We Are Family

Fifty years ago seems like just yesterday

If you are only as old as you feel then we are just toddlers.

Every few years we come together in the red rocks from points north, south, east, and west. A sudden death in our little “family” was the impetus for these informal and un-sanctioned high-school reunions, which began about 12 years ago, almost 40 years after we’d all graduated and spread our wings.

Life—what is now left of it—is the goal, the focus, the seed planted deeply by our endless affection and respect for one another.

Five decades ago we roamed the canyons, mesas, and washes of Arizona’s Verde Valley, red dirt embedded between our fingers and toes, long hair shining in the sun (the guys, too), and boisterous freedom from authority our constant sidekick. It didn’t matter that we were private boarding school students at the time, because we knew with unshakeable confidence that we—and only we—understood what was best for us. At 16, 17, and 18 years old. This often involved age-inappropriate and then-illegal substances, which simply served to enhance the mystical reality of our rarefied existence. And occasionally to make us throw up. It didn’t help that 80% of the faculty were only about 5 years older than we were. The administration of the painfully progressive institution with only 100 students (the first and perhaps only high school to require a course in Anthropology), had literally no idea what we were getting up to outside the classrooms. In the absence of any cohesive or respect-worthy adult supervision, we became the only adults in the outdoor room. As in all co-ed or same-sex high schools, of course hormones raged. The school nurse was generous with birth control pills—no parental approval required—so sex was safe and abundant, between the students but also between students and faculty. This often took place outdoors, like everything we did. Hookups might last minutes or months. It was anarchy thinly disguised as academia.

We never doubted our own wisdom, but we constantly and vociferously suspected that of the faculty paid to guide us toward “maturity.” Because we were already Old Souls.

The cast and crew of “Desire In The Dust,” school project 1974. Director Channing Thompson (RIP), holds his camera at right.

I believe that if the parents had any idea what really went on there, they would have arrived en mass to extricate us. Or maybe not. These were parents who by definition had more pressing concerns than their children. And yet their benign neglect gave us this precious gift and we are immeasurably grateful for that.

But it had to happen: Life took us all away from the red rocks. One of us became the Ambassador to Norway, another one a leading light in the non-profit world, championing micro-businesses in the developing world. One is the scion of a legendary SF publishing family, another headed graphics for a white-shoe Manhattan ad agency. One became a respected fine artist, another an internationally respected plant biologist. One, a prolific cookbook author. All of us still carry the red dirt in our veins. Some ushered children into the world and raised them wisely, some did not. Interestingly, of those that did not one sent a kid to our alma mater.

In the present day, we gather, and cook, and stargaze. But mostly, we hike. Sedona is an excellent place to do this if you know how to get away from the crowds. We do none of these things quietly. The peace of the trails disappears, the birds take flight, the scorpions skitter, because we are on the move like a wave breaking on a peaceful shore. We chat non-stop, catching up on decades of life and yet still inhabiting the teenagers imperfectly buried within. Large and small issues that would normally be long forgotten are re-litigated. The outfits are different: bare feet, moccasins, Wallabies, and Frye boots now replaced by sensible trainers. Hats, knee braces, and sunscreen have supplanted impossibly short cut-off jeans. We carry water (we often didn’t back then; occasional slurps from Oak Creek served to hydrate our still-smooth bodies). Occasionally, hip replacements and dodgy hearts will pause play.

Sometimes in the flurry of advancing years we forget, but then we come back and we remember as if it were just yesterday. Decades without touching base simply disappear. The memories are that powerful.

I didn’t know it at the time of our production, but my dad had co-starred in this potboiler in 1960, though he did not get poster credit. I wonder if Channing knew….

The school did such a grand job of leading us down a liberal and progressive path that most alumni have eschewed greed and embraced some form of service or a life in and among the arts. This means that, unlike other private schools on the east coast, there are no alumni millionaires to help fund this perpetually broke school. As a result, the stunning, precious land owned by the school since 1948 has shrunk year by year, as the board was forced to sell off precious chunks to fund its operations. Now, McMansions have sprouted in the terra-cotta-colored Coconino sandstone scree just beyond the soccer field like runaway prickly pears in a forgotten gulch.

We mourn those who have been snatched away from life way too soon (now numbering at least five). We fail to implement our vow not to talk politics on this trip, but there is so much residual affection between us that any doubts or suspicions vanish into the bone-dry air. We are good people. We are Our People.

When we sat around the big table in the rental house on our last night, each person was prompted to name their most influential teacher. At least two of us named friends rather than instructors—because we taught each other how to grow up. And now we are teaching one another how to age with laughter and a few tears among the wrinkles. So what if we stumbled along the way, made rash romantic decisions (I’m speaking of myself here), or found that a road less travelled is often that way for a reason. As an only child I always yearned for siblings to blunt my mother’s stinger. Little did I imagine that they were waiting for me just underneath Cathedral Rock, and that we would come to share far more important things than blood.

First loves—romantic, platonic, or geographic—never grow old in our hearts.

Wilson Mountain today. Just the same as in yesteryear.

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Tidbits For The Week of May 12, 2025

Brigit’s What I’m

CURRENTLY LOVING ➡️  Linguine simmered in 75/25 Sangiovese/water. Insane.
THINKING ABOUT ➡️  When do we get to start the next adventure? 
LISTENING TO ➡️  Jimmy Cliff "Sitting Here in Limbo."