I spent this past weekend at my sixty-fifth reunion at Wellesley College. Since I graduated in 1960, I have never missed one. Part of my faithfulness is grounded in nostalgia, in a chance to relive a wonderful part of my life. The four years at Wellesley were transformative, and today my closest friends are classmates.

The high point of the weekend is the parade of alumnae on the last day. The youngest cohort goes first, marching about 3/4 of a mile from one end of the campus to the center, called Alumnae Hall. As each group reaches its destination, it stops and lines the road. Then along comes the next group of graduates, five years older. Eventually the road is lined with alumnae from different cohorts, with the oldest ones marching last. That was my group, about 50 women in their mid-80s. The group behind us was the class of 1955, mostly 92 years old, riding in antique Fords, Model A.

1931 Model A Ford
1931 Model A Ford
1931 Model A Ford
1931 Model A Ford

Since we were the last grads standing, we marched past all the younger groups, and they cheered us vigorously, while we applauded them.

What was striking was to see the demographic changes over time. Our class was all white, though we did have a few Asian students. We did have one Puerto Rican in our class; her father was the governor of the island.

The classes of 1965 and 1970 had a few nonwhite faces.

Starting with the graduates of 1975, the numbers of African American, Hispanic, and Asian students noticeably increased. Every class from that point was markedly diverse.

I have to say it filled me with pride to see how my Alma Mater had changed.

An example: when I arrived at our lodgings, there were students to help us settle in. A beautiful and vibrant young woman brought my luggage to the room. I asked her where she was from. “Rwanda,” she said. “Do you like Wellesley?” She replied, “I love it!” She is majoring in biochemistry and plans to be a medical doctor and to return to Rwanda. Again, I was proud of how my college was changing the world for the better.

But there is another personal note that I wanted to share with you.

In late February, I went for my annual mammogram. The test spotted an anomaly. Several mammograms and a sonogram later, the doctor told me I had breast cancer. In April, I had surgery and the cancer was removed. But the surgeon reported that she didn’t get it all, so I had a second surgery. The pathologist decided that it was all out. None of it was painful.

But that’s not the end of the story. I start radiation on June 2, which will be five treatments in five days. Then a daily pill, all for the purpose of ensuring that the cancer doesn’t return.

I am not worried or frightened. I’m taking it all a day at a time, knowing that my case was caught early and that I have excellent doctors.

Frankly, I am truly worried about my beloved dog Mitzi. She was diagnosed with cancer in 2023, we took her to an oncologist, he put her on a drug that worked, and in June 2024, he declared her cancer-free. But a few weeks ago, we noticed that something bad was happening to her skull. The oncologist said she apparently has a trigeminal nerve sheath tumor. Her head, on the right side, is noticeably recessed. That is, it’s caved in above her eye.

I am much more worried about Mitzi than about myself. I will be fine. She won’t be. There is no treatment for her medical problem. So we intend to love her, spoil her, make every day a good day for her.

I love this sweet dog
When Mitzi met Martha Stewart in Greenport. Mitzi was unimpressed.
A beauty