Following is an email received on July 19, 2015 from a former Hunter College student, whose stories add to the legend
that was Glen. Thank you, Ira, for these "blessed" memories.
From: Ira J. Furman
Sent: Sunday, July 19, 2015 3:54 PM
To: tnygreen
Subject: Of Blessed Memory
I assume I am addressing the son of Glen T. Nygreen, the dean of students when I earned my undergraduate degree from Hunter College in The Bronx. I recently had occasion to mention his generosity and professionalism some fifty years ago and the friendship that developed when he came to Hunter from Kent State University. Because I believe we live on in the thoughts of those who remember us, and because I read your eulogy, I was inspired to share a couple of memories.
At Hunter I was devoted entirely to my role as a reporter and editor with the bi-campus school newspaper, The Arrow, and had multiple occasions to interview the Dean. He came to know that I found grades only important enough to assure I met the threshold for graduation and that by my senior year I had already satisfied my career goal when I landed full-time employment at night with a major New Jersey daily newspaper.
After setting the school record by missing all 45 classes of a 3-credit course, yet passing with a respectable-enough “C” based on the final exam, your father sent out word he wanted me to come to his office. As there were no dormitories, nor cell phones or e-mail back then, it was a matter of word-of-mouth that “the Dean is looking for Furman.” When I showed up, he had a proposition for me.
It went along these lines: “Listen, Ira, I know you don’t attend classes anyway, so I don’t feel guilty asking you to help me out with a project. The Peace Corps is sending a representative and we want to be good hosts, so I am asking you to be my emissary and to use my name to make whatever arrangements are necessary to accommodate the fellow.” I undertook the task with gusto and, to this day, that representative from the Peace Corps and his wife are cherished friends.
Then there was the time that my buddy Ed and I cooked up the idea of a road trip during the summer of ’64. Your father also knew Ed, a fellow educational miscreant devoted to the school newspaper before he, too, launched a professional career in the news business. When I mentioned to your father the possibility of touring Ohio – just for the hell of it – he jumped on the opportunity to make it a reality. Because of his efforts I remember that Ed and I were guests of not only Kent State, but of the University of Cincinnati. Free dorm rooms sure beat paying for a motel!
An earlier interaction with your father came on a Friday in November ’63. During the interval between President Kennedy being shot and the announcement of his death, your father drove his convertible on to the campus, put the top down and turned up the radio. As your father sat there somberly, students crowded against the car. He did not know I was one of them until the photograph I took of the scene ran on the front page of Monday’s school newspaper under the headline I had taken from the Inaugural Address: “With history the final judge of our deeds; let us go forth to lead the land we love.”
A last story of the coincidences of life involving your father. About five years later I was working as the editor of what was called an “action-line” column. It was a front-page feature filled with the paper’s response to seemingly impossible reader requests for assistance. (Like arranging for a free sterile rental car for parents to transport a boy to surgery at Johns Hopkins; getting a free replacement of a glass eye; locating a photograph of the ship on which ancestors came from Europe.)
The managing editor approached me with a personal problem. He was on the board of a local university that was scheduled to interview a dean from an out-of-town college. A sudden death meant the interview had to be cancelled; the man was going to fly to New Jersey that night; and no one but the decedent had a number with which to reach the job candidate before he left work.
The real problem was, my boss reminded me, that the telephone company information operators were on strike. No way to get the school’s number! My first thought was to try to use a wire service to contact a newspaper in the area and have them look up the school’s main number and I would try to take it from there. But then I got the specifics and as soon as the managing editor turned his back, I dialed your father’s office from memory.
His secretary (I think her name was Mrs. Salvin) was so fond of me and full of cheerful concern I had a special nickname for her we shared. So, I said, “Hello, Mother, it’s Ira. I have an urgent need to reach Dean “X” at Kent State and need a phone number for him. Within mere minutes from the editor’s visit to my desk I strode into his office and handed him a piece of paper: “This is the private number for Dean “X.”
I never explained how your father’s hand had enabled me to perform “magic” and become a celebrity in the newsroom.
In 1969, four years after graduation, your father was a guest at my wedding. My wife and I still speak of his advice on that occasion. “Never both get mad at the same time. Always take turns getting mad and no argument will last.”
As we say in my faith, the Dean is "Of Blessed Memory."
Respectfully yours,
Ira J. Furman