“We’ll waive the meal plan, thanks.” I

Architecture in Washington, D.C. reflects a piece of Federal legislation known as the 1910 Height Act. This law among other things limits the height of new construction to no more than the width of the street the proposed building will face plus 20 feet — to a maximum of 130 feet. Although intended in great measure to ensure that the view of the U.S. Capitol is not obstructed, real estate developers quickly realized that this restriction, while enhancing the aesthetics of the city’s skyline, severely limits the economic use of a piece of land. The defined quantity of square footage curtails the number of possible floors (and ceiling height) that can be built from ground to roof, giving interior space in D.C. a “short feel.” The constrained footprint defines the rental, sale, and ultimate value of the properties. Few buildings in D.C. are more than 10 floors. To put this into perspective, the Empire State building has 102 rentable stories; Chicago’s Sears Tower has 110, the U.S. Bank Tower in L.A. reaches to 73.

For colleges and universities in D.C., the Height Act is only one piece of zoning regulation that controls construction; the even-more restrictive guide is known as “the campus plan” — a document, usually submitted to the planning office every 10 years, that lays out a master scheme for how, why, when and where they may use their property. The placement of parking, dormitories, academic buildings, open spaces, landscape treatments and other amenities are carefully delineated with an eye to the future and a respect for the context of the surrounding area. Washington is not alone in structuring the design and growth of campuses. The city of Boston and its residents are even now involved in an intense conversation with Harvard University about its planned expansion into Allston, Mass.; Columbia University’s Manhattanville project recently received limited approval from the New York City authorities but is still under the watchful eye of neighbors; Boston College and the town of Newton, Mass. are discussing the uses for the newly acquired land the school purchased from the archdiocese, and the list goes on.

When schools co-exist with residential neighborhoods as do the schools mentioned above and many others, including N.Y.U., B.U., Georgetown, UPenn, Chicago, Berkeley, U.S.C. and even the University of Vermont, relations between town and gown often focus on facilities that bring large groups of people together: sporting venues and student housing. Crowds of people and cars test the transportation system and patience of neighbors. Nearby residents ask, “Are dormitories good or bad for universities and adjacent neighborhoods?”

Is it better that students are required to live and dine together in college-sponsored facilities than to allow them to participate in the open marketplace, finding shelter wherever they chose, eating and sleeping “among real people?” Neighbors often fear that the presence of student-tenants in privately owned buildings erode their environment. They see undergraduates as transient, loud, messy, inconsiderate, abrasive, using street parking and filling trash receptacles with the remnants of late night parties. Think: beer bottles, nacho chip wrappers, schmeckel deckkers. Students, on the other hand, perceive themselves as friendly, youthful, outgoing, fun-loving social creatures that stay around for four years, providing for their neighbors by hosting and enjoying the company of others.

The true and apocryphal stories about pizza consumption alone and all the beneficial toppings that come out of legendary freshman dorms — Carman at Columbia, Warren Towers at B.U., Thurston at G.W. — are enough to make anyone think twice before collecting 1,000 18-year-olds in any single facility. Community residents believe the university’s obligation to patrol and watch over students — an extended form of in loco parentis, will be better for all if the students are sequestered within the parameters of campus boundaries. High walls make good neighbors, translates from the Latin on the university seal. University staff members counter that young people with ranging hormones should be distributed as widely as possible.

II

But now comes an interesting new twist. While neighbors may have their doubts about the merits of students who are quick, living down the street, they have fewer concerns about those who have gone on to their eternal reward. Dead. Beneath the quad once called home, passed alumni can now spend an eternity. Last spring a newspaper article by Roy Rivenburg spoke about a renewed and growing trend on campus, the construction of crypts. Partly a fund-raising opportunity, partly the chance to provide a final resting home for a mobile society that doesn’t have the traditional geographical roots of earlier generations, these programs take different forms from campus to campus: Duke has a new 2-acre memorial garden; the Citadel is adding urn niches to a carillon tower; and the University of Richmond has a serpentine wall with 2,900 niches. Afterlife membership costs are considerably less than tuition. Even if you count the cremation.

Trinity College in Hartford, Conn. has had a small burial ground near its campus chapel for generations. Gazing at it years go, while standing on the lawn waiting to march in a ceremony made me pensive. The symbolism seemed ironic. But before I became too melancholy the water sprinkler under the grass we were on went off — alas the regular timer had not been adjusted for commencement — in the middle of someone’s talk. “That was the most exciting, best lubricated, and most memorable graduation I have been part of in half a century,” President James English said, standing all wet at the end of ceremony.

And then there was the pet cemetery I was offered for G.W. some years ago. A benefactor proffered it. I yearned to accept. I had a vision of alumni pets and grateful animal loving benefactors. But all the vice presidents laughed at me and in a lamentable moment of outer directed weakness, I declined. To my everlasting shame and regret. J. Edgar Hoover’s dog is buried there. Dorothy, you were right. Walter, Bob, Mike, Don, and Lou, you were wrong.

For the campuses, maintenance costs of the postmortem facilities is much lower than for keeping up the dorms, and from another angle, this is an opportunity to bring friends and relatives of the deceased back to campus, increasing the potential of legacy admissions and estate-planning benefactions. And universities with adjacent hospitals can now boast the ability to take a person from cradle to grave without having to change the logo on your shirt.

Image adapted from a photo by Flickr user Viewoftheworld