Reunions

There are two groups that I thoroughly enjoy "reunioning" with:  classmates and alumni of Woodstock School, located in Mussoorie, in the middle hills of the Indian Himalaya; and former Nepal Peace Corps volunteers.  Both carry strong bonds of long-term but intermittent friendship so easily rekindled, shared experiences of both the best and the gruesome of youth in relatively unique situations, and a strong dose of living together among some of the most awesome landscapes to be seen.  Sometimes I find it a bit odd that I have no such enthusiasm for reunions of the Connecticut high school class I actually graduated with, my Adrian College undergraduate class, or my Stanford MBA class.  Lots of shared experiences there during formative years, but...

Two weeks ago I hosted 11 classmates and two brave wives of the 1963 graduating class of Woodstock.  Almost guiltily I admit there were moments (when I was hosing out my bachelor-grungy frig or on the third day of power-washing my dock in 99 degree heat) when I wondered what possessed me to volunteer for such a thing.  But as my classmates arrived I knew immediately why; it became so obvious.  These were friends, good friends and we were immediately very comfortable with one another though I hadn't seen several since I left Woodstock after my sophomore year of high school .  We may not have been great friends back in the 4th grade or the 7th grade or the 9th; we may not have even liked each other very much, though some of us were best buddies.  But we're friends now, by golly, and it's a bit of nice wonder that in our older years we find such satisfaction and fulfillment in the years of our youth.

Immediately following our three days together here most of us went up the road to Leesburg, VA where the Woodstock Old Students Association (WOSA) sponsored a two-day school reunion at the National Conference Center.  More good stuff, with alumni ranging from the graduating classes of the 1930s on into this decade.  It was here that my mother, who graduated from Woodstock in 1935, and my aunt (class of 1942) were remembered along with 42 other alumni who passed away during the past 12 months since the last WOSA reunion.  It was here that 250 gathered for a delicious Indian meal, heard the Indian ambassador to the US address us, and sang -- from memory -- the Indian national anthem for her in return.  It was here that we participated in an interfaith celebration of life, watched outstanding Indian movies, heard fellow distinguished alumni speak to the conference theme of Global Citizenship and how Woodstock prepared them to be such.  It was here that we heard 40 of the group come together with 2 rehearsals as a marvelous choir conducted by Vance George (a former Woodstock music teacher and, for 23 years, the conductor of the San Francisco Symphony Chorus) who most surely knows how to get golden vocals from the throats of largely very occasional singers.  And it was here that we closed the session with an hour of story telling -- war stories and jokes (most not very PC) and embarrassing moments and touching tales that changed a life or two.

Oh Woodstock, how special you are!