Sterling Memorial Library was it. The monumental granite, the stained glass, the statuary, the arched entrance more foreboding than welcoming, it represented the accumulated knowledge of the ages, an intimidating mountain, its upper reaches unscalable. I couldn’t look it in the face.
In Hungry Charlie’s across York Street I tilted the blank wall of my face toward the articulated rear of knowledge, considering procrastination over a beer at base camp in the shadow of that frozen peak. Later, I would find a seat in the main hall or in a reading room, or sometimes in the stacks, but now I’ll just finish this beer and return to my walnut cubby at Morse and consider things further.
– Bill Peck
The two George and Harry’s restaurants were two blocks from each other and worlds apart. The Wall Street G&H became known as a pizza place but was the first place I had their seven layer cake (“You’re smart,” the guy at counter said—to anyone ordering anything I guess.) The seven layer cake was the first time I saw that much butter creme in multiple layers anywhere. I remember the seats near the plate glass window in the front that opened to the fall colors surrounding Silliman College. It had the feel of a college eatery.
The Temple G&H was where we went for late evening snacks. It was darker, more like a place where New Haven town folk would eat, rather than Yale College students. Both places had counter service. I always had coffee and cake during the daylight hours on Wall Street, and liverwurst sandwiches in the evening on Temple Street.
– Neil Blumberg
The summer of ’70 a number of us stayed in New Haven at a duplex up Whalley Ave from the campus. Mostly Bench City folks from Silliman came and went as they passed through town. I had told my parents I wasn’t coming home for the summer so they said they’d cut me off. What a grand declaration of independence that was! I had a job as a medical secretary and the rest painted houses. I had bought a Honda 160 motorcycle to ride to work and scout houses for “cold calls” in the evenings. On weekends I’d help paint, once acting as ballast for Bruce Parker tied to a rope around both our waists so he could paint the upstairs windows since we didn’t have any scaffolding. There’s more to the story but isn’t there always?
– Miriam Mills