Reflections on a College Reunion

Colby College Chapel
Waterville, Maine

I have just returned from an extended Colby College reunion.  There was a disconnect I couldn't grasp between the date of my graduation, June '65,  and the years that have intervened since.  There was another disconnect between the faces I remembered and the faces smiling at me over the weekend. Thank goodness for name tags!

Colby classes '63 and '65

I wanted to reconnect with those who'd shared four very impressionable years with me...the years we morphed out of childhood and wiggled into adulthood.

New buildings scattered along the dazzling, closely-trimmed grass were unfamiliar to us. New wings on the art museum housing remarkable multi-million-dollar collections were unfamiliar. The downtown area where our drinking hangouts had been demolished was unfamiliar. Our collective memories were not.

We'd lived together through the turbulent sixties.We remembered a wall erected in Berlin and missiles in Cuba aimed at possible targets like New Orleans, Houston, Miami, Cape Canaveral.. We remembered the exact spot on campus where we heard the news of President Kennedy's assassination. We remembered those who left to march in Washington, D.C., and Selma. And we remembered those who left to be "advisors" in Viet Nam, a place we hadn't been able to identify on a world map.

Our newspaper editor-in-chief,
Jan Parsons, leads us in the parade

We'd selected Maine as the location for our college years, where winters got down to forty degrees below zero.  We bundled up and RAN through tunnels of snow between classrooms, library, and dorms. The inside of our noses froze anyway.  The women (not the men) had curfews with housemothers and we all had Saturday morning classes. And comprehensive exams. If a woman broke curfew, she was called up before the Judiciary Board for a warning or probation -like my freshman roommate - depending on how many times she had climbed in a window. If you skipped more than three Saturday classes, any grade above a "C" was out of the question... even if you were on the football team and had to travel on Saturdays.  And if you didn't pass a comprehensive exam at the end of senior year that covered all four years in your major, you made a dreaded call to your parents to inform them you wouldn't be graduating this year.

Colby, a liberal arts college, required courses in English, the sciences, languages, and the arts to graduate. Even the scientists among us had to write essays coherently.  We were a small freshman class - only 346 . Around one hundred ten of us returned - survivors who'd tried to influence change.  Isn't that what all graduates try to do?

With new Colby President David Greene

At the reunion there were no facelifts among us, nor designer jewelry. We wore jeans, sweatshirts, and jackets against the stiff wind of early June.  We didn't talk much about our professional careers or accolades, although there were some who'd become household names and some who were still engaged in their fields. There was talk of hip and knee replacements, heart bypasses, and cataract surgery. And world travel and hobbies that had become obsessions.  And involvement in the community.  But mostly we talked.of kids and grand kids and how far away they lived from us. And professors who'd influenced us and coaches who'd gone on to glory and fraternity parties before Colby banned them and long-term marriages among us. And deaths.

Only a few tried to relive the glory days in a time warp, last to leave class headquarters with a drink in hand, heading downtown to postpone morning.  A few searched out the bands playing on campus to work off their dinner.  Most of us were happy to read in bed.

My reconnections would continue - during another reunion day; during a visit to a classmate's home on an island "down east"; through emails, letters, and get-togethers.  

Sometimes a look back at what shaped us is a good thing.

One College Reunion

                                                                                

      It seems that June is a good time to head down memory lane.  Since I posted a blog about my 50th high school reunion on October 10, 2011, and wrote about my senior prom in last week's blog, I thought I'd  write about one of my college reunions.

     Charley and I both graduated from Colby College in Waterville, Maine.  Although he graduated well before me (Ha!), we attend each other's reunions because we know each other's classmates.  When I sent in our deposit for a particular reunion of mine a while back, it seemed a good idea to take advantage of the option to stay in one of the dorms.  My class would have its headquarters there, so it would be just a short walk down the hall after late nightcaps - no driving.  And we'd save some $ by not getting a hotel room.

     Our core group gathered at headquarters in the morning, organized the keepsakes and memorabilia, and put on the tee shirts that our classmate, Chris Brown, had designed for the parade of classes.  The weather had been perfect for the boat ride the day before, and remained that way for the lobster/clambake, tennis, golf, seminars, lectures, and class dinner.  The trouble started when we went to our room to sleep.

     Trying to relive your youth at forty is one thing.  Trying to relive it at sixty-something is another.  The twin beds, which we'd expected, looked miniscule.  Could they have really been that narrow when we were students?  Or was this an attempt by the college to cut the budget by purchasing from Job Lots?  If we turned over at all, we'd bump into a wall.  The pillows felt like lumps of coal.  Fortunately, we'd brought our own.

     Maine gets cold at night, even in June!  On each bed were sheets and one thin blanket.  We changed into warmups.  We put our socks on.  Then we hopped in.

     As I eased under the sheet and 1/4" blanket, I heard a crinkly sound.  When I turned toward Charley, I heard it again.  "What the heck is that?"  I yelled across both desks to the far wall, where Charley was curled into a ball on his pallet. 

     "It's plastic on the mattress," he mumbled.  "Come over here.  There'll be more body heat."  A tiger doesn't change his stripes!  I put a sweater over my warmup and pulled a raincoat over the blanket on my bed.  Like I said, reliving your youth at sixty-something is another matter.

     I heard singing.  It seemed to be in the next room.  I pulled myself out of bed and unlocked the door.  The music wasn't coming from the hall.  I pulled the shade up on our window and looked down.  There was a bunch of twenty-somethings celebrating below us on the grass.  A couple of guys were doing a really bad job of "Celebrate Good Times."

     It was three a.m. when they disbanded.  After that, I dozed off.

     I have been known to get up several times during the night to use the bathroom, if I've had lots of liquids.  Ditto for Chas.  He went first - down the hall to the far corner.  I heard a shout echoing off the tiles, but didn't budge.

     When he reappeared, he woke me.  "What now?" I asked. 

     "The bathrooms are co-ed!  Guess who I just met in there?  Cindy Mello, the homecoming queen!"

     "I'm sure she didn't look any better at 3 a.m. than you did!  Go back to bed." 

     You can bet I showered in the ladies' locker room at the field house the following morning!  Another safe bet would be that the Holiday Inn became our home during future reunions.

    

      



    

    

50th H.S. Reunion Recap and DON'T Rules

I didn't want it to end! The weekend started Wednesday with six ladies at my home for a "mature" slumber party. Weather perfect for long walks along Buzzard's Bay and sitting on the deck. Didn't count the wine bottles in my recycling! Charley made a smart move - to his sister's for the duration.

The ladies followed each other in a caravan to Greenwich, met up at a private cocktail party (have you gotten the impression that even the tea drinkers were drinking a lot of tea?), followed by the reunion dinner, and brunch on Sunday. Of the 130 attendees (including significant others), I think almost 100 of us were out on the dance floor at one time or another. We grabbed anyone close to the wooden platform and formed big circles. Didn't have to recognize the person we were dancing with - in fact, probably couldn't! The "oldies" kept our hip replacements gyrating and new knees bending. "Primo" and "secondo" platters of Italian food kept coming and coming and I kept taking and taking. Finally I gave up trying to hold my stomach in. Was so wound up, I didn't sleep a wink all night, and neither did my friend who'd driven down with me. Both husbands decided to stay home (wonder why??).

Here's a list of DON'T RULES, if you plan to enjoy yourself at a 50th reunion. I had lots of help putting together. Here goes!

1. Don't assume you can ignore the questionnaires during the year preceding the blessed event. If you don't respond, nobody will care if you come or not by then.

2. Don't refuse invitations to pre-reunion gatherings. You might not recognize people when you get to the actual reunion (you won't!!).

3. Don't lean in to squint at someone's nametag and photo. You will look like the old fart you are, instead of the hipster who sticks out his hand and asserts, "I'm ______________."

4. Don't ask people if they remember you. You might not like the answer!

5. Don't ask someone you've just met, "Are you wife number two or three?"

6. Don't introduce your second wife as "Mary Two" and attempt to explain that she has the same name as your first wife.

7. Don't answer the question, "How are you?" with, "My last surgery was a total failure."

8. Don't answer the question, "How are things?" with a monologue about your bitter divorce, lack of funds for a vacation in the last five years, and necessity to work till hell freezes over!

9. Don't french-kiss your old boyfriend.

10. Don't put your hand on your old girlfriend's butt.

11. Don't assume the best-looking in the class is still the best-looking.

12. Don't assume the nerds are still the nerds. Or that they are poor.

13. Don't eat garlic bread before dancing.

14. In the event you disregard rule number 11, don't leave your TicTacs at home.

15. Don't ask someone to dance if he/she has a walking stick propped against his/her chair.

16. If you suspect someone had several facelifts, don't stand next to his/her ear, searching for surgical scars.

17. If someone is wearing a hearing aid, don't continue to shout in that ear. Move to the other one, dummy!

18. Don't dance for three hours in a pair of heels you just bought.

19. If you ignore rule #18 and must remove your shoes, don't point out how grotesque your bunions have become.

20. Don't assume that you will look like a dance instructor after a few sippies. It is not a life-altering event, and no-one cares if you make a fool of yourself on the dance floor! Everyone else out there is doing the same thing.

LAUGH TILL YOU CRY, DANCE AS THOUGH NO-ONE'S WATCHING, AND LOVE AS THOUGH YOU'VE NEVER BEEN HURT. That's what our reunion was all about! Any other contributions? Write them under "Comments." Thanks for the memories. Will post following our So. African trip.

Reconnecting after 17 Years

The phone rang and my husband answered. "Yes," he said, "I am the husband of Pam Carey. Who is this?"

(Pause.) "Sorry, I don't recognize the name."

We were getting used to that kind of call, since the publication of my book, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS. Community events people called to book a signing/presentation; publicists called to enlist me as a client.

"Just a minute," Charley said, "I'll give her the phone."

"Hello?" I inquired.

"Hi! This is Becky Kaczman, and you don't know me, but I have just read your book and have a boy playing Little League on Hillsboro Boulevard. I wanted to connect with you because my son's team is coached by Marty Durkin, and he is mentioned in your book!"

Here's what happened next: Charley and I made a trip to the baseball fields down Hillsboro Boulevard, in Florida, about thirty minutes from where we live. We wanted to see the coach of a kid we didn't even know. Why? Because of our fond memories of the years our two sons played pro baseball with Marty Durkin during Red Sox spring training and Fla. State games; because of the many hours we spent in the stands with his parents, huge baseball nuts and supportive parents; because of the memory of one huge spread, complete with Honeybaked Ham and all the fixinigs, his mom put out at their house in Ft. Lauderdale for our Red Sox team; and because of this mom, Becky, who was now living my life and trying to surprise her son's coach by our appearance.

Marty's team got clobbered, but we didn't care. Our surprise visit was special - seeing his wife again, meeting his middle son, talking about minor league days and where everyone was now. We threw names of former players around that we've seen or kept in touch with. We talked about Marty's three sons, who all play baseball, and about his parents, who still live in the same house and are allowing Marty's oldest son to live with them so he can attend Cardinal Gibbons High School, to play on the same team as his dad.

If anyone were to ask me the benefits of our kids' participation on a sports team, I would probably not list reunions high on the list. But for several hours last weekend, it was right up there at the top. And Marty had even purchased his own copy of the book! Thanks, Becky!