Having experienced their own twenty-fifth reunion last year, twin brothers Mark and Steve O'Donnell ('76 and '76, respectively) offer these visions, transcribed while they murmured in a restless dream state on undersized beds expressly borrowed from a freshman dorm. Here is a sample of what members of the class of 1977and other reunionersmay very well see and hear for themselves this June.
Someone comments, "Wow! I didn't know there was an Under-Under Secretary of Transportation."
|Illustration by Lynne Foy|
Returning band members insist on wearing their College blazers, injuring classmates with ballistic buttons.
A man and woman who came close to romance junior year but somehow missed their opportunity somehow miss their opportunity again.
Hundreds in the class of '77 have to ask, "Where exactly is Prescott Street again?"
Mass confusion ensues in the "Rainbow" and "Canary" groups of alumni children when several kids actually have those first names.
Uncomfortable moment as proud parents describe carefully planned intercourse in 1980 to insure daughter's Harvard graduation coincides with their twenty-fifth.
Your old roommate rejoices to discover the petrified piece of blueberry pie left in the Leverett B-31 light fixture in 1975.
Rash of headaches among Dale Carnegie-types trying to read lapel-level nametags while simultaneously maintaining eye contact.
A seminar on "Spiritual Fulfillment in Later Life" bogs down in lengthy discussion of widespread knee problems.
Massive stone arch, donated by Bill Gates, carries beautiful carved inscription: "This cost me three seconds' income."
Terrorists the world over are frightened to learn that top class fundraisers will ruthlessly track them down simply by adding their names to the phonathon lists.
|Illustration by Lynne Foy|
Shoving match breaks out at barbecue during a heated debate over the technical differences among a provost, a comptroller, a bursar, and a grand vizier.
Despite repeated assertions that "loving your work constitutes success," calculations as to relative solvency are rampant.
Old boy spots name tag on a current freshman and briefly wonders if she knew his grandpa, Ned Farnsworth, who was also class of '05.
Sensitive poets in the class discover they enjoy the same acclaim and celebration they knew as undergraduates. Sadly.
Mysterious frosty vial, spotted in pocket of distinguished stem-cell researcher, is labeled "Harvard Class of 3000."
Wiseacre shows up at Loker Commons lost- and-found and asks for his youth.
Mark and Steve O'Donnell are writers living in New York City.
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