Reunion? Really?

This fall some of my Rivier College classmates will travel to the campus in Nashua, NH to celebrate the 50 anniversary of our graduation.

I will not be joining them.

First of all, I have no idea where the past 50 years went, never mind the 4 years that preceded them. The last I remember, I was sitting for my comprehensive examinations and grumbling that as I had already spent the better part of two years shuttling between Nashua and Chicago to serve my internship and residency at the Chicago Sun-Times newspaper, the Rivier College administration should dispense with all this test taking stuff, just hand me a diploma and be finished with it.

I have vague memories of actually walking across the stage to receive that diploma.

I do have very vivid memories of my friends, my classmates and my roommate who I'm sure some residency director said, “Let's put the two Italian-American girls together. How bad could it be?”

Well...it was something!

I also know that I've lived some pretty interesting lives during the past 50 years including covering a bunch of New Hampshire Primary elections, international and domestic business, crime and politics in Chicago – which were often the same thing – and welfare, litigation and legislation in the equine industry.

I know that I was widowed very young and too soon after I was married, and that I reinvented my life and my career more times than most people even consider.

Through it all, certain college classmates were at my side.

For example, I met Manya just days after I arrived at school. All those years and she celebrated every birthday, every career success and every ordinary day of the 15 years that I lived in Nashua.

When I returned to Chicago, she was the first one at my door hours after my husband died.

These days, I talk to her at least twice a month, more frequently when some tasty tidbit of gossip deserves to be shared.

I met Sheran just about the same time. She never thought any one of my dreams was too weird to pursue. When her husband died suddenly, I empathized and lent what comfort I could. Two weeks ago we reminisced over clam chowder in Florida.

I check in at least once a week. It does not matter if she responds. We each know the other is there.

Then there is Ruth, my roommate for 4 years.

She may not remember how many nights we stayed up late arguing over the real name of a yeast donut. But I do. And I still have the yellow marble ashtray that she gave me for a graduation gift. It's sitting on an antique desk in the art gallery off my living room.

I talk with her at least twice a month either to just say hello and to check on the health of her husband and elderly uncle who help raise her.

Then there is John – Nogo to you. Not quite a classmate, but my cheerleader who motivates with a poke when a poke is called for.

The list goes on and on.

The point is that I don't need a reunion to stay united with all these folks.

I have no need to see if they're aged because they've long been in my life, and I watched their appearances change from year-to-year.

I don't need to rekindle these friendships, because those relationships have always stayed kindled – for at least 50 years.

Yup, I will miss the reunion. But I don't miss my friends.

We have reunions of our own all the time.