JAMES FARRAR, JR.

                                          June 19, 1996

                                         Mame Warren,
                                           Interviewer

Warren: This is Mame Warren. Today is the 19th of June 1996. I'm in Lexington,
Virginia, with James Farrar, Jr.

         Now, your family goes way back at this place. You know, I think it's really
interesting. There are a lot of families that go way back. What is it about this place
that is a generational thing?
Farrar: I don't know. That really is a good question. Ours, in fact, doesn't go back as
far as lots of families, if you wanted to date it to, I guess, my great-grandfather's
delivering the baccalaureate address in June of 1911. But I've talked to a lot of folks,
and I suspect you have too, whose families go back even further. It's really only
three generations for our family, but there are many families who go back, who can
trace it all the way back to Augusta Academy, and that really blows your mind.

         My guess is that a lot of that has to do with-I don't know. I was about to say
that it might be as much a Southern tradition as anything else, but I'm not sure that
the sectional thing is altogether it. I suspect that it has much more to do with the
culture of the institution, particularly here. It was vaulted into more or less
national visibility as a result of Lee's presidency. Of course, prior to that, it was a
nice, comfortable, Southern academy for gentlemen from the South, and then Lee
changed that dramatically.

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         But I don't know. I don't think there's any set answer. It's interesting to
note, though, that as families become more spread out across the country and you
still see that genealogical continuity throughout the generations, that's when it
really gets interesting to me. It's one thing if the family is from Virginia or
Maryland and you've got three or four generations. It's relatively easy. There's a
proximity. But when you get some of these families, as they are today, all over the
country, and you've still got three and four and five generations, that's more
significant, I think. I think that speaks, as much as anything, to the culture of the
institution.
Warren: So often you hear about these children, I've been hearing, these people
who came here as children. It was a given in their lives. Was that true for you?
Farrar: No, it really wasn't. I'm not sure that my father didn't know better, you
know, ultimately what was going to happen, but for my brother and me it was not a
foregone
conclusion that we would come. He very much encouraged us to look at other
schools and to make sure that if we did want to come to W&L, it was for the right
reasons and not just because it was safe and easy.

         So my brother and I both looked around. We didn't conduct our searches-as
I'm not sure that a lot of students did back in the sixties or early seventies, compared
to today at least, the way they do this college search today. It's a different scene out
there now than it was twenty-five years ago. But we did look around, and I think
we both knew that we wanted a smaller institution, smaller than a UVA, UNC type
of thing, although we had a number of friends going to all those schools. But
finally, it just was much more comfortable for us to be here, was just more natural.
So he really did encourage us to look, and we did a little bit of that, but I'm not so
sure that your folks, my folks in that case, didn't know exactly what was going to
happen at that point and just kind of let it happen.

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Warren: Now, I'm jumping ahead, and it's my fault, not yours. Let's step back.
Your grandfather went here. Did he stay on and continue working here, or was
your father the first person to work here?
Farrar: No, my father was the first one. My grandfather was the class of '14, 1914,
and, frankly, I'm not sure how he got here. I'm really not sure. I suspect that his
father clearly had a great deal of influence on the decision.

         But my father-I'm trying to get the chronology right, I'm not sure. My
father graduated from Choate in-well, I'm going to say in the late 1930s. I don't
recall the date. But he graduated from Choate, and then he immediately went into
the marines. This was obviously right around World War II time, so he was class of
'40, maybe, or something like that at Choate and did what everybody else in the
world did and went in the military.

         He came out at the end of the war, and I think he spent a summer at Yale and
then matriculated at W&L. He finished W&L in '49. While at W&L, he and a
bunch of his buddies from the Delt house and every other house on campus had
gone into the post office and had re-enlisted in the reserves, that being the patriotic
thing to do. He then went on to Columbia Graduate School. He was in the English
program there. He didn't finish that program, because Korea broke out and he was
recalled. He went down to Cherry Point. He was a sergeant in the marines in
World War II and was in the Pacific Theater, and so he went back down to Cherry
Point.

        It was then that Frank Gilliam called him and said, "I want you to come,
when you're finished doing what you're doing with the marines, whenever that
stint finishes-he didn't go to Korea. He was stationed there, I guess, at Cherry
Point for I don't know how long. But Frank Gilliam said basically, "When you're
finished, I want you to come work at Washington and Lee."

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         My father had plans to go to finished his master's degree in English and then
go on back into New England or wherever and teach and coach in secondary
schools. He wanted to go head into teaching in secondary school work. And Frank
Gilliam knew that, so he picked him up before he got finished that program and
said, "Come and teach English at W&L."
Warren: Even without a master's?
Farrar: Right. It was much easier to do in those days. Plus, he wanted to get him
into the administration. He worked in the dean of students' office, and eventually I
guess moved away from that and moved into admissions work and became Frank
Gilliam's understudy, assistant admissions director. And then when Frank Gilliam
retired-and again, I'm not sure of the year. It would have been in the early sixties,
probably-became admissions director.

         So that is essentially the way it went for our family. My father was back here
in 1950, and I was born in '52. I guess, as they say, the rest is history, whatever that
means.
Warren: Where did your family live?
Farrar: The earliest recollections that I have, and they're probably induced by home
movies, are the faculty apartments on the corner of Washington Street. I forget the
name of the other street. It's the cinder block bunker-looking building that's behind
what is now the KA house:
Warren: At Lewis Street?
Farrar: I guess it is Lewis, the corner of Washington and Lewis, right there sort of
catty-corner from the police station. We were in there with the Cooks [phonetic], Jay
and Flossie Cook, because the home videos, the home movies, show us with Gary
and Trippi Cook, Jay and Flossie's kids. I can't remember who else lived in there,
but, of course, there was, as is today, the normal flow of temporary part-time faculty

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and people like that through there or permanent who were waiting to build or buy a
house, that kind of thing, the transient faculty.

         We were there probably for a year or so while we were building a house, and
then after that my folks built a house out on what is now Paxton Street. At that
point, it was really at the farthest reaches of town, on the west side of town, and now
borders the number 5 fairway on the golf course. But back then, it was the Johnston
farm. Those are the only two places we lived when I was alive. My folks, prior to
that, lived in the prefabs, in the war housing there at Davidson Park, and, again, it
was really for a matter of months or maybe a year or so. I don't recall the length of
time.
Warren: Do you know whether any pictures survived of that? I'd love to see that.
Farrar: There may be. I can remember them vividly. I remember being in them as
a child, going in and visiting people.
Warren: I'll have to think about who would have pictures.
Farrar: Yeah. I got to think Frank Parsons. Maybe Sis Davis might, because I think
she and Pax Davis lived, I think they might have lived in there. I'm not positive
about that. I wonder if someone like John Jennings might have some of that stuff.
Of course, Frank, he may have exhausted his resources there.

         They were long, green, you know, just the single one. Have you ever seen
any pictures of them? They were long, green multi-unit things that were end to
end, like putting the monopoly hotels end to end and stringing those out. I've
forgotten how many rooms there were. I have a recollection of a child coming
down. Maybe it was the Youngbloods or the Colvins. Milton Colvin might have
some photos of that, or Bob Youngblood. I can't remember who-it might have
been before Bob Youngblood's time. It probably was. I'm pretty sure it might have
been Milton Colvin.

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         I'm not sure there was an upstairs to this thing, but I have a recollection of a
child's coming down a flight of stairs in one of those things. But at any rate, they
were not very fancy. They were basically one-room deep, and I guess you could go
from a living room to a dining room. There must have been some kind of upstairs
thing, a bedroom or something.
Warren: So all of this is gone, and what's in Davidson Park now has replaced this.
Farrar: Yeah, the fraternities. As a child growing up, one of my good friends was a
guy named Bruce Ritz, who was Professor Ritz's son, law professor. He's now
retired. Actually, I think he's deceased now. You have to check on that. But at any
rate, this is Bruce Ritz, who I went through school with. He lived right next to the
SAE house on Washington Street. What is now the Outing Club, I think, used to be
Bruce Ritz's house. I can remember vividly the prefabs were still behind the SAE
house and those houses there, the Pi Phi house. It's on the site where they hold
these Friday Alive things in the fraternity houses up there, the Sigma Chi and the
SPE house, and that sloping hill were all prefabs.
Warren: Do you have any idea when they were torn down?
Farrar: I'm going to guess, I'm just guessing, in maybe the late sixties, mid-sixties,
maybe late sixties. I don't recall them when I was a student here.
Warren: Do you remember the construction of those fraternity houses?
Farrar: Of the SPE house?
Warren: The houses that are out there now.
Farrar: Well, those are just recent. Those are like three or four years ago. So they
were gone, I'm going to guess the mid- to late sixties.
Warren: So all that land was idle, was empty for that many years?
Farrar: Mm-hmm.
Warren: No wonder I don't remember the fraternity houses.

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Farrar: Yeah. Those new brick structures are really a result of the campaign and the
Fraternity Renaisance program. The three of them up there now, of course, the
Kappa Sigs-you've got the KAs across the street and the Kappa Sig, and then I
forget which comes next, the Sigma Chi and the SPE house, but they're right there.
Then as that slope continues down towards the parking lot behind the Tommy
Baker's real estate company and across the street from the tourist center, all that
used to be just rows of these prefabs, because I can remember Bruce Ritz and I used
to run around back there in all that area and hang out.

         He had a clubhouse right there behind his house, literally right up against the
SAE property, and he used to get all their old Playboys and things like that. He had a
great classic kid clubhouse. I thought it was so cool to grow up right next to a
fraternity house, all these things that he would pilfer from the fraternity from the
trash cans and all this stuff.
Warren: Tell me more about that. That's great.
Farrar: It's a classic kid situation. So many kids had that same experience. Bruce
just happened to have this neat clubhouse in the back. It was an old shed, it looked
like. He and his dad or somebody had gone in there and tinkered around. But it
was all stuff that was absolutely forbidden for young kids to have and to see and do,
and that's where so much of the education of the young adolescents comes is by that
sort of discovery process amongst themselves, and in a college town, it comes more
quickly for a lot of kids than it does in other places, because we used to hang out
with a lot of these guys.

         Some of the guys I can remember very well. Tersh Baker, a big old guy from
Texas who played football at W&L and he'd wear cowboy boots with his shorts, and
all those things we thought were absolutely scandalous and kind of neat. You
thought it was just the coolest thing in the world to be a college kid. I'm not sure
that we ever really made pests out of ourselves. I didn't hang around the dorms as

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much as maybe some other kids did. But we used to hang around with guys. There
was a guy named Bobby Munson, who was one of them. Bobby Payne, who's now a
federal judge in Richmond. Bobby Munson's deceased. Bobby Payne. The
Andrews, and Tom Andrews is now a banker out in Seattle. I can't remember his
brother's name, but the Andrews brothers were from Baltimore and they wrestled
and played lacrosse. Jamie Andrews. Jamie Andrews is the other one. Jamie played
football. These are guys who worked in the local public school system as PE
instructors on kind of a volunteer basis, and all the young guys in town just put
them up on a pedestal. These were the coolest guys in the world. Bobby Munson
wrestled for W&L. Bobby Payne, I think Bobby was a little all-American football
player. He was one of the best W&L had during the sixties, during the McLaughlin
era. Jamie Andrews, Tom Andrews, and there are others. I'm remembering right
now only those guys.
Warren: Tell me about what these students would do in the schools. How would
that interaction happen?
Farrar: I don't know exactly how it happened that they were there. The school
board, I guess, or the school put out a call to W&L and said, "We don't have a PE
instructor. We would like some volunteer help," and they would find these guys
who were willing. Like today, so many kids are willing to give time to RARO and
coach teams. Now there are professional people in the school system to do the PE
thing, but that sort of sharing still goes on through the RARO, the Rockbridge Area
Recreation Organization, and literally scores of W&L students, and VMI to some
extent, but mainly W&L students who have the time in the afternoons to go and
coach Little League teams. So these guys would go over to the elementary schools
and do the PE thing, and it was just great.

        They knew who some of us W&L types were, because they knew my father,
for example, and so it was easy for us to have that kind of relationship. And then,

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subsequently that's when we would go to athletic events and those things. We'd
watch them compete. And then as we got a little older and had the run of the town
in the afternoons, you'd end up stopping by their house in town and hanging out
for a little bit.
Warren: You mean their fraternity house?
Farrar: No, no, no. Well, the fraternity houses to some degree, but mainly their
private houses. Like the house that Cecile and Frank West-Settle, Frank Settle and
Cecile West-Settle lived in on the corner of Jefferson and I think McDowell. That
used to be student apartments, and Logie Bullitt, I guess. Well, maybe not Logie, but
Tersh Baker and a lot of these hardcore, beer-drinking, football-playing types would
hang out there, live there, and occasionally we'd go through and just mess around.
It was perfectly innocent. They'd say, "Ah, come on in. What are you kids doing?"
and just hang out for a little while and thought it was really neat to be in a college
guy's apartment.

         I can remember Bill David. Bill David was a wide receiver for W&L back in
the sixties. I can't remember when he graduated. He was from California, and Bill
had, I'm not sure if he had them simultaneously, but at one point he had a
motorcycle, and I can remember he gave me a ride back to the gym one day from the
football field after a football game on the back of this big motorcycle, which put my
mother in apoplectic that I would get on a motorcycle, much less with a college
student, so that was a big deal.

         Then he had a car, a Corvette, a silver Corvette, that in black paint or else
black tape said, "The Silver Bitch." I can remember one day we pulled up to the stop
light. It's so innocent now. Nobody would think of a car named The Silver Bitch.
It would be kind of like, big deal. But back in the early sixties, mid-sixties, it was a
pretty big deal. We were parked. We came to a stop light right in front of Lexington
Presbyterian Church, and we were behind Bill David in The Silver Bitch. My

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mother looked at that car and said, "Jim, what are you going to do about that?" You
know, this guy's a hell-raising Californian here in sleepy little Lexington with his
Silver Bitch.

         I can remember peering over the back seat, looking at this thing and thinking,
"God, that's just the coolest thing in the world," and here's my mother, who's just
ticked off that a W&L student would have a car named Silver Bitch. It's pretty
hilarious. Now you wouldn't even blink a! it. You'd just say, "Thank God it's only
the silver bitch," compared to what else you might have on there.
Warren: That's great. I can picture the whole scene.
Farrar: Oh, yeah. I mean, this is stuff right out of the show "The Wonder Years."
Have you ever seen that show?
Warren: Yes. I had to stop watching it because I identified with it too much.
Farrar: I know. Well, that's Bruce Ritz and the clubhouse and Bill David and The
Silver Bitch and stuff like that. Those are episodes out of "The Wonder Years." We
really did live a lot of that kind of stuff right here in Lexington during the fifties and
sixties. It was pretty much fun.
Warren: You made a reference to the McLaughlin years. Am I correct in assuming
that you would have gone to a lot of sports events?
Farrar: Oh, yeah. Oh, God, my father was a huge sports nut, and my brother and I
shared that enthusiasm. Jeez, he took us to everything. I mean, we went to
everything, literally. Everything that he could get us out of the house to, we would
go to, all the wrestling matches and the basketball games in Doremus.

        Just like there is today, like my kids and Kevin O'Connell and all the W&L
faculty and staff brats running around over in the Warner Center, we did the same
thing. Boyd Williams' son, Chuck Williams, and Buck Leslie's son, Bucky, and
Marshall Washburn, and Doug Chase wasn't faculty, but Doug was always around,
Gary and Trippi Cook, and the list goes on and on.

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         But we'd go to all those things and watch the students in Doremus, sit on the
balcony on the track above the basketball court there and conveniently drop shoes
on the other team sitting behind them, those kinds of things. It was just a blast.
We'd go down to the gym on Saturdays, and my dad would be playing handball
with Murph or some other guys, and we'd be in the wresting room or something,
that kind of thing. It was just a great place for a kid to grow up.

         Of course, Lee McLaughlin, you mentioned, was part of that. They came to
Lexington in the late fifties. All this is documented elsewhere, of course. I just can't
remember the date. But he was the head football coach at Episcopal High School in
Alexandria and had some fabulous teams up there, and came down after the
cheating scandal of '54. Boyd Williams was an insurance agent, and he volunteered
for a couple of years, and then they hired Lee McLaughlin. Lee came, and then they
were off and running. They had a few years gearing up, and then they had these
incredible teams in the sixties, small college championship teams.

         That's one way that I got to know a lot of these guys and know who they
were, the Bobby Paynes and those guys. Barton Dick, of course, who's here in town,
and a lot of those guys. I can speak as a-I knew "Knubby," knew Lee very well,
went to his summer camp and all that, grew up with young Lee. We're two months
apart in age.

         That's a terrific chapter in W&L's history period, not just sports history, but
within the culture and fabric of the institution. Those McLaughlin years meant
more than just good football teams because of the type of guy Lee McLaughlin was
and the kind of influence he had on people like Bobby Payne and Courtney Mauzy
and Barton Dick and Terry Fohs and all those, Charlie Gummey and all these great
players from the sixties. That was a pretty significant time. Then he died in '68 or
'69.
Warren: Can you talk about that?

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Farrar: Oh, yeah. Well, it's frightening how much Gary Fallon's experience
paralleled Lee McLaughlin's. It probably is something to astrology, if you want to
look at it that way, because I don't know how else to account for it. But Lee
McLaughlin's influence was profound, and then Lee died in that tragic accident. He
was electrocuted out at his summer camp. And that was it, that was the end of the
McLaughlin era.

         Then there were others who came in and who-the football program
specifically floundered for a few years, until they were able to hire Gary Fallon. Gary
came down-again, I can't recall. Probably in the late seventies, probably '77 or '78,
somewhere in that neighborhood, or maybe even a couple years later. But at any
rate, Gary, his legacy is well known across the institution for that decade of the
eighties and early nineties and the impact that he had on kids. He had an influence
on some of these guys from the decades of eighties and early nineties in a similar
fashion to what McLaughlin had on the W&L guys in the late fifties and sixties. Of
course, Gary's death was tragic, untimely, how-do-you-account-for-it kind of thing.
Warren: We're talking to posterity here. Tell us what happened to Gary Fallon.
Farrar: Well, Gary, I played golf with him a couple days before, and on the day he
died, I remember passing him on the street, waving, and then the next thing I knew,
on Sunday we were getting the news that he had died in his sleep. There wasn't an
autopsy, but the assumption is, after they checked it all out, it appears that he died in
his sleep of a heart attack, just that simple.

         Gary Fallon, we used to occasionally bump into each other like at five-thirty,
six in the morning down in the weight room, and I'm here to tell you, anybody that
knew Gary knew that this guy was chiseled out of that cinder-block wall. Gary
Fallon was just in incredible shape, and then he dies in his sleep of a heart attack.
It's one of those things you just don't-and unfortunately, I say unfortunately
because it would kind of-I've wondered whether or not there might have been a

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congenital kind of thing that nobody ever picked up before that would account for it
or whether he just flat had a heart attack. How do you figure it?

         So I think the Fallon and McLaughlin eras are-I mean, it's scary to me how
the untimely death, and they're both very young, had been very successful, had a lot
of influence on the young people that they worked with. It's just a killer.

         But Lee McLaughlin was great, and Gary was, too. They were both great guys,
a lot of fun to be with, great practical jokers, just really neat people.
Warren: What do you mean, practical jokers?
Farrar: They loved doing stuff, pulling jokes on guys. I'm not going to be able to
come up with a lot of specifics, but Lee McL~ughlin was notorious for that kind of
thing, practical jokes that he would pull on people. He loved doing that kind of
stuff, absolutely reveled in it. And Gary was a lot the same way.

         If you look at people in that profession, working with young people and
coaching, there is that sort of childlike element to them, because after all, they're
working with young people in games and it's supposed to be fun. They had a way
of, while they would put a lot of pressure on themselves, they'd get a lot of it off
through good-natured practical jokes.

         Lee McLaughlin was a very strong Christian. I can remember being in his
home when they would-maybe this would be late in the evening or something on
a Sunday before dinner, and he would get his family together and he'd read some
from the Bible and would have kind of mini devotion period. He would always do
that at his summer camp. There was a morning session every morning devotions,
which was about a fifteen-minute period when he'd read a passage and there'd be a
little lesson to it, and then there'd be announcements and you'd go on about your
daily activities. So that element was very, very prevalent with Lee McLaughlin. He
never let that get in the way of a good joke or having a good time, but that's just the

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way he was. That was important to him. I can't speak to that about Gary, but I
suspect in his own way it was important.

         They were both sort of wise in just the way of life, just the way that they
worked with young people and the influence they had on their lives. They just
gave good advice, and the guys that they worked with really bought into it.
Warren: One day a couple weeks ago I went through the photographs over in the
sports information office, and I found a picture that I just loved of a wrestling
match. Here you had these two guys in the foreground really going at it, doing their
wrestling, and in the background are all these people down there and they're really
cheering, and they're all wearing their coats and ties. I just loved that. It so spoke to
a time.
Farrar: It puts the period in the framework. It really tells you when it was, doesn't
it?
Warren: Was that just a given around here?
Farrar: Yeah. And I suspect it was in lots of other places, too, although I don't have
that personal experience. But I suspect-let's say that photo was from the late fifties
or early sixties-you could go over to Charlottesville or maybe Princeton or
Davidson and you'd probably see a very similar scene. So I think it reflects as much
as anything just what was going on everywhere. But it certainly was the case here.
It was a given that most of the time you're going to see the men in coats and ties.
And, of course, along with that for the freshmen was the beanie thing.

         Dad used to take us down to Doc's Corner Grill, which is not Mountain Copy
Graphics, and Doc was-I don't remember his last name. But Doc was this great old
guy who ran the grill, and they served breakfast. I'm not going to remember her
name, but she's the secretary at Maury River Middle School. I think her last name
is Alexander, and I think it might be Florence Alexander. I think that's her name.
She was a waitress down at Doc's, and we would go down there occasionally for

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breakfast, because that's when we were going to Ann Smith, which is now the Chi
SPE house. God, it just makes me weep every time I think of the Chi SPEs being in
that school.
Warren: Tell me.
Farrar: I'll get to that later.
Warren: I have wondered about that.
Farrar: I don't want to talk about that. It just makes me ill to think about it.

         But at any rate, that was Ann Smith, and we used to go down to Doc's and
have breakfast. It would be fairly early in the morning. You'd see a lot of guys going
to class, and that's what I remember vividly, a lot of the W&L guys going to class or
coming from the post office or going to class, and you'd see all the freshmen in the
beanies and the coat and tie thing. I can't imagine any town or any place in the
country, certainly any college town, being more typical of reflecting the period than
we did. Again, I'm quite sure that the same kind of thing went on at other schools,
but ours, it was quintessential period coat and tie.

         Of course, then they had the assimilation committee, which is really pretty
hilarious when you think about it. It was nothing but a fascist, conformist
committee which made sure that everybody was doing pretty much the same thing.
You couldn't be too different then, and that's the downside of what was on the
surface, the pretty Norman Rockwell picture postcard kind of image of what a
school or a college town was supposed to be like, when, in fact, there really wasn't
very much tolerance. And so the assimilation committee made sure that people
wore their coats and ties and the freshmen wore their beanies and that people
weren't rocking the boat too hard. You look back on it now, you say, "My God, how
could-." It could exist then, but you couldn't even think of it existing in any school
today.
Warren: When did the boat start to get rocked?

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Farrar: The late sixties, when the spillover from UVA and other schools, but I guess
there was some agitation from some of the activists at UVA, and our own. I mean,
Jeff Gingold and others here at W&L were in the middle of the war protest
movement. So it was the late sixties.

         Frankly, it was just before I got here, because I can remember friends of mine
who were here in-let's see, I started in the fall of '70, so those who started in the
fall of '69 were just right there in the middle of it, and, that's when the school
decided-and I can't remember if it was for more than one year. But there was a
point at which-maybe it was in the spring of '70 or the spring of '69 when they
allowed students to take incompletes in order to protest the war.
Warren: That was 1970.
Farrar: Is that what it was? Yeah, the spring of '70.
Warren: May of 1970.
Farrar: Right. Okay. Well, it was at that time that all of these demonstrations were
going on, and they had them down in front of the chapel. We had our share, but
not nearly to the extent that other schools did. Depending on how you want to look
at it, we were protected, if you want to look at it that way, or insulated by geography,
the fact that we were harder to get to than a lot of other places, and we were smaller.
We probably, given the nature of Washington and Lee, had fewer people who were
interested in agitating against the war, although it was an element within the
student body. And I wasn't here then in that year, so I've just pretty much heard
when people talk about it.
Warren: Where were you?
Farrar: I was in high school. See, I was the class of '74, so I entered in the fall of '70,
so I missed that year.
Warren: Did you go to high school here in Lexington?
Farrar: I went to Episcopal High School in Alexandria.

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Warren: So you were gone through this transitional period.
Farrar: I was gone in the late sixties. I was watching it from within my high school,
where there was that same concern, and everybody was going through that. And in
Washington, we were actually closer to it than a lot of people, because we were right
in Alexandria watching the city burn. We watched, after Martin Luther King was
assassinated, we could literally-Episcopal's on a slightly elevated property, and at
the top of some of the buildings, you could actually see Washington burning.

         But the story that I've heard-and you'll have to get somebody else to
recount it. Probably Bob Huntley would be the best, because the story is about Bob
and Betty Brubaker. There was a sit-down demonstration in his office. Some of the
students came in, and it might have been-I can't remember if it would have been
the black students or just students protesting the war, but there was an element of
that that ended up in his office, trying to stage a sit-down strike.

         The story that I've always heard is a great one. The students came in, and
Betty just said, "How may I help you?"

         "We want to see President Huntley."
         "He'll be in shortly. You all have a seat." Or they had taken a seat on the
floor.
         Bob came in, stepping over all these guys, and saying, "How can I help you
all?"
         They're protesting this and that, and they want to call off classes and all this,
and he just said something like, "Betty, can you get these gentlemen something to
drink," just very nonchalant, like they're just W&L guys, treated them in that way
as opposed to saying, "Hell, no, get out of here." You need to get that story from
somebody, because it was pretty typical of the way W&L would approach something
like that.
Warren: I actually got it from Gene Perry himself.

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Farrar: Is it Gene? It was the black students, then, wasn't it?
Warren: Yeah. Gene told me the story.
Farrar: Yeah. Tell me the story. Remind me what it was.
Warren: He just said that it went on for a while, just like you were describing, and
finally they said, "Well, nobody's paying any attention to us. Why were we here?"
They eventually just got up and left.
Farrar: Just disappeared, yeah.
Warren: They just totally took the passion out of whatever it was they were there
for.
Farrar: But those were tough times everywhere. I guess we got off a little bit easier
than a lot of places.
Warren: I need to turn the tape over.