R3uni0n

I left John and Carolyn's house in Arlington in the family Prius (generously lent for the weekend by J and C). I remember in the summer of 1980 when we were living in Arlington and my Mom asked a neighbor how to get to Charlottesville. The response was "go to the end of the street and turn left". Those directions were correct: we lived in Arlington just off Lee Highway which becomes route 29 and goes all the way to C-Ville. Now, as then, I took Route 66 as far as Gainesville before exiting onto 29. Route 66 is wider and busier than it was then, and the exit at Gainesville is transformed out of all recognition. It was only after driving a few miles on 29 that the route regained the familiarity born of so many trips back and forth during my college years.

Familiar sights began to appear: a rustic roadside shop with a sculpture of a bear on the roof, a stretch of road with a line of pine trees in the median, a stretch of road close to parallel railroad tracks, a high section of the route with views of the Blue Ridge to the west. As I neared Charlottesville, I entered that straight stretch of 29 that goes up and down over countless hills. Just as I did the very first time we drove down in the Fall of 1980 I kept thinking "over the next one". Although the area had changed hugely since then, the one conspicuous absence for me was the sign for "Caravan - Home of the Hump Burger". I never did stop for a hump burger. Too late now.

Route 29 into town - I passed Lord Hardwicke's Pub. My first year RA, Gary, recommended the restaurant as somewhere to take my parents during their first visit, which was for a band concert in the Fall of 1980. I remember ordering a burger called a "trencherman" - can't remember what was on it. I remember that they had a great dessert: warm apple pie served in a glass goblet with vanilla ice cream. Aunt Mary and my parents and I had lunch there for my birthday at the beginning of my fourth year. That was when I got my wonderful blue quilt - was that from Mary? I can't remember now.

Never having had a car there and only infrequently having strayed from campus during my four years there, the roads in and around C'Ville don't hold many memories for me. I think I'd only ever been in Alumni Hall once or twice before walking in to register and collect my room key and event calendar. Witnessing the hive of activity therein, I was struck for the first time at how involved an operation the Alumni weekend is. They really pull out all the stops. The calendar revealed a huge number of events: receptions, seminars, dinners, tours - I have only vague memories of attending my tenth reunion - this seemed far more involved. I registered and collected my materials, pleasantly excited at the possibility I might run into someone I knew.

The University of Virginia is a public university as are William & Mary, Virigina Tech and James Madison. The "state" system seems to be a looser affiliation than the UW system here in the Cheese Belt. I was always a little confused about that. All I can say is I'm glad I got in when I did - the tuition and academic requirements would have kept me out had I applied more recently.

Back into the car to look for the parking lot where I would leave the car for the weekend. I searched in vain for a parking garage shown on the map and eventually pulled into an open-air lot at the base of the hill beneath Lambeth Commons. The day was already pretty hot and I was sweating by the time I'd climbed the stairs from the parking lot and made my way through Lambeth, past the Colonnade and up a steep driveway to Rugby Road. Again, nothing very familiar. I might have visited my friend Eloise once at Lambeth during the time she lived there. Beta Bridge was painted with a "Welcome Alumni" message. I walked along Rugby past Mad Bowl, edged by the familiar row of Fraternity houses. The sight of Culbreth Theatre summoned a wealth of memories: acting in a scene in drama class with Mercedes and Donna; performing in a production of "She Loves Me"; attending the Beaux Arts Ball ("come as your favorite sin" was the theme - Marisa and I in a very silly costume indeed); seeing "Equus" which starred Jennifer, the model for my life drawing class.

Fayerweather Hall, the next familiar site, was where I attended classes for my Studio Art major, including the aforementioned life drawing class. I feel as though I never quite assimilated into the art program in the way I did with music department. For every memory of a satisfying art project, there's one of a difficult or awkward moment. In retrospect, I think I pretty much coasted through the program, not benefitting much from the available resources. A lost opportunity, in many ways.

Across University Avenue and onto Central Grounds. My first look at the Rotunda was a disappointment - the structure was surrounded by a high fence, the column capitals encased in black mesh, and the courtyards denuded of their trees. Over the weekend I would learn a lot about the current restoration effort and would ultimately be grateful for having been present at such an important time in the building's history. At the moment I just felt robbed of the opportunity to relive memories of touring the building with visiting family members, attending dinners in the Dome Room, relaxing on the steps with friends. I'd planned to take another version of a photo already twice taken by my father - a picture of me sitting on the wall at the base of the stairs, made impossible by a plywood wall that blocked all access to the Lawn side of the building.

Talking of photos, I hadn't yet taken any, wanting to get my bearings first and see what sort of a mood I would be in. Another photo I'd planned to re-create was a panorama of the Lawn I'd taken while living there during my fourth year. It was a 360-degree view at the center of which my friend Marisa can be seen sunbathing.

I walked down West Lawn, past the amphitheatre, past the spot where we went into the steam tunnels our first year and into Minor Hall for the Rotunda renovation lecture. The lecture was fascinating - we were told just how little is left of the original building, how 1976 renovation aspects improperly done causing subsequent damage to the roof, how laser targets have been temporarily installed to detect shift during the current renovation. What color should the dome be? In Jefferson's time, it was coated in paint with metal that oxidized to an off-white. We were told about the addition of new service underground facilities and how they were designed for maximum utility and minimum intrusiveness.

Back out into the sun and across McCormick Road to the Monroe Hill complex (now called "Brown College"). If I'd had my way, I'd have lived on campus all four years but I never got a high enough number in the lottery until my fourth year when I didn't need it. My room was in Venable, a narrow building on the hillside above Emmett Street. Again, I think I might only have been in the old dorms once or twice, visiting and/or studying with a friend who lived there. Who it might have been, I can't remember. The room felt sadly empty. The walls were, of course, completely bare and the place had the indifferent feel of temporary quarters. Perhaps next time I'll bring something to put up. I made the bed, deposited my belongings and went back out onto the grounds.

“...the "Pompeiian Nudes" my mother always called them.”

Clarke Hall was my first stop. Entering the lobby, I was confronted by that crazy mural I'd always found so amusing. Classical figures in various states of undress striking bombastic poses among elements of architecture. One nude male figure climbing a tree looks as though he's doing something else entirely to it. The "Pompeiian Nudes" my mother always called them. I remember sitting in the armchairs and studying in Clarke Hall. I studied in the science library toward the back of the building as well, which was the next place I explored. The library has been transformed out of all recognition and was as alien as the lobby was familiar. Thank heavens for things that don't change!

Out into the summer heat and down McCormick Road toward the new dorms. I couldn't pass Gilmer Hall without going in for a shufti. Gilmer hadn't changed at all - still dark and yellow, still smelling faintly of formaldehyde. I looked for the tiny utility closet that some wag had labeled "Micro Biology Lab" but couldn't find it. I was probably on the wrong floor. I'd had one of my very first classes in Gilmer: "Psychobiology". My Mom had strongly urged me to take a Math or Science class every semester of my college career - excellent advice, I've decided with the benefit of hindsight. Over the course of the next four years, I took calculus, probability, statistics and a series of computer classes that have served me well ever since. My main reason for wanting to see Gilmer Hall again, however, was to visit the main lecture hall which was where student organisations would show movies to raise funds for their various pursuits. I'm embarrassed to say how many movies I saw there - probably two or three a week.

From there, I retraced the steps I would have taken with fellow residents of my dorm after watching a movie at Gilmer: along McCormick, past the intersection with Alderman Road, past Observatory Hill Dining Hall and up the hill to Webb dormitory. Here, the only commonality with my experience was that O-Hill Dining Hall occupied the same location it had in 1984. Everything else was completely different. The "new" dorms had all been torn down and replaced by infinitely more attractive, serviceable-looking buildings. The Tree House was gone, memorialised only by an access driveway called "Treehouse Drive". During first year, I'd occasionally go to the Tree House and get a Hershey bar and a container of milk. I had wanted, for old time's sake, to eat at the dining hall but I arrived at the wrong time and it was closed.

Webb Dorm was gone - it and it's neighbor Watson now replaced by a single high-rise building: "Watson-Webb House". So, Susan and Mary - had timing been different, we would have lived in the same dorm. Who am I kidding - if I applied now, I probably wouldn't get in and certainly wouldn't be able to afford it. Balz is now combined with Dobie. Interestingly, there's now a "Woody" house. From the signs of construction it must have been only recently erected (sorry, couldn't resist). Along with Cocke Hall, the list of male-genital themed structures on grounds is swelling (again, sorry). Okay, as long as we're discussing phallic symbols, does anyone else think it unfortunate that a school currently dealing with controversy over sexual assaults has a logo containing two stylized penises and a stylized vagina? Just sayin'.

During the weekend, I kept thinking "wow, it's been thirty years" but it had been closer to thirty-four years since I'd arrived at Webb dorm in late August of 1980. I wish I could have gone back to the 140s suite to see what memories that would produce. Just thinking about it summoned a great many: listening to the Holy Grail soundtrack, snapping coins across the common room, getting a group together and going down to the dining hall. I had a good time there in spite of being appallingly socially awkward and not fitting in (or not feeling as though I fit in). Overall, I remember my first year with fondness. Yes, there was a fair amount of the typical douchebaggery: homophobia, sexual innuendo, social cruelty, etc. I know I committed my share of stupid and insensitive social faux pas. But the fact that the good memories predominate would seem to indicate that it was a good year. I don't know - perhaps I'm doing some retroactive rose-tinting. Don't we all.

I walked along Alderman Road past the football stadium. That had changed a great deal, but one could still see the original structure under all the additions. Talking of additions, I seem to remember that the upper deck had been added not very long before I'd arrived and that, with a temporary lighting array, we had our first night game during my years at the University. It's ironic that, for a sports-indifferent person like myself, the stadium would be one of the most evocative sights on The Grounds. The reason, of course, is the Pep Band. What a wonderful group that was. Seeing the field and the stands brought back a flood of memories of huddling for warmth under Halloween costumes, sipping rum and cokes (rums and coke?), picking out tunes on my glockenspiel until the people around me shouted "shut up!" in a body. And the routines!: the salute to Watergate with the cassette tape whose wheels revolved and the mysterious gap in the music, the salute to the baseball cocaine scandals with the line of members in white running up the huge nose, the frisbee dog that couldn't catch, and the notorious "Fitted-Sheet Flag Corps". I was very sad to learn that the quirky, memorable Pep Band had been disbanded and replaced by a traditional marching band.

While walking along the back of the engineering complex I was struck by how much of the campus I had never actually seen. I really must have stuck to only necessary and familiar routes while there - there were whole complexes of building I'd never seen and I don't think it's because they were built recently. My feet took me in the direction of the Corner and past it to 14th Street where I lived during my second year in the newly established French House. The house, miraculously, is still there. It was in such bad shape when I lived in it that I was surprised to see it still standing. Another rush of memories: Jennifer and Linda sitting on the sofa on the roof, Deb laughing at some joke at the dinner table, rabbit for dinner, Christine having to go through Dave's and my room to get to hers, Jean-Luc and his awful cigarettes, not speaking nearly enough French. The latter notwithstanding, I feel good about having been one of the founding members. From what I understand, it's still going strong.

I think it was at this point that I walked down to the Corner to try to score some lunch. Some of the old favorites were still there: The Virginian, Littlejohn's. Macado's (no longer there) was the one I remember the best. I seem to remember going there frequently with fellow members of the Pep Band. In addition to a lengthy sandwich menu they had a candy counter where one could buy a huge range of European chocolate bars - Suchard, Lindt, Feodora. I don't remember seeing The White Spot. Have Grillswiths forever passed from the scene? Mister Donut had passed the torch to Dunkin. My favorite at Mister Donut was the Chocolate Angel - I recently discovered that Dunkin has a pretty good approximation. I'd done a little research on Google maps and picked one of the places I'd seen there that I thought looked good - Michael's Bistro, a little place at the top of a flight of stairs. I passed a pleasant half-hour reviewing the photos I'd taken while savoring a local craft beer and an excellent Jamaican-jerk-style pulled pork sandwich with onion rings.

“I remember the scratch of charcoal on newsprint, slanting bars of sunlight and the appalling aroma of our teacher's cigars.”

Back onto Grounds and up the hill toward the Rotunda. Brooks Hall, where I had some of my drawing classes, is a wonderful architectural anomaly on Grounds. A looming Victorian structure with a mansard roof and a wonderful tower over the entrance, its cornice is decorated with the names of naturalists and grotesques of wild animals, rhinoceri, elephants, etc. It's a delightfully sinister-looking structure which to me, for no very good reason, seems like something out of Nathaniel Hawthorne or, more appropriately to the place, Poe. It was a wonderful, museum-like setting for an art class. I remember the scratch of charcoal on newsprint, slanting bars of sunlight and the appalling aroma of our teacher's cigars.

Skirting the plywood construction walls surrounding the Rotunda, I made my way around to the University Chapel, another architectural anomaly. I confess to not having spent much time there while a student. Getting busted for sneaking in to play the organ stands out, as does the initiation service for an honor society during which interminable variations on "The Good Old Song", at least one in a minor key were played on said organ - Marisa couldn't keep a straight face, if memory serves.

Eschewing the Lawn for the time being, I made my way along the path at the edge of the West gardens. Was it in a building behind Pavilion 3 that we had our first Lawn Residents' meeting? I remember attending outdoor parties in at least a couple of the gardens. Some orchestra thing? Behind Pavilion 7 or so I peered over the wall to find myself face-to-face with a squirrel which was perched on a tree branch just behind the top of the wall. The amphitheater was impressively "done up" in preparation for the nights' activities. I was looking forward to see Tom Deluca, the hypnotist who was slated to perform there later that night. It was the very same Tom Deluca who performed during our orientation week in the fall of 1980.

Finally, onto the Lawn. It's perversely comforting to know that when my ashes are making their way simultaneously from where they'll be scattered in Lake Michigan and the Wisconsin River to, respectively, the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico, the Lawn will persist, largely unchanged. Ahhh, Arcady! Your stately columns, your shaded colonnades, your leafy canopy, your shadow-striped grass. (Singing in grotesque falsetto) "Sous le dome epais, ou le blanc jasmin a la rose s'assemblent...". Oh, sorry. Got carried away there. Yeah, a few memories there: carving pumpkins in my room with Susan and Janet, fires in the fireplace, dozing with the shutters closed to the sound of people walking along the colonnade, sitting outside in my rocking chair, reading "Cold Comfort Farm" under a tree. What a privilege it was to live there. I remember staying up the entire night to finish reading "Christine" by Stephen King. Couldn't put it down. Now I can't even read sitting up in an uncomfortable chair for more than ten minutes without falling asleep. I wrote a verse to John Prine's "Dear Abby" about my year there:

"Dear Abby, dear Abby, there ain't nothin' more.
I've lived on The Lawn, after which life's a bore.
So tell me why I should keep carryin' on,
when livin' can't live up to life on The Lawn."

I'm rather proud of the alliteration. Admittedly, it wasn't the BEST time to be enjoying views of the Academical Village. The Lawn was dotted with stacks of chairs and tables for the weekend's festivities. A black plywood wall blocked the steps of the Rotunda. The column capitals of same were encased in the aforementioned black netting to prevent passersby from being brained by falling chunks of marble. The newly-sheathed copper dome was in an unfortunate state of oxidation between the burnished glow of its initial installation and the green patina it would eventually assume. (I learned at the Rotunda renovation lecture that it will be painted white as soon as the ideal atmospheric conditions are present.) In any case, it was good to be back.

I distinctly remember playing in a symphonic band concert on the pavement in front of Old Cabell Hall. Was it Mozart's Serenade "Gran Partita"? I like to think that it was.

“Room 205, where I practised piano for hours on end, had been replaced by a toilet.”

Old Cabell Hall lobby had been transformed out of all recognition. The walls, white when I was there, were now covered in brightly colored murals. I quite liked the murals. If I had any objection to them it was simply that they made the lobby look different from how I remembered. Room 205, where I practised piano for hours on end, had been replaced by a toilet. I couldn't get into room 207, another site of much piano practise.

By contrast, the music department office at the East end of the lobby hadn't changed at all, at least to my memory. I half expected to see Elizabeth, a student employee from when I was in school, working the desk. I reminisced with the (indulgent) student behind the counter about the listening library where the vibration from someone walking across the room would cause all the record player tone arms to bounce up and down.

Down the stairs past the piano practise modules (more about those later) and the band corridor to the Music Library. The Cabell Cave snack bar is gone, having been edged out by the expanding music library. I remember hearing a fourth-year friend from band (and high school) Lisa, saying she was famished but didn't have time to go anywhere for food before rehearsal. Someone suggested the Cave. She had never known it was there during all her time at the University and was astonished when the door next to her was opened, revealing the steps going down into the arched space below the auditorium. I had a lovely chat with the two employees of the music library - I hope I didn't bore them with my story about looking for a Schubert piece I'd heard in a film and not being able to find it. The librarian I had asked was skeptical when I said I couldn't find it in the complete works volumes up on the shelves but became obsessed with the problem, eventually finding a photograph of the original manuscript (which turned out to have been a posthumously discovered work) in a music journal.

Up through the lobby of Old Cabell and across the bridge into Wilson Hall, another place where I saw a huge number of movies, many during the class "Cinema as an Art Form" which I took first year. I remember sitting in shocked silence during the violent conclusion to "Taxi Driver" and, when a closeup of particularly ghastly detail appeared on the screen, hearing a deep, resonant voice intone "Oooh, lovely!". I think it was to Wilson Hall that a group of us from Webb dorm went in costume to see "Halloween". In the course of a very suspenseful scene in that film, someone dropped a heavy book at the back of the auditorium, creating a loud report that caused the entire audience to scream.

Another favorite class held in the Wilson Hall auditorium was Art History. I took the Art History survey part 2 (Renaissance through Modern) class in an afternoon session during Spring semester. My eyelids would often go down with the lights. During one session, when I should have been examining a slide of Gruenewald's Isenheim Altarpiece, I was instead slipping into a doze in the afternoon heat. Someone opened the door at the bottom of the auditorium - the creak of the door sounded precisely like my alarm clock - I automatically swiveled and stretched out my arm to hit the snooze button, realising my mistake and arresting my hand inches from the cleavage of the woman sitting next to me.

Up the stairs into New Cabell Hall. NCH had, I learned later, recently escaped the wrecking ball, having been found to be cheaper to preserve and update rather than demolish. Gone was the bridge from Old Cabell. The finishes and lighting fixtures were brand new but the wonderful window wells had been preserved. I remember sitting in one of them and writing in my journal.

Exiting New Cabell Hall through a south door onto the new South Lawn Project I had a hitherto unseen view of the building. A new bridge over Jefferson Park Avenue connects New Cabell with new academic buildings (commerce? avarice?) on the opposite side of that thoroughfare. From there one has a beautiful view of the south facade of New Cabell over a manicured lawn.

Also visible from the bridge were the apartments on nearby Brandon Avenue where I lived my third year with Greg, Jackson and Logan. I had met Logan through my lovely friend Liz during my second year.

“My name is still clearly legible where I wrote it in pencil on the mortar between the bricks behind the shutters.”

Back to the Lawn. A walk past my room. My name is still clearly legible where I wrote it in pencil on the mortar between the bricks behind the shutters. I've just suddenly remembered that room 40 was my friend Liz's room. I picked it specially because of her. I met Liz in Pep Band during my second and her fourth year. I remember Liz, Sharon and Harold and I sitting in Harold's Lawn room with a fire roaring in the fireplace, listening to some of Harold's favorite music - a Vivaldi recorder concerto.

Sitting here typing this account now seven months after the reunion (God knows how much longer it'll be before this page actually goes live) and trying to open myself to memories brought on by the sights of the Grounds, I'm beginning to realise that I've forgotten much of my life from that time. I stood in front of a familiar building in which I KNEW I took a class but I couldn't for the life of me remember precisely what the class was, or who I knew that might have been in it. The same goes for certain events which I know should have been memorable but about which I remember almost nothing. Now that I think of it, perhaps my reason for going to the reunion wasn't as much to relive experiences as to try and identify or retrieve them - a sort of forensic investigation into a 30-year-old cold case.

Back to my room to clean up, change, and get ready for that night's Class of '84 dinner on The Lawn. On the way back to Venable, I walked past a lovely fountain which, if I'd ever seen it back in day I'd completely forgotten. I sat down on the stone bench that curved round the fountain's basin and relaxed for a while.

“I was reminded of Tove Jansson's Moomintroll books and her description of an outdoor party in Moomin Valley under paper lanterns.”

It was with a pleasant feeling of nervousness that I left the dorm room and began to make my way over to the Lawn. It was exciting to think about whom I might encounter, what emotional reunions might occur. It's perhaps a good thing that I couldn't have known in advance that in the course of the evening I wouldn't meet up with a single person I had known well while a student at the University. I flatter myself that my social skills, practically non-existent in 1980, had developed to the point where I could make a success of the evening.

Early on, I struck up a conversation with Greg, a gentleman who was taking pictures of the Rotunda, whose copper dome was shining in the late afternoon sunlight. We chatted about photography, in particular his enthusiasm for taking pictures of abandoned structures - St. Elizabeth's Hospital and Ellis Island among them. We took turns taking photographs of each other in front of the Rotunda with each others' cameras.

I sipped a margarita and walked about the area closed off for the Class of '84, watching as the sky faded to a deep blue and the lights strung across the Lawn came into their own. I loaded up a plate at one of the buffets and looked for a likely place to sit. I asked those seated at a half-empty table if they would mind if I joined them. Ed was there by himself, Mike and Anne were there with their two boys. Mike looked vaguely familiar - I could have sworn we'd been in a class together, but never was able to pin it down. He studied Civil Engineering (perhaps it was a computer class?) and ended up flying C-130s for the Air Force. The Air Force angle provided a good deal of conversation: Okinawa, SR-71s, Udvar-Hazy, and the Museum of the US Air Force in Dayton which I'd visited only two months prior and where Mike said he'd been planning to take his sons. We passed a very pleasant meal under the lights which swayed gently above our heads. The trees and roofs of the Academical Village were silhouetted black against the deep blue sky and there was a warm glow in the entryways of the Pavilions and underneath the colonnades. I mentioned that I was going to the hypnotist performance in the Amphitheater later in the evening. My table companions hadn't attended during orientation week back in 1980 but were interested all the same. What lovely people - I'd hoped to run into old friends but instead had the pleasure of making new acquaintances. We said our goodbyes and went our several ways.

I walked around for a while, enjoying the cooler air, the murmur of conversation puncuated by laughter and shouts of recognition, and the novel sight of the Lawn lit by strings of lights. I was reminded of Tove Jansson's Moomintroll books and her description of an outdoor party in Moomin Valley under paper lanterns. Strange to think that reading those books preceded my arrival at UVA by only ten or so years but my departure from same occurred three times as long ago. I had a sudden sense of time "compression" - only the intervening years prevented me from seeing events that occurred in those same places - frisbee games, clowning around with Marisa and Scott, visiting Eloise in her room, fires in the fireplace, staying up late reading, graduation.

9:20 p.m.

Feeling a little disoriented, I found myself at the amphitheater without knowing precisely how I'd gotten there. I went down the center stairs and turned to the left to find myself in the midst of my recent dining companions. We chatted some more in the few minutes before the show got underway.

More time-folding. It's one thing to experience sights and sounds that remind one of past events - it's another to have virtually the same experience after an interval of decades. DeLuca's act hadn't, thankfully, changed much. He still had his subjects babbling in alien languages, instantly adopting outrageous behaviors at the mention of a keyword, and slumping in their chairs at the snap of his fingers like marionettes whose strings had suddenly been cut. It felt as though the 1980 performance had merged with the 2014 - had the events of the intervening years really occurred? Had I really gone to grad school, lived for three years in Baltimore, rowed in an eight, moved to Milwaukee, worked at TOTO, met Dan, scattered Dan's ashes in the Wisconsin River, performed in two Gilbert & Sullivan operettas, flown kites with Paul on frozen Lake Monona, eaten gelato on the Island of Elba, and stood with Mary at the rim of the Irazu Volcano in Costa Rica? I don't believe I went up on stage in the amphitheater in 1980, but maybe I had. Maybe Tom DeLuca hypnotised me and caused me to go into a trance during which I dreamed all of the above.

11:05 p.m.

At the end of the performance, I said goodnight once again to my dining companions and walked down to the Corner in search of a pub called the "Mellow Mushroom" where a trivia competition was in progress, according to the alumni event guide. I found the pub but it looked a bit dodgy so I decided to head back to Venable where I lay in bed, first reading from "Cold Comfort Farm", a favorite book that I first read during my fourth year at UVA, then reviewing the day's photos until nodding off.

“The reception was sparsely attended and completely devoid of anyone I knew.”

It took me a little while after waking to remember where the hell I was. Perhaps it's a sign of aging, but morning disorientation has been featuring more in my life as time goes by. "Bare, institutional room" is a disquieting environment in which to wake.

The first event on my schedule was a reception for former Lawn residents in the lower garden of Pavilion VIII from 8 to 10am. I suddenly realised I was nervous. I'm guessing that, unlike myself, most former Lawn residents hadn't undergone ambitionectomies and were probably all Manhattan lawyers, ambassadors, surgeons, etc. The clothes I'd brought with me suddenly looked dingy, my trousers creased, my collars stained. Oh, and I noticed that my forehead was horribly sunburned from my walk the previous day. The purchase of a baseball cap was added to my to-do list.

8:15

I set off for the Corner to get a cup of coffee. None of the arty cafes on Elliewood were open - I went to Bodo's Bagels and bought a cup of the hot and strengthening. The cup lasted until I turned the corner into the alley between Gardens XIII and X. The reception was sparsely attended and completely devoid of anyone I knew. I started a conversation with a couple of young alumni and found myself babbling about having been omitted from the Lawn Resident directory - I'm sure they thought me completely mad. The delightful Amy Yancey came to my rescue. Meeting Amy was one of the outstanding pleasures of the weekend. It was Amy who had responded to my email request to be reintroduced to the aforementioned Lawn Resident directory. Amy is the director of the Jeffersonian Grounds Initiative and is in charge of fundraising for the historic preservation of Central Grounds. Amy and I had a lovely chat about the ongoing restoration of the Rotunda - I shared that I'd attended the restoration lecture the previous day and we talked about the challenges faced by the team at Virginia to balance historical accuracy, expectations (realistic and otherwise) of the community, and the logistical challenges of modern facility use. Fascinating.

I struck up a chat with a lovely couple, Ron and Becky. With the former, an emergency medicine professor at Wake Forest, I discussed naval literature - Forester and O'Brian, with the latter mystery novels. Another attendee, Charlie, had participated in two of my UVa activities, WTJU and the drama department. Charlie, he revealed, was a friend of David Weiss, the director of the Virginia Players musical "She Loves Me" in which I was a chorus member. It was a relief to meet someone involved in the arts to defuse the "Manhattan Lawyer" factor. After talking for quite a while about acting classes, Monty Python, political correctness, and the demise of the Pep Band I asked what Charlie did for a living - "Oh, I'm a lawyer in Manhattan", was the reply.

9:45 a.m.

Leaving the reception I began to wonder if I was going to see ANYONE I'd known at school. None of my fellow lawn residents had put in an appearance in the garden. I remembered my sunburnt forehead and made my way to the bookstore which, I discovered, had moved out of Newcomb Hall into a dedicated building just behind same. It was good to see that the bookstore hasn't been Barnes & Nobilified (not that I've got anything against that chain - I enjoyed working there back in '04). The Dartmouth bookstore went that way a while back and, I thought, lost a bit of individuality in the process. In addition to a cap, I bought a moleskine notebook, a UVa mousepad and some chocolate (Caramello and Toblerone).

I stopped briefly at my room to drop off my purchases and then, like one of George Romero's zombies obeying a latent urge, I made my way back over to Old Cabell Hall and found an open piano module. More time-folding. I'd spent so VERY much time in the practise modules while in school that it felt as though I'd left only briefly to attend to the last thirty years of my life. I sat for a while enjoying the silence and then played a few pieces. Memories - four of us playing eight hands in one of the cubicles during and/or after the Pep Band Rotunda dinner - Susan and Chris and? Practising Chopin's Ocean Etude and suddenly realising my fingers were bleeding all over the keyboard. Certain pieces are tightly welded to certain times - I'd just learned Chopin's Nocturne in D-flat on arriving in Charlotteville. A Rachmaninoff prelude in G Minor stands out as one of the more challenging pieces I learned while at school. The melancholy Hungarian Melody by Schubert will always be associated with leaving at the end of my fourth year. I throw in a movement of a Handel Organ Concerto to include something from more recent times.

12:15 p.m.

I played until it was time to walk down to the Corner to meet Jim St. Pierre for lunch. Jim is a dear friend who lives with his wife Laura and their children Ben and Nate in Arlington very close to my family. Jim was in Charlotteville for a two-week long (!) work seminar. Michael's Bistro again - this time I had the Vietnamese sandwich and an IPA. Jim gave me an update on the family (Ben is doing VERY well at his tuba playing) and his crazy two-week seminar. I told him about the weekend so far and about the events scheduled for later that day, including the reunion sing. Gay marriage was a hot topic - earlier that day Wisconsin's constitutional ban had been struck down. Jim asked if Paul and I were planning on getting married. Jim and Laura had been present at Dan's and my ceremony back in '95 - it was good to hear him reminisce about it. He said that singing at our ceremony was a favorite experience of his. I left my second IPA unfinished - walking around in the heat had made me too susceptible. We walked up to the lawn in front of Brooks Hall and took a couple of farewell selfies. What a treat to spend some time with Jim.

2:05 p.m.

Next on the schedule was a seminar on the US response to terrorism. It was at the seminar that I knew I would finally be seeing a familiar face - my first-year dorm suitemate Matthew Olsen, at the time of the reunion director of the National Counterterrorism Center, was slated to lead the session.

I honestly can't remember if I'd ever had a class in Minor Hall. The auditorium looked vaguely familiar. I took a seat and fiddled with my phone for a few minutes. Loooking up, I saw Matt sitting down up front with the other members of the panel, Lieutenant General David Deptula (ret.), and Gina Bennett, a CIA analyst. To me, Matt looked pretty much the same as when I last saw him on M Street in Georgetown in '85. It was as though someone had halfheartedly started one of those "milk carton missing child" age progressions on him and given it up early on. Hair slightly thinner and greyer - that was pretty much it.

The presentation was interesting - I should have taken better notes. I particularly enjoyed Gina's telling of how the birth of each of her children coincided with some terrorist outrage and how she said it made her feel jinxed and that colleagues jokingly asked her not to have any more children. One thing we learned was that "Remotely Piloted Aircraft" is a more fitting descriptive term than "Unmanned Aerial Vehicle" or "Drone", which imply that the vehicle isn't controlled by anyone. I can run with that. Branding is so important. I love kiwi fruit and avocados but I don't think I'd like them as much if they were still called Chinese gooseberries and alligator pears.

At the end of the session, short lines formed in front of each of the three presenters and I joined the one in front of Matt. As the line got shorter, I wondered if Matt would recognise (or, even remember) me. I made eye contact with him as he was talking with the gentleman in front of me - inconclusive. As I reached out to shake his hand, his eyes dropped to my nametag and he then practically shouted "CHARLIE MARSH" and hugged me. He apologised for not recognising me - I assured him that, my having been such an appalling Gawd-help-us our first year, the greatest compliment he could have afforded me was that of not recognising me. It was great to see him. We exchanged a few words and then established that we'd see each other again later the same evening at the 1984 dinner on the Lawn.

3:40 p.m.

Quitting Minor Hall, I made my way across the bridge (new, since our time) that crosses behind the amphitheater to Cabell Hall. The sun was well past its zenith and there were lovely shadows encroaching on the edge of the amphitheater. I stopped to take a couple of pictures from the bridge. While taking the pictures, I thought about the symbolism. A bridge, passage from one place to another, not present while I was at The University so not a passage that could then have been made. I felt a pleasant sense of completion, coming full-circle, finally shedding an unnecessary burden.

The unfamiliar decorative murals in the lobby of Old Cabell once again gave me a jolt. I decided then that I would never get used to them. A rather impressive spread of nibbles was laid out on tables in the lobby, presumably for the Reunion Sing in which I was hoping to participate. On the way in to the auditorium I asked the welcomer (student? recent grad?) if the event was restricted to those who had actually been members of the vocal performing groups while at the university or if it was open to just anyone. "Ask the director" was the response. The director, Michael Slon, was just calling out a welcome as I descended the stairs toward the stage where two long rows of chairs had been set up for the participants. I approached him and gave him my spiel, telling him how I hadn't actually been a member of any of the vocal groups but that I was in most of the instrumental ensembles and had been singing in church choirs and community theatre and choruses ever since. "Pull up a chair" was the enthusiastic response. (He later stated that the event was indeed open to anyone which, for me, diminished the value of my credentials, but that was okay.)

I had the opportunity to chat briefly with those around me and to listen to the conversation among returning alumni. There was a wonderful sense of conviviality and renewed acquaintance. I've always derived a great sense of belonging and shared interest with fellow members of musical groups - it was no surprise to me that there should be such a strong atmos of same at this gathering.

Michael brought the proceedings to order and, over the next hour or so, led us through several pieces of music: "And the Glory of the Lord" and "Hallelujah" from Handel's "Messiah", a lovely Swedish lullaby, and two songs from the University tradition - "The Good Old Song" and "Ten Thousand Voices/Virginia Hail, All Hail". The Reunion Sing experience was terrific - to sing with so many talented, enthusiastic people was a wonderful opportunity but, I'm happy to say, for me not a rare one. I'm very fortunate in that I'm a member of several community music groups (all masterfully led by my friend Donna) which provide me with a very rewarding and, I should say, well-above-average-in-quality musical and fellowship experience. Michael's excellent leadership skills, professionalism, friendliness, and taste made the experience a delight and also made me very grateful for the ongoing music experiences I have in my own community.

It was such a pleasure to be back on the stage in Old Cabell Hall, under the eyes of my old friends, the inhabitants of "The School of Athens", the Raphael reproduction on the wall above. I was just on the verge of saying "so many memories" but again, the memories are fading. Certainly a few come unbidden: the PDQ Bach concert, Glee Club Christmas concerts with the audience-participation renditions of "12 Days" ("Eight maids a-milkin'! Eight maids a-milkin'!), "New World Symphony", "Concerto in F", that Poulenc piano concerto, symphonic band concerts, piano lessons with my teacher Jungeun, that piano recital of mine that I dragged my first year dorm suitemates to, but I know that there are far more that have just slipped away. While singing it, I realised that I'd never sung "The Good Old Song" in harmony. I mean, when would I have? It's a lovely arrangement. "Ten Thousand Voices" I'd never heard at all (or had forgotten).

Later, at the dinner on the Lawn, I would wonder why the Reunion Sing didn't include an opportunity to sing for other alumni. I'm going to suggest that the assembled group serenade at least a couple of the alumni dinner gatherings for when I return in 2019. I pocketed copies of the UVA songs and, after getting home, recorded myself singing "The Good Old Song". To hear the results, please click on the "play" button below.

The singing over, the participants drifted up to the nibbles and drinks being served in the lobby. After nibbling and chatting for a few minutes, I made my way back to Venable to get ready for the Oyster Swarry.

6:10 p.m.

Again, I was amazed at the lavishness of the reunion events. I would have been grateful for ONE dreamlike, fairy light-illuminated dinner on the Lawn and I found myself walking into my second. This one was a little further down the Lawn towards Cabell Hall. The fairy lights were back, as I've said, plus an immense, white, illuminated orb on a post in the middle of the Lawn, hovering over the proceedings like a wayward full moon. I obtained a glass of beer and walked around looking for people I'd known. The first familiar face I encountered belonged to Mary, a fellow art major. It took us a few seconds to firmly establish the connection. She and I agreed that our major program, while enjoyable, hadn't provided us with much inspiration or direction. Mary asked if I'd been present when a number of students had gone up to the roof of the art building to wait for some project (silkscreening?) to dry - I said with real regret that I had not (privately thinking that that was precisely the sort of thing which would have made my major a lot more enjoyable).

The next familiar face belonged to Anne who was a fellow alum not only of UVa but of Herndon High School. I recognised her as I emerged from the buffet line and asked if I could join her. It turns out, she was there with two other familiar Wahoo/Hornets Kristin and Diana. Conversation favoured Herndon over UVa. Strange that the majority of my time spent with people I actually knew at the reunion was with individuals I knew from another institution entirely. Kris revealed that she'd been all over the world working on humanitarian causes, Anne shared that she worked for the Virginia State Historical Library in Richmond. It was lovely to spend time with them. All three looked precisely as I remembered them from high school. I decided that the Dorian Grey award was, with Matt, pretty much a four-way tie.

Talking of Matt, I spotted him threading his way through the tables looking for a place to sit. I waved and the lady he was with saw me and the two of them came over and sat down. Theresa, the alumna with Matt, had been an RA with him during our third and fourth years at UVa - in Webb dorm, oddly enough. I found myself marvelling at the amount of time that had gone by. Thirty years. Now that I think of it, I hadn't sat down to a meal with Matt Olsen since probably January or February of 1981, so it had been more like 33 than just 30 years. Matt shared that he still lived in the DC area with his family and that his daughter was between her second and third years at the University of Wisconsin Madison(!). I shared the story of Paul's and my attempting to manoeuvre Maggie Chambers into choosing UVa over Madison by setting out coffee table books showcasing, respectively, the beauties of the Academical Village and the serial killers of Wisconsin. Matt said he found that very amusing. I managed to steer conversation 'round to the Bond movies, as I am wont to do. Matt joked about watching "Goldfinger" with his sons and avoiding any discussion with them concerning the name of the principal female character. My memories of the rest of the meal are sketchy - I know that I started babbling and wishing that someone would slap me. In retrospect, I felt uncomfortable having trapped Matt and Theresa into dining with me and depriving them of that much more time to catch up with each other. Oh well. I console myself with the knowledge that it all went exactly the way it was supposed to.

8:20 p.m.

In any case, I was saved from further sabotage of my tablemates' reunion by a text from one of my very favorite people in the world, Katy O'Connor. Katy was there for her 20th reunion - she and I had already traded a couple of texts over the weekend but hadn't actually run into each other. We made arrangements to meet each other immediately and I made my provisional goodbyes to my fellow diners (final, as it turned out, as I didn't encounter any of them later in the weekend) and struck out in search of Katy.

After a comical series of text-driven misunderstandings we located each other in an area of the Lawn adjacent to where my event had been taking place. It was wonderful to see Katy - we talked excitedly about the weekend and how our respective reunions were going. I asked her about the family and Katy related how the Excellent Carolyn, our mutual sister-in-law, had saved the day by attending one of her kids' school events in her absence that weekend. I am blessed with such a wonderful family. How grateful I am that my life with Paul and with our families isn't something from which the reunion was a welcome break. As fabulous as the occasion was, I was looking forward to returning to my version of the real world.

Katy was whisked away by the ongoing whirlwind of her reunion experience and I started walking back to where I hoped our dinner was still in progress. It was a vain hope - the staff were clearing away the debris of the meal and the last of the 1984 alumni were receding into the Purple Shadows. I could hear the band that was slated to play in the amphitheater limbering up and decided that I wanted to preserve the day I had built in its current, fragile state and so headed back to my room.

9:50 p.m.

The rest of my evening was a pleasant carbon copy of the previous one (reading, reviewing photos) except for being awakened VERY late by a drunken reveler who had mistaken my room for his own. I congratulated myself that my nostalgia was not of the kind that could drag me down quite as far as that.

“...the defining aroma of the University, the smell of boxwood...”

Little else to tell. I spent Sunday morning aimlessly roaming the grounds, taking pictures, and reminiscing. Actually, I did have one specific task, and that was to return my room key to the housing office in the Old Dorms complex. My walk there took me through a part of campus in which I'd spent a little time but about which I'd completely forgotten. Behind the old dorms there's a path that runs from Emmett Street to the cemetery behind the New Dorms. Alongside it there are some tennis courts and a volleyball court nestled in a sort of glen. I remember playing "Pep Band" volleyball (one hand used only to hold can of beer) with the gang there at least once. It's a pretty spot and it brought back some good memories.

I whiled away some of the time with a stroll in one of the lower pavilion gardens - number two, I think. It's a pleasantly austere garden having a "two-level effect with a little path running down the middle". No, sorry. I lapsed into "Holy Grail" there for a second. It's a pleasantly austere garden with several low trees and hosta and fern in the shade of the serpentine walls. What for me is the defining aroma of the University, the smell of boxwood, was stronger here - there were low hedges along the path just outside the gate.

1:05 p.m.

At the last, sitting against a tree on the Lawn near Old Cabell and writing the framework for this reminiscence in the moleskine notebook I'd bought at the bookstore earlier in the weekend. I knew that when I stood up it would be to walk up the Lawn, along Rugby Road and back to where I'd left the Marsh's Prius in the lot below Lambeth. I knew that when I stood up it would be, in all probability, the last time I would be in this place for another five years.

I stood up.