I am in such a strange mood.  Tonight is my 40th reunion from college.  At the last one of these I went to, five years ago, I thought I looked pretty good.  Then someone put up pictures on Face Book and that was the end of that delusion and the beginning of my reunion with Weight Watchers.  I'm not expecting much to be different tonight. 

I look at my sons, who are already going into their Junior and Senior years of college and I see little faces and plastic knights' helmets and Fisher Price castles with cannon balls flying. How on earth did we get here this fast?  And now I get to face the strange fact that I haven't been a college student in four decades.  A large number of these women were also classmates of mine from grade seven right through high school.  Nineteen of us went to Emmanuel in the fall of 1970 from Girls' Latin School.  Trembling with anticipation in our very first class of freshman year (English with Dr. Jerry Bernhard at 8:30AM) we all gasped when he told us our first assignment was to read "The Aeneid".  Eyes widened.  Furtive glances were stolen.  Notes were passed.  "In TRANSLATION?  ALL RIGHT!"

But that was long ago when the crust of the earth was cooling.  So much has happened since then.  There have been jobs and deaths, romances and broken hearts, children and grandchildren (not mine yet, thankfully) and 9/11 and cell phones, ATMs and iPads.  It's all new and more than a little overwhelming at times.  Yet we cope, some of us better than others.  How does one start a conversation after 40 years?  "What's new?"  Well, there's always wine.  Or I could stuff my face with cheese and crackers and feign a migraine.  At least we're not quite at the age when we don't drive at night.  Or at least I hope that's true.  You never know.  I may be in for another shattered delusion.

Then tomorrow my older college boy goes off to Washington, D.C. for the summer to serve an internship with our Congressman.  This is the very first summer of his life when he won't be home with me.  Oh I know the days are numbered anyway.  His life is taking off like a rocket, as is his brother's.  They have their friends, their own interests, and this coming year, their own apartments instead of living on campus.  I realize they may never really move home again, and that's fine.  But you'll forgive me if there is a tiny bit of mourning going on.  I don't feel needed any longer, and that is as it should be if I have done my job well.  But this letting go thing is so much harder than Virgil's "Aeneid" in Latin or in English.

I don't go to barbecues or the beach on Memorial Day weekend, generally speaking.  Neither do I go to the cemeteries where my brothers and my father lie.  Wayne was 22 and just back from a tour with the 7th Cavalry in Viet Nam when his life ended in a car accident.  Earl ("Smitty") was 42 and a veteran of Viet Nam, too, with the 82nd Airborne, when lung cancer took its very long time to end his pain.  Dad was a sonar man in WWII with the Navy and cancer got him at 72.  All of them were seeing far too much when they were younger than my sons are now.  I can't even begin to imagine what going to war does to people.  My sons don't understand why I still object to the video games where they spend hours shooting at "the enemy".  Sometimes I don't understand that myself, but the connections are beginning to bleed through as I get older.  Life is precious.  It just is.  All of it.  Born, unborn, innocent, guilty, bugs, and animation that represents life in any form.  The only reason that I'm not a vegetarian is that I don't think about it for very long, and I draw comfort from the fact that even Jesus ate fish.

On this Memorial Day I hold these men, and all the men and women who are and were so much braver than I can ever imagine anyone being, close to my heart in a loving and awe-struck way.  I salute you with tears and a lump in my throat.  I bless your memories with my prayers and my quiet moments stolen today to just appreciate the gift of being here and breathing. 

There is not one thing wrong with barbecues and parties and celebrating with friends.  I hope you all enjoy yours.  Just take a moment sometime today to give a thought to the amazing men and women who have made it possible for all of us, with our priceless freedom, to wake up every day in a place where such happy gatherings are possible.  And until our paths cross again, sleep well, my heroes.  I send a kiss heavenward just for you.

It's such a nice little planet.  It's got chocolate and music and everything.  But I must confess that lately I've been wondering how long it's going to be around.  The tales of Global Warming or Climate Change or Whatever are getting scarier and scarier, and more and more believable.  I'm sure there have been other winters like the one we just slogged through, but I am pretty sure they were restricted to the upper reaches of Canada.  Now comes the real test.

Those who have been with me for a while know what a total wimp I am in the heat.  All my Irish and English ancestors come out in force and wail with me when the temperature nudges above 80 degrees.  There is no "beach" in my summers.  There is no "tan".  If I have a color, it tends to be snow white or rose red.  I only venture out of doors at daybreak and after sunset.  Outside of that you will find me patting the air conditioner and singing its praises.  If this summer is the equivalent of that sorry winter, I shall not be happy.  Not happy at all.  Then there's the issue of my issue.  I worry about my children.  And about their children.  What, exactly, have we done to this poor place?  And is there any way to slow it down or stop it or reverse it?  I keep hoping that my son the scientist and my son the politician will one day join forces and come up with something brilliant that will both save the world and make them rich enough to build a nice little house (or an "ell" on their mansions) for Mom and Dad.

Meanwhile, my efforts at recycling have gotten quite serious.  And I think I'd better back off on the Netflix episodes of "Dr. Who."  The frightening images of the future aren't helping me sleep any better.  (Although I do agree, that bow-ties are "cool".)  It's time for us all to walk more and drive less, to take our reusable bags to the grocery store, to recycle anything we can get our hands on, and to take this threat a lot more seriously than we have been.  We don't have a blue Police Call Box in which to escape.

Telephones ringing after one o'clock in the morning do not, generally speaking, bring good news, and this was no exception.  The first time it rang I groggily picked it up and heard nothing.  As I drifted off to sleep it rang again.  This time I waited and heard a recorded female voice telling me there had been a "shooting in the area" and advising all to stay indoors, away from windows, and to admit no one.  I was wide awake at this point and toddled downstairs to (of course) look out the window.  All seemed quiet in suburbia.  I wondered why none of the other neighbors were up and at their windows.  Then the phone rang again.  This time I was awake enough to hear the words "CWRU Emergency Alert" and through the fog I recognized the initials of my son's school in Cleveland.  Case Western Reserve University was under lock-down.

I ran to get my cell phone and picked it up with shaking hands to text my son.  He, thoughtful and smart young man that he is, had a message waiting for me already, "Don't worry I'm safe".  I didn't care about the lack of punctuation.  I could breathe again.  He texted back that the shots were fired near the other side of the campus and that he was tucked in his dorm room.  I'm growing to like my cell phone better and better. 

A thousand thoughts stampeded through my mind as the clock ticked past two.  "What if?" was a biggie, although I usually don't allow myself to indulge in that kind of wallowing.  Someone once told me that once you have a child you spend the rest of your life wearing your heart outside of your body, and it's true.  One Face Book friend said she would be half-way to Cleveland by now  and transfer her kid to a school within twenty-five miles of home.  I responded with two words:  Boston Marathon.  There is no protecting them once they hit the air.  From the womb to the tomb all we can do is cover them in prayers and hang on for the ride. 

As it turned out, no college students were involved.  There were two "juveniles", one of whom shot the other in the thigh at a park near campus.  Why are "juveniles" out at one o'clock?  Why does one of them have a gun?  And I am so grateful to God that those are the only "whys" I have to ask this time.  So many parents aren't as lucky.