After a long day of travel, Sandra and I flipped a coin to determine who got the better side of our shared room.
Ours were Spartan digs: two extra-long, narrow beds, each dressed in one thin blanket and an impossibly lumpy pillow. We were issued pairs of threadbare towels and one wash cloth apiece, a personal bar of soap, a couple of plastic juice cups and a paper bag. No, we were not spending a night in jail! Between us, we had journeyed more than 4,000 miles for a reunion weekend, decades after earning our college diplomas.
Somehow, our class had hit the dormitory lottery, awarded residency in the newest housing on campus. Constructed according to “green” specifications, fortunately it also included an elevator. This eliminated item one on my short list of concerns: hauling a forty pound suitcase up and down wooden staircases. We soon discovered that energy efficiency also meant that the low-flow showers were encased in cubicles the size of coffins, but even this minor inconvenience was a vast improvement over the facilities we recalled from our student years.
Venturing forth into the beauty of Massachusetts in springtime, the campus pulled us into our past. We trekked to the dorm where we first roomed; took a Tai Chi class in a garden, and attended a lecture on Positive Psychology. We went to meetings, met with the college president, and even willingly changed into white dresses and donned class costumes for a reunion parade. Marching behind the elder reunion classes, we ended our circuit at the grave of our college’s founder.
The power of this ritual mounted. We split to line the road. Younger classes marched by to our applause; then the graduating class appeared.
Struck by their youth, my mind flew back to the years gone by. Shared experiences linked us, though our eras shaped our lives. We were a family of sorts.
Indeed, it was good to be home. (c)