I’m not sure where to begin, so, as the King said to the White Rabbit during the trial of the Knave of Hearts, “Begin at the beginning, and go on til you come to the end: then stop.” The problem is that sometimes it’s hard to know exactly where to begin…
Was it sixty-four years ago, when my parents dropped me off at a boarding school in Connecticut—I wasn’t being abandoned; it was my idea!— and I began the next chapter of my life? Or was it four years later, when we all lined up and marched down to the chapel on a hot June day for our graduation ceremony? Or is the beginning somewhere else, years later, when I began to appreciate what that school had given me—not just a fine education, but a lifelong posse of friends with whom I shared a slew of memories, both good and sad? Or maybe this Musing rightfully begins ten years ago when my wife and I first travelled back in time for my fiftieth school reunion and, with her help, I reconnected with a few old friends and made a lot of new ones. Then again, maybe I should just keep it simple and tell you that just a few days ago, she and I went back for my sixtieth reunion. Or how about this: maybe, there’s not just a single beginning, but multiple beginnings. Time is funny like that.
Anyway, last weekend, Kat and I found ourselves back in Connecticut, now SIXTY years after the fact. I was nervous; I had agreed to give a talk about my newest novel, The People Game. It’s one thing to write a book, or in this case, three books, chronicling the life and career of a young Irish journalist who, in Book One, covers the North Africa campaign in World War II, then, in Book Two, moves to Palestine to report on events unfolding there, and finally (or so I thought), in Book Three, eventually arrives in Washington, DC in the early 1950s, and, yes, even discovers the Eastern Shore of Maryland where, like Odysseus in Ithaca, he finds his forever home. But to talk about all that in front of a roomful of folks, many of whom I hadn’t seen in years, and some of whom I did not know at all, was an order of magnitude of stress more than I had anticipated. Anyway, that was the “work” part of the weekend; everything else was the fun part.
It was magical to be together again. Familiar faces (some more familiar than others), tall tales (some taller than others), a campus that held so many fond and a few not-so-fond memories. That campus and the student body have changed—no, been transformed—and much for the better. The students we encountered were enthusiastic, happy, polite, and kind to senior citizens. There were stunning new buildings, and the spacious grounds were neat as a pin. I know we didn’t appreciate everything we had back when we were students, but now, in beautiful New England spring weather, we had to admit, we’d go back in a heartbeat if given the chance.
But Thomas Wolfe knew a sad truth: you can’t go home again. We can’t recreate the past; it exists only in our memory, and we see it as we want to see it, not as it actually was. But I’ve come to terms with that. Now that I’m an old alum, maybe I am a wiser one, too. I’m grateful for what I was given and I’m still learning to appreciate the gift.
I’ll be right back.