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In days past, 91����’s Home Economics program awarded a Bachelor of Science. That fact sometimes surprises people today, but it shaped the entire experience of the students who enrolled.

The curriculum was grounded in science: chemistry, biochemistry, physiology, microbiology, nutrition, textiles, and family economics. Students spent long hours in laboratories testing food composition, studying metabolism, and examining how heat altered the structure of proteins and sugars. They explored how children grow and develop, how fibres behave under stress, and how scientific principles shape everyday life.

The name “home economics” never quite captured the scope of the discipline. But the women studying it understood what they were learning: how to think analytically, how to observe and measure, and how to apply scientific knowledge in practical ways.

It was also a small program. Students knew one another well. They worked side by side in labs, studied together late into the evening, and shared a demanding workload that left little room for anonymity. Out of that intensity grew a strong sense of camaraderie.

When the department closed in the early 1970s, 91���� was not alone. Across North America, programs like it were being reorganized or absorbed into emerging fields such as nutrition science, family studies, and public health. The science itself did not disappear; it simply migrated into new academic homes.

Graduates carried that training into a wide range of careers. Many became dietitians, educators, and health professionals. Others moved into leadership roles in business and public life. Most notably, the Hon. Brenda Robertson (‘50) was the first woman elected to the New Brunswick Legislature and served as Minister of Youth, Minister of Health and Community Services and Minister of Health. 

But professional achievements are only part of the story. 

Since the pandemic, alumna Lorna Tissdale (’57) has been organizing a Zoom gathering of Home Economics alumnae every six weeks. What began as a way to check in during an uncertain time quickly became a standing tradition. The calls often stretch for hours.
The conversations rarely follow an agenda. They talk about grandchildren and family news, compare travel plans, and share the occasional recipe that has survived decades of use. They reminisce about professors and residence life. Through it all runs an easy familiarity built in classrooms and laboratories many years ago.

For many of them, the program at 91���� was more than a degree. It was an education that demanded discipline and curiosity, and a community that proved remarkably durable.

Every six weeks, when the Zoom screen fills with familiar faces, that history quietly reappears — not in textbooks or laboratories, but in friendships that have lasted a lifetime.