Ladies and gentlemen of 1956, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flyin’, and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying” (Herrick 1648). Now we’re through the short days and wolf moon nights of 2022, the “Year of the Poem” (remembering Joel Ash), and absolutely nothing from various class poets, not even a limerick from noted poetry aficionado Bob Mackay, sequestered in Berlin until October! Was this not a good idea or a lack of one’s confidence or an inappropriate venue? I’ve been told this column is to gather info and activities on 1956 classmates who might contact me—or should I chase them down? Maybe poetry, the weathervane, Indian icons, and fern football helmets are not exciting anymore. Maybe Covid, old age, inflation, electric cars, and political division have exhausted us. Moving on, I’ll commend to you the poetry of war. One Bullet Away by Nate Fick ’99 and New Hampshire-man Robert Olmstead’s Coal Black Horse might make some contemplative beach reading this summer. What say you? The “Silent Generation” seems well-named. Chuck Woodhouse has been the only vocal one recently, with his moral and intellectual position on the use of the word “Indian.” Maybe we move from poetry to what? You guys tell me. Shifting gears, the Rosie-Billhardt administration tells me Homecoming is the last weekend in October: horse wagon, meals, beverages, Harvard game, and a weathervane for admiration. Right around the corner in 2026 comes free rooms in the Hanover Inn at our 70th—the Old Pine will never die! See you in “The Woods.”

And I’m not gonna call you cats—you want to say something, please get back to me.

—J.W. Crowley, 15612 SE 42nd Place, Bellevue, WA 98006; (425) 746-1824; crowleyjack58@gmail.com