OVER THE 33 YEARS I TAUGHT IN JMU'S ENGLISH DEPARTMENT, I must have written hundreds of letters of recommendation for students seeking employment or admission into graduate schools and professional programs. I like to believe that my preparation as a recommender started in my first years at the school in the mid-'60s, when it was still Madison College. The letters I submitted in those days were not in support of graduating seniors aspiring to become managers or teachers, but were written to vet young local men hopeful of acquiring dates with Madison females.

In 1965, Madison was, of course, largely a women's college, which -- given that era -- meant it was a place that served a lot of cucumber sandwiches at stiff afternoon receptions and erected a lot of barriers intended to keep nature from following its true and often errant course. Those were the days of dress codes for the women -- no pants to be worn to class except in inclement weather, no patent leather shoes -- and curfews. Additionally, a rule existed intended to keep the women in their cloistered space by discouraging males from entering that same space in pursuit of courtship and conquest. This regulation required that local would-be suitors had to submit to the dean of women letters from presumably reputable sources attesting to the young men's upstanding character before they were allowed to date Madison women.

Whether or not I actually qualified as a "reputable source" is still open to debate, but I did come quickly to be perceived as such. Harrisonburg was, of course, a rather tight-knit community 40 years ago; and, since I was a bachelor without a car at the time, I spent most of my free hours circulating among the natives. I often ate at downtown lunch counters and restaurants. I also frequently received invitations to parties from the few men, mostly locals, enrolled then at Madison. Non-Madison males were frequently present at these parties. Under these varying circumstances, certain young men, most of them in their 20s (as I was), when meeting me and learning of my position on the Madison faculty, were not hesitant about asking me to write references to the dean of women on their behalf.

Since these men were virtual strangers to me, I had to wrest from each supplicant sufficient vital information from which to create a convincing portrait of trustworthiness. I probed each one about his religious affiliation, jobs held, awards won, volunteerism and what he perceived to be his best character trait and his worst. On the latter point, I recommended that he choose a trait not too damning, just bad enough to add some credibility to the portrait.

It never occurred to me to check any files downtown for police records on my clients.

When the question of payment for my services arose, I generally settled for a six-pack of beer, payable when I sent off the letter. I wasn't taking any chances of not getting paid if it didn't perform the desired magic. As far as memory allows, I never heard from any of my clients after the beer was delivered. Perhaps the dean of women filed the letters away without opening them, or perhaps she whiffed their suspicious gestation. Most likely, any dates that my letters made possible led to no lasting relationship, and therefore no wedding receptions for me to be invited to.

Looking back on it all now, I must confess, as I typed those recommendations, a certain rueful irony was not lost on me. The Madison Faculty Handbook of the time prohibited single faculty members like me from dating students. It was silent on the issue of married faculty, none of whom ever asked me for a letter.

A Madison Century story by Robin McNallie, professor emeritus of English