1965 Poem The Bond June 2015---50 years after graduation from Wilson - Mina Bancroft Wuchenich ‘65 That bond. I hadn’t felt it in a long time---too long. Like finding that treasured something I had never wanted to lose, so I put it someplace special and then, over time, forgot where it was. I was busy living my life. Sometimes, that’s the best part--- to find the connection again unexpectedly, where it always has been, just waiting for the right time. Maybe the time with enough perspective for me to appreciate it anew, with naiveté and insight blended together, a contradictory balance that somehow makes perfect sense. When feeling a renewed tie comes as a surprise, something so old and so packed with meaning buried deep overflows too with an invigorating wonder--- a refreshing creative surge. Kind of like spring, when you never lose the sense of import and newness, though it comes with the trappings of tradition established over eons, not years. Chapel traditions like Prexy’s Corinna Goes A-Maying. The wonder of learning at Wilson again--- this time about 3-D printers or the ongoing, and infectious, pain of the disappeared children of El Salvador. The wonder also comes from the memories, dusted off and resurrected, yet new with impact; compelling lessons of how much we have grown. At 1961 Wilson, I first found kindred women in you, bringing me the bonus of real respect for our gender--- that we were, and are, full beings with intellect, talents, emotions and gifts to be developed and valued. I renewed that respect 50-fold this weekend. My, we have achieved, from families, to careers, to service, to vineyards. I reconnected to places--- the lawn outside Riddle where I remember lovingly stroking the fresh blades of new green grass after we survived 19 days in a row without any glimpse of sun in a bleak early April. Sitting in the Dining Hall where we learned to drink bad coffee, to make café au lait by carefully pouring heavy cream into a spoon floating atop well-sugared black muck and gained quasi sophistication in the process; where we showed respect for upperclassmen daily by waiting our turn in serving our plates. The bathroom in the hall outside Laird where I once dodged a clingy, crummy mixer date from F & M by climbing out the window to race back to the dorm and change my clothes. When I returned to the dance, he was still there, waiting for me outside the bathroom door. Whew! No recognition as I walked right past him. Now this escapade seems a heartless example of female bonding, a power play at male expense. I needed it then, now not so much. He is no longer there now or I might have to apologize. Mostly the places recall the faces---changed yet still the same. The common bond of shared experiences that shaped us all, some met eagerly and some, forcefully. The bell in Edgar now needs a new housing so I never heard its demanding, guilt-laden You’re late again tones even once this trip I don’t think I’ll donate to that cause. ut the library---with its aura of old and new so laden with things I need to know-- that will get another check. Most importantly, the memories of people, some funny--- like the woman who got my vote for best dressed on campus because she had 48 pairs of underpants--- we counted them, one by one! Like the roommate who remembered I swiped her red knee socks, clearly labeled with her laundry number. When I was done wearing them, in full innocence I secreted them in her dirty clothes pile. I can assure you, I won’t repeat that misdemeanor. I even feel some 50-year belated remorse. Does the Honor Principle govern only things of import like cheating? Should I turn myself in? Trust me, you all are now safe, no matter your choices in clothing. I still feel at home and deep down right in knee socks today, but red ones? Perspective of progress arrives in increments, but it arrives. Thank goodness. Most memories, more serious--- the roommate who wisely counseled me to be content with doing the best I could (a trite echo of 18 years of parental advice) but she knew more. She shared my stress--- 3 writtens and two papers in one week, early freshman year. She said Be content with doing my best, adding under the circumstances. That addition has helped me ever since, but I never thought to thank her. Polly, I hope you see this now and know I still value your words. The amazement that the women in our class didn’t seem so old as the women reuniting for their fiftieths whom I had seen before, marching in for past reunions. We do look wiser, yes. More aware and worldly, for sure, but our wrinkles seem more the result of smile lines and understanding and coping more than age. Are they different? Then age is worth it. Our gray hairs well-earned by lives lived fully, with many more experiences ahead to be met with as much vigor as we can manage. The inspiration and example of Sharon enthusing over her trip to London this fall after her next round of chemo. To balance these, the sobering walk along the brick path to Warfield inscribed with the names of deceased classmates who’ll never return for reunions, at least in this world. Meeting Professor Judson again. He once passed back my essay without a grade. All I got was a flower drawn at the top. When queried, he said my erratic answer had covered everything except the flowers ♫ that bloom in the spring tra la ♫ ♫, so he thought he’d add one. Sir, I still wander around with long-winded answers ---witness this poem. The new friends --- classmates whom I somehow missed knowing so long ago. Did they become suddenly cooler or did I finally become suddenly smarter to see what obvious appeal had always been theirs? Or did our definition of coolness mature? Oh yes, please, yes. Surprisingly, the bond of shared experience extends to current students, as well---each brand new young face started right off on a higher plane of affectionate familiarity I learned from them, too, like the young clerk in the bookstore--- the one with hot pink-dyed hair and double nose piercings. She said the hoopla over going co-ed was mostly from the alumnae. The students now were doing fine with it. Hmmm. Time to rethink and move on. Maybe alumnae can be spelled alumni, too. Sounds of music---oh dear, that sounds so trite. Singing with Laila--- 2 of the 10 Tones as we saw the audience laugh and add in their voices for the missing 8. I trust laughing with us and not at us. Part of Wilson is comfort being real and speaking, or singing, up; knowing you will understand our antics and take our ages into consideration. Somehow music goes to a special spot of memory and gratefully fills in the blanks. Together we sounded pretty good, mostly amused with the attempt and that delight was more than enough! So, I will put the renewed bonds of this weekend someplace special again, but this time --- I will remember where I put it. Regional mini-reunions will help---California any one?
