Hurry up, reunion

Last night I finished my last shift at the local library. I fly to Virginia Beach tomorrow. I'm remembering that antsy feeling from the Navy, when you've signed out at the quarterdeck, picked up your leave papers, but still have to wait overnight for your flight.

I should be packing, but I'm blogging, looking for news of the defense budget, answering emails.

And thinking about the year since the last NMA reunion.

I've lost a dear shipmate. First among my regrets is that I didn't work harder to convince him to join our organization and come to a reunion. Woulda, shoulda, coulda.

Another shipmate suffered a serious health challenge early this year, but seems to be coming out the other end of the tunnel with all his running lights on.

These things point out to me the value of my membership in the Navy Musicians Association. For a few days, I am reminded of some of the best years of my life. And I get to share those memories with the same people who made those years so good. I've made new friends, too, men and women I never saw in crackerjacks.

We are not immortal. But we're still growing, I think, and that's what makes our reunions meaningful. They're as much about today as they are about long-gone Unit Band 54.

It's a funny thing; you see your old friend Bill or Jack or Dave in the hotel lobby and rush to greet him. As you give him a hug, you're saying, "You look great--I haven't seen you since that Med cruise," but in your mind, you're thinking, "My god, he looks like hell."

As the two of you get to talking, you see occasional flashes of your youthful buddy in this old man's face. You promise to meet again later in the lounge, or the restaurant or registration room.

And when you do, you see him across the room and instantly think, "Damn--he hasn't changed a bit."

Enough. Time to pack. This in-between antsy feeling is killing me.