Weeks ago some nutty kids came up with a plan: Get all the folks who played in the CU marching band in the 1980s back together for one big barbecue. Would you believe they pulled it off? Okay, not every single person who marched in the entire decade showed up. But an awful lot of us were there. More than I could have possibly recognized.
My entire piccolo squad was there. That was fabulous. I've seen them a few times over the years, at other homecoming games. There were another handful of people I'd seen once or twice. There were some I could sort of recognize the face, 30+ years on, but the names had vanished from my mind. And there were so many I just couldn't place to save my life. Maybe I should have gone to more alumni games early on, to keep my memories fresher. I might just blame the brain fog, or plain old aging.
Some of the leaders among the group, like the beloved director and drum major, gave speeches at the end of dinner. I promised myself I would remember all of what they said, because it was so special. Yet now that I'm home, all I can remember is how it made me feel, not what was said. What I felt was joy and wistfulness from knowing I was a part of something incredibly special. These people were an important part of my life. Marching band was my favorite thing in all of my college years. (As I type, my phone is suggesting a yellow heart right there. Yes, that would be appropriate for the Golden Buffalo Marching Band, thank you.) I could see the impact we had on each other's lives. I would not have traded my time there for anything.
One of my friends, a tuba player and the band historian for years, suggested they might try to do this again next year. The barbecue was just west of town, so getting there is incredibly easy for me. Yes, yes, yes, please do this next year. And again, as long as we can all manage to make it.
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