One of the insidious downsides of social media, for a writer, is that by letting you dribble narrative out into bite-sized snapshots, it saps your need to keep it all together and arrange it into an actual narrative. As I’ve reluctantly returned to posting those “Kodak moments” (a tried and true shibboleth that identifies me as “an old person”), I’ve found that when I then sit down to actually write, I more often find myself at a loss to assemble anything that feels worth saying. But as D and I wrap up our weekend at my 40th Dartmouth College reunion (41st, actually, but…), it does feel worth going to that effort.

We weren’t going to go, really. We’d made reservations at the Hanover Inn, the iconic edifice that has – as far as we could tell – stood at the corner of the college green since the Permian era, and was lair of dapper, elderly and successful alumni who sat on the rocking chairs out front and chuckled understandingly at the antics of the roving t-shirt-and-cutoff clad kids as we careened past, doing whatever we were so intent on back then. But we already had so much travel on our calendar, and so much that needed to be done back home. The time, the expense. And would you look at the price of airfare now?

Then it turned out that Ken, Andy and Chris – everyone from my old undergrad band – The Hinge – was going. “We’re gonna get the band back together!” As were all my senior year housemates from the Iguana Ranch (I have a vague recollection that at one time I actually knew how it had gotten that name, but as they say, memory is the second thing to go…). Even Eric was flying in from London. How could I not go? How could we not go?*

*(I’ve often observed aloud that, as soon as my friends meet Devon, I become somewhat extraneous. Were I to show up without my bride of 32 years, I would have to wear a badge that said “No, she couldn’t make it,” and all my conversations would tend to be fairly short and centered around the question “Why not?”)

So.

We booked our tickets.

I’m glad we did, of course. Sunday morning, one last breakfast together, we’re exhausted. But seeing old friends now, it’s been a gentle pleasure to compare what has changed with us, and what hasn’t, given the 40 years since we parted.

My overwhelming impression is that we’ve gathered together for an elaborate multi-day costume party where, for reasons of unquestioned folly, we’ve all decided to dress up and act like old people. Big fake gray beards. Complaints about our bursitis and lumbago while we sit out front at the Hanover Inn, chuckling in wonder at the impossibly young undergrads careening past, intent on Bob-knows-what.

I’ll save you young whippersnappers all my long, drawn out reminiscences. But it was fun. An after hours (meaning, like what – 9 pm? We’re old now) Hinge reunion jam on the patio, trying to figure out what we still know how to play. Honestly, I think we sounded better than we did 40 years ago. Rambling the woods around Bartlett tower, reminiscing about when we all had knees that functioned properly. Just sitting and catching up in the shadow of those edifices whose unchanging silhouettes could only highlight how much we had changed. And yet.