Vive memor leti, fugit hora.
— Persius Flaccus
William Shatner has nothing on me.
He rocketed into space last week; but I rocketed back in time.
I attended my prep-school class's 50th reunion this weekend.
My impressions of the event are ajumble, because so many long-forgotten faces swam into view all at once and in so brief a time.
Until Friday afternoon, I had not stepped foot once in Jersey City for all the 50 intervening years, nor spoken to more than four or five of my 200+ classmates from Saint Peter's Prep.
That's one hell of a long gap.
But a score of hours just aren't enough to bridge five decades' distance.
(The feeling of being swamped was quite appropriate to the locale, given that that neighborhood of Jersey City, Paulus Hook, is barely above sea level and catastrophically floods during big storms like Hurricane Sandy.)
Vive memor leti, fugit hora.
Live mindful of death, the hour flees.
I'm convinced nostalgia, in tiny doses, is good for you.
But it can be a little unnerving in large spoonfuls.
A 50-year class reunion is a megadose of memories.
Nonetheless, when I left Jersey City on Sunday afternoon, I felt fine: relatively young and healthy; sane, solvent and sociable; and grateful—exceedingly grateful.
I left grateful to the fates and to my folks, who'd given me a wonderful gift: the chance to pal with a bunch of overachievers during my four most-formative teenage years.
What a powerful preparation for adulthood.
And what sweet memories.
Sweeter still was the realization that I was able to attend the reunion at all.
So many of my classmates and dear friends—the solemn list was read aloud during our "reunion mass"—are dead and buried.
They missed a great party.
Live mindful of death, the hour flees.
HAT TIP: Thanks go to classmate Mike Healy. Absent his urging, I would not have attended my class reunion.
