those who didn’t have any of their own soon found pairs—after a short search of some two or three hours.”

In fact, Camels have historically been quite attached to this winter sport. In 1937, the Voice archives divulge mention of a ski slope “starting from the top of Overlook Hill (the highest point in the arboretum), above Gallows Lane,” that “goes gradually from a steep to a gentle slope for about 800 feet and is graded onto the lake.”

But skiing wasn’t the only winter activity that former students enjoyed. For many years, there’s record of Camels attending a winter carnival held at Dartmouth, where a “Carnival Queen” was chosen and a snow sculpture-building contest took place. In 1935, student Doris Gilbert tells the campus of her experience there: “the snow sculpting was very lovely. Almost everything imaginable was represented—a sphinx, the north wind, several nude ladies who looked very cold, and one huge king kong, so tall we couldn’t figure out how it was built”. 

Of course, with the threat of February storms also comes the promise of Valentine’s Day. This year, students celebrated by sending Cameltine Grams to friends in dorms they cannot yet visit and attending virtual Valentine-making parties, like that hosted by PRISM. In years past however, students would have been preparing for the Mid-Winter Formal: an event that was perhaps Conn’s biggest. Throughout the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, this tea dance followed by a prom was the talk of campus. In the months preceding, the Voice contained ads for nearby dress and beauty shops and the College selected eight esteemed women to serve as the event’s “waitresses,” who were treated like celebrities and wore themed costumes.

But, like now, Valentine’s Day at Conn has not always been perfect, or free from hardship. In February 1943, the ballroom in Knowlton (known as the Knowlton Salon then, the Dining Room now) hosted a Valentine’s Day dance where “defense stamp corsages were sold at the door” to raise funds for the second World War. “Only a tangy punch was served in the way of refreshments,” one of its attendees details: “because ‘the sugar problem was too great for anything else,’” referring to wartime food shortages and rationing.

Even in such gloomy times though, Camels were still Camels, and still up to their usual antics just like today. “Happy Moore ‘41,” the paper reports, on the efforts of various campus Cupids: “sent a box containing sixteen make-your-own Valentines (all unmade) to a certain boy, who shall be nameless, with the enclosed note, ‘Choose one and please return.’” I’d challenge any current Camel to hold onto half the confidence Happy had.

And I’d challenge them too, the next time they see flakes falling outside their window, or hear the plows roar by, to grab the nearest snowball and start rolling. For not only will they find a bit of fun in this trying year, but they’ll also take part in a tradition as old as Connecticut College itself.