1981

I have an easy job: to write the column after our 25th reunion. It's good to have this chance to reflect on Hanover and my conversations with you all, as I cannot get that weekend out of my mind and therefore might as well give myself over to it. As co-secretary Julie Koeninger wrote in an e-mail, the "setting for Saturday's dinner couldn't have been more perfect. I'm trying to keep that picture of Baker Tower silhouetted against a deepening blue sky etched in my memory." For me there is no need to keep it; it's already there. So—from whom have I heard the last few days?

Toby Reiley wrote that, "Great as the dinner in front of the library was, the highlight for me was to have Hap Brakeley and his wife, Sue, sharing their stories (now one story) with us" at Sunday's memorial service. "Hap and Sue do Libby Brakeley and Mark, Sues late husband, a great honor by teaching us that we can survive with gusto and learn to love again." Others have written me with the same sentiment.

Danielle Dyer e-mailed that her "7-year-old son (went) to sleep Wednesday night in Moosilauke's Bicentennial Cabin saying, 'Mom, there are two guys sleeping in herewith us and neither of them are Dad. Do you know these guys? Does Dad know these guys?'" The next morning Danielle's son dashed to the mountains summit with new pals Victor Boston, older son of Andrea and Byron Boston, and Rose and Patrick Kilcoyne, children of Tara and Thomas Kilcoyne.

Danielle also told me that her 11-year-old daughter came back from the kids' tent and asked: "Do you know a guy named Greg Clow? His daughter Reyna is awesome!"

Brian Cusack wandered from our tent, into town, and wrote that he's "not sure what it says when the woman behind the counter at Moe's— Stinson's—is the same woman who was there when we graduated, and recognizes you, but it could be that the Stinsons are great employers; or that I was, and continue to be, in there way too much; or that I've aged okay; or that she studied our Freshman Book."

I had the chance to talk with Tina and Francis Owusu; he and I played JV soccer together, and we ribbed each other knowing that Ghana would soon play the United States at the World Cup. I now need to call Francis to congratulate him on Ghana's win.

Whom did we miss this weekend? Marty Cetron and his crew were off in Alaska for some rest and relaxation. And Scott Halsted? He and his family were rafting the Colorado. Permits for that don't grow on trees; you take them when they're available.

Two snippets from the weekend come to mind as I get to this column's end: the chance to talk with John Casaudoumecq over coffee and a sleeping baby at 7 a.m. on Sunday, in the lobby of the Hanover Inn. Yes, my boy gets up early and John's new daughter was dozing after a meal. Second snippet? Watching my son Charlie play soccer and laugh with Alex Dmyterko at the Field of Dreams gig—Dmyterko, the once chain-smoking, leather-jacket-wearing tough kid from Oak Park whose two boys are so kind and gentle and polite that I want to ship Charlie off to the Dmyterko Ukrainian School of Etiquette and Thoughtfulness.

I guess her spell on us remains, huh? Cheers, all. Thanks for letting me write the column again—and thanks to Rick and Lynne for doing such a fine job on it during the last five years.

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