During the Princeton Day School reunion a return to the house where I had grown up and later spent some years alone confirmed the dichotomy that everything changes yet also remains the same. It was a beautiful day outside at the luncheon tables.
Debbie Hobler, seated next to me, mentions how her work to write about the great artist Frederick Church feels guided by him. I remember having the same sense while writing about my father’s father. My gaze climbs the columns and measures the ceiling high above us. Memories from forty years ago of the thirty years I’d spent at the house (now Behr house) flood every space and second around me like water filling a hole, shadows enlivening thought, sound anchoring time: My sister is climbing out the window. Voices, attitudes — auras of happiness and anxiety — swirl to embrace and manifest every nook, book and corner. My sisters and I are laughing, skiing down the hill that is merely a slope; we are watching rain cascade from the slate roof, lying on the rug in front of a black and white scene on TV, listening to the Victrola, waiting for word about our cousin Ann Reid.
A sense of history bolsters ancestors that are urging me to stand and honor the wonderful head of school and his wife who have transformed our old property into a charming garden home, and the school into an even better place than it has always been. They are leaving in a week’s time after 15 years. My heart is sad for them, for changes I regret and try to understand. Emotion floods my confidence as I raise a hand and rise to speak words of praise.
Lynn Sanford 