We seem to have fallen through the cracks. Some still surface in the annual giving, but we have lacked a class agent for at least 60 of the last 65 years.
It is not that we were undistinguished. One of us became a WWII landing craft skipper who put General MacArthur ashore dryshod on Mindanao and then had to find a shallow beach so the General and his entourage could wade ashore. Another became a distinguished neurosurgeon who spent a semester in residence not too long ago. He left us a touching essay on what the College had meant to him.
I remember Reid Hall echoing with the calls for Petey-dink, Kitty and Babe. There was a trombonist whose tones filled Bill Smith. And Omar—short, sturdy, swift—not the poet, the quarterback. Some of us married into the Class of 1942 and were absorbed into their reunions. The 2006 Reunion for the Class of 1942 was fabulous—well, we went only to the Club luncheon!
There were at least two reunions for the Class of 1943, if I recall correctly—the 25th and the 50th—which I attended. At one point, I gave my name as a prospective class agent and heard nothing. What happened to us? Molly Burrell Salisbury, Edith Bishop Pierre, where are you?
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