The Neuse River and Footloose Creek

cross the southeast border

of tide water Virginia into North Carolina,

creating a confluence with the Lumber River

which meanders south and east

to meet the Cape Fear River Basin

in the marshlands north of Wilmington,

finally joining the Cape Fear River

on her final run south and west

to the Atlantic at the mouth of the Cape Fear

between Bald Head and Oak Island, North Carolina.

It is back where the Neuse and the Footloose join the Lumber,

around that wide, round, burp of land between the currents

that my Alma Marter has presided for 150 years.

The wandering waters creating little twists and outcroppings

along the river front on the edge of the campus.

Its meanderings toward Wilmington can be seen

from the nose-bleed seats of our stadium.

Part of the cross-country trail runs along the Lumber River,

hence the admittedly sarcastic nickname

given to all our sports teams, “The Lumberers!”

A lovely, shaded, river walk,

paid for by some long deceased benefactor

with naive ideas about purity in young male undergrads

in congress with Southern Co-Eds in secluded places

is dotted with benches and swings in little grottos

covered by shaved pine roofs,

creating convenient retreats for spiritual contemplation

and innovative, undergraduate copulation,

helping to place the college high on the list

of educational institutions in the South

which regularly produce

English professors, Episcopal priests, published poets

and hastily prepared weddings.

The schools married students residents

are models of low-income, luxury-living apartments

bragging higher academic achievement than the rest of the school,

(What else is there to do in married life but feed the kid

and study Latin conjugations?)

The apartment complex also has a nickname:

Pregnancy Central.

It is a matter of institutional pride

that Thomas Laurence College

leads the nation

in the number of Freshman Legacies

year after year after year….

“GO TLC!!!! RAH! RAH!! WAAH! WAAH!”

our war cry!.

But neither poets nor a life of the cloth

nor accidental pregnancies assures high attendance

at the yearly celebrations organized

by our Alumni Association.

197 of the roughly 222 attending last years Alumni Weekend

were Faculty and Staff members who graduated from TLC

and who now work at the college,

(with rumors of not-so-veiled-threats

to any who dared to not attend.)

With the exception, generally, over the years,

of the 50th Reunion Honor Class.

And it was, this year,

that my dear ol’ Class of ’75

enjoyed its Day in the Sun.

“Honor Class.”

Now there’s a two edged phrase, isn’t it?’

WE MADE IT!

But, well…

WE made it, anyway.

With only slightly, but noticeably,

increasing numbers of empty chairs now folded,

stacked under the stadium.

No longer needed, but, certainly, not out of mind.

I hadn’t seen my old room mate since our Graduation Day!

(Going our separate ways for work.

to Oregon, (for Jim)

and New Hampshire for me.

And the understandable tradition of non-attendance

to these nostalgia breeding episodes of aging life)

But, best friends for 4 years, from Freshman Sorting Day!

Room Mates, Brother Confessors, Honing Stones…

Then, nothing but phone calls and Christmas letters.

And as we, “Withered on the Vino”

(Jim’s phrase)

and technology bloomed,

Facebook Personals, here and there,

two gatherings, both Zoomed

to celebrate our 25th and 40th…

And unexpected cell phone calls,

one to see if Jim could make it to my third

(and, so far, final, wedding…)

(He couldn’t.)

And one to commiserate on the grape-line,

(our phrase)

over Dylan,

aka Porthos,

our third Musketeer-roomate.

Defensive Right Tackle on the 0 and 10,

always defeated ,

Lumberers football team of our day.

(Who the hell stuck Syracuse on our schedule anyway?)

Dead at 59, times 5 pounds a year,

culminating in his coronary conclusion…

But!

To this one,

Our 50th!

All survivors attend!

Sans excuse!

Nope!

Couldn’t miss this one!

So, there I was,

standing on the running track,

drink in hand,

(always drinks in hands)

Waiting…

“Scoping the availables”

as we used to call it, back, before…

Some terrible, undergrad, pick-up band on the 50-yard line,

trying to keep the beat in some barely recognizable rendition

of that sad song we all used to remember,

something about “sending in the clowns…”

And Jim,

the only real athlete in our crowd,

his college years passed to rhythms

of soccer, 100 yard dashes, “spectacular sex”

with someone in a well sheltered, river-walk assignation

and soccer, quarter mile runs and “more superior sex”

with someone else in another shaded grotto.

And then,

a lightning bolt from a clear sky,

inviolable Marjorie,

a virginal white cloud,

but only and ever only

for Jim.

He,

then, limping toward me,

whiskey-rocks in his left hand,

his cane in his right.

“Shit! Jim! What the fuck happened to you?”

(The same hardy hail we’d use after any weekend roust

back in our bad old days…)

Though this one carried more weight, as we did that day.

But not all Faustian bargains are made when standing,

Jim, sitting then, on a folding chair I’d fetched for him

from beneath the bleachers,

explaining his limp,

his cane,

his pain.

“I started running marathons, later on,

after all the speed stuff slowed…

In my 30’s and 40’s.

Marjorie said it was OK,

since it kept me on the streets and out of the…

well…. You know.

I thought I wrote you about those

Fucking Boston Hills…

Anyway, I guess I finished too many too many…”

“Jesus, Jim! How many did you run?”

Came that rueful, lopsided smirk on his face.

Really, the first time I really saw Jim, that day.

“A dozen, or so, maybe more….” he answered.

“One should’ve been enough, but what the hell…

Paying for it now, though.

And then my…accident.

You heard, right?

Wasn’t my fault, really…

Banged me up pretty good.

Probably saved my life, though…”

“And Marjorie?”

“As ever.

My buoy bell on a foggy night.

Keeps me from too many of these…”

He shakes his drink.

The ice cubes clink against the glass.

Just another, softer maybe, siren song for him.

“And you?” he asks,

trying to redirect the spiraling subject matter.

“As ever!

Thank the Gods daily for the wisdom of a third swing!”

“Nancy a home run, Arthus?”

I smiled.

A big, wide-open grin

to win him over to her.

“Grand slam, Arimas! Grand slam!”

Then,

(the rougher rudiments stumbled over,)

in a swirling crowd of grey hair,

Navy Blue blazers, newly cut to fit bulkier bodies,

and joyous shouts of relieved recognition,

“Hay! You’re here!!”,

Jim and I embrace.

And hold on.

(Way past the appropriate length of time, there, Buddy…!)

The crowd currents around us.

Little ox-bows form, then vanish in swirls….

Then it meanders past us,

a river that understands exactly where it’s flowing.

Always toward the sea.

And how hard,

just holding on,

can be.