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Although when you see him seated before a beer in a dimly lighted booth, he appears gentle and even unassuming, he was voted “Mr.Athletic” in his senior year, as he crushed it in football, basketball, and track.We experienced a cultural amnesia that liquor had ever been anything worth raiding our parents’ cupboards for.Truly, I envied these ’66ers who carried forward a more mature agenda, and therefore hadn’t shipwrecked themselves for a number of years on sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.They had other people’s parents with an eye on them wherever they roamed, and teachers who knew them by name and personality. True revolution wouldn’t hit until any one of them left the Island to face the real world.The first clue to these reunion kids’ (now all in their late 60s) innocent past was that a whole bunch of them actually wanted to be there this recent night. Like Island generations before and since, they’re attached to their little rock in a way that either keeps them home or, if they wander the world for a spell, draws them back to stay, or at the very least, crooks a finger at them for regular visits.In attendance also was class valedictorian Elaine Garneau, now a longtime Bostonian, recently retired from consulting, accounting, and work in nonprofits such as the much-admired Pine Street Inn.

I knew from a glance at the yearbook that none of the guys had long hair or even sideburns; they proudly displayed the shiny pompadours of an earlier age.The girls wore hairstyles their mothers must have approved of; short, flipped, or pageboy, sprayed with a thick glaze.“Louella,” I asked, “did any of you get into, you know, leather fringe jackets and bell-bottoms and other ’60s attire?”She laughed: “Some of us girls tried to wear miniskirts to school, but we were immediately deported by a bus they had waiting outside for that very purpose.(I heard this sentiment expressed a number of times.)I think it makes sense that graduates would be happier and better-adjusted if they know the pleasure of being able to go home, back to a place full of old friends (not forgetting, as a few of the ‘boys’ pointed out, memories of beach parties and ample supplies of Boone’s Farm wine; and no, there was no weed, as far as I could find out, and certainly no stronger drugs).Speaking as someone with nomadic DNA in her background, I’ve always noticed that those who content themselves with staying within at least driving distance from the family homestead are the least neurotic among us.

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