Memories of Davenport House and its Surroundings

[Alan Bernheimer Jr]

By the time my father, A.W. Bernheimer, arrived at the lab in the mid-1930s as a student of A.A. Schaeffer, the imposing dwelling at the entrance from 25A was called the Carnegie Dorm. It had already reached a state of former glory. Current Bio Lab lore reported that when Mrs. Davenport (trained as a biologist) lived there, she complained of "the sex cries of young people," a reminder that warm summer nights will always be ... warm summer nights. Dr. Davenport himself was reported to have died after he caught a cold while dissecting a whale that had washed up on the Sandspit.

My memories pick up in the mid-1950s, and though I rarely entered the Carnegie Dorm, it held an iconic position as gatekeeper with a brooding, looming presence. The large lawn north of the dorm is full of memories, and stood out in my childhood mind as a particularly green and tranquil spot, one of the few level expanses in a hillside world that otherwise always slanted down to the harbor, with one of the eponymous cold springs forming its northern border. Its curious flatness was further emphasized by the steep, grassy bank between the building and the lawn that, in retrospect, must have been produced when the latter was leveled.

It was a barefoot world, all summer long, and the lawn was soft and cool underfoot. The steep bank was even better for somersaults and rolling down than the gentler slope north of Hooper House.

But the lawn is most memorable by night, as the site of square dances held every few weeks, a high-water mark of summer social life--at least in the eyes of a child who was allowed to stay up late for the event. It was a magical, nighttime version of a day at the beach. The same blankets families used at the Sandspit were spread on the dewy grass at the foot of the steep bank, just outside the glare of a couple of incandescent floodlights on a wooden post. As at the beach, we all faced the same direction, but instead of swimming, it was square dancing we watched, with a faint turpentine aroma of primitive mosquito repellent, moths swarming in the floodlight, and fireflies dotting the darkness.

The caller was Carlton MacDowell, who seemed a fairly persnickety and formal fellow for the role (he did not appear to be fond of children), somewhat flustered by the task of instructing and untangling a mixed bag of youngish amateurs. The music was supplied by a 78rpm record player that MacDowell operated as he called directions through a microphone. There were usually enough dancers for five or six squares, and at least as many sedentary spectators and kids running around underfoot, as the somewhat florid older gent intoned, "Dive for the oyster, dig for the clam, [something] for the sardines-get a full can," with a healthy dose of "alaman left" and "do-si-dos."