50th Reunion

Exactly a month ago, I left my little Gold Country town in Northern California, to attend my 50th college reunion, with apprehension. In fact, as late as two days before leaving, I thought I might not go. Okay, I'll go, but I won't sing. Then I found myself (I hope in many meanings of the phrase) in the basement of Mem Church at a rehearsal of the Memorial Choir. It was drizzling outside, and that perhaps made everything close and intimate in the Yard. If the sun had been shining, the dazzle might have paled and separated the randomly placed red brick buildings that, on that day, closed in around me with a new but familiar comfort. I want to write about it, the reunion, my memories, my life there and after. And maybe before - can't imagine anything more deadly boring than "I was born on..."

I titled this badly, I think, but can't see how to change it and start over - a metaphor already. So Class of '62 it will remain. A writing of 72 years and more.