JUNE 9, 2026 – (Cont.) As the reunion itself unfolded, I realized what an impossible agenda—or more precisely, agendae—it encompassed. On the one hand, each attendee confronted the enormously complex process of reestablishing connections with dozens, even scores of old friends and acquaintances, plus other classmates and spouses. I personally interacted directly (to varying degrees) with 62 classmates out of 128 in attendance. In most cases these connections had to span the full duration between our commencement a half century ago and the present. Moreover, the degree of familiarity I had with each of those 62 people varied widely, requiring frequent shifts in conversational approach. Even on a full-time basis over an entire week, optimizing all these connections would have been a Herculean task for any of us.
Yet, compressed into a long weekend, the personal interactions—much like water molecules bumping into one another as a stove pot approaches the boiling point—ran concurrently with a pot-pourri of campus tours, off-campus activities, moderated discussions, compelling presentations, a not-to-be-missed convocation, and all the quality food (including baked Maine lobstah, of course!) and beverages one could wish to consume. The reunion comprised so much and made such an impact that it invited considerable reflection, not to mention post mortem analysis and discussion, long after the event had concluded.
The basic quandary attendees faced was constantly having to choose between (a) visiting with friends or acquaintances not seen or heard from in 50 years, and (b) attending a planned activity or session of some sort bearing a program description as enticing as fresh strawberry shortcake in July (served on a china plate with extra whipped cream but strictly confined to the plate). With few exceptions, I chose “(a)” over “(b).”
The most memorable exception was the Remembrance and Celebration of Lives late Saturday afternoon. In the first place, I had an active part in the service. Second, it was, after all, a critical part of the whole reunion agenda—just as important as a wedding groom’s toast to the memory of a beloved sister whose untimely death precluded her presence at an otherwise joyful occasion. The lives remembered and celebrated were those of 47 classmates who’ve died—14% of our class, which is 100% too high but only half the actuarial average for our demographic cohort.
A memorial service of some kind is a staple feature of the 50th class reunion at any small college. Its basic elements—words, music, and solemnity—are common to all such observances. In the case of the ceremony at our reunion, however, the details were personalized and refined by an intermediary between our deceased classmates and those of us gathered to remember them.
Our inimitable intermediary was Nancy Collins, who served as Co-Chairperson (in league with Jeffrey McCallum) of Engagement for the reunion. Had I been better acquainted with Nancy in our junior year, I would’ve talked Jeff Oppenheim into recruiting her as COO of the B.P.T.O. She would’ve run a tight ship, suffered no fools, and taken no prisoners. Every hit would’ve been a bullseye. Doubtless she could’ve orchestrated syndication of the enterprise at a thousand colleges and universities across the country and abroad, turning the three of us into Bowdoin billionaires (make room; stand aside, Mr. Druckenmiller!) before our fifth reunion. But classes got in the way.
Instead, Nancy took charge of the class Remembrance and Celebration of Lives for our fiftieth reunion—a far more important responsibility in our early seventies than making us a ton of money in our early twenties.
It was to her gamble and sufferance that I would have to attribute the most supremely transcendent musical experience of my life. I could not have anticipated that felicitous outcome when the suggestion was presented by Jeff McCallum last September—first to me, then to Nancy. In fact, I worried that I was possibly walking into an opportunity for regret, not gratitude.
In the event, however, the Fates were kind to all assembled, as Apollo signaled his approval with regular bursts of sunshine through the high windows of Bowdoin’s Romanesque Revival Chapel. Whatever actions of mortals mere mortals could not control, God and gods transformed into gestures of the divine. By the time classmate Bill Owen unleashed the final chord of the Bach organ postlude, no heart was left untouched by the words, music and solemnity tailored by and for the Bowdoin Class of ‘76.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. (Cont.)
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
