Reunions seem to have a mystical power: the closer we get to that long-awaited June weekend, the wider the lockbox containing our memories opens.

As class secretary for 1951, I am constantly hearing from classmates and reminded of events past as I work to compile each fresh batch of Class Notes. In the five-year run-up to our 50th Reunion, class president Nat Reed and Reunion yearbook editor Jerry Lasley (who died September 16, 2004) found even more for me to do: my hats included that of assistant editor, fund-raiser, and Nat’s backup coordinator. From each classmate we requested facts about family, career, and non sibi pursuits—as well as personal reflections.

I have so many fond memories of Andover. One that epitomizes the spirit and caring of its leaders comes back clearly.

The time: Winter 1947–1948, John Kemper’s first year as headmaster.
The place: Hebron, Maine.

I was a lower playing a nighttime hockey game against Hebron Academy. The rink was a covered structure, natural ice with open windows at the top. As the season progressed, the ice level rose. (Early season games were like playing in the Roman Colosseum.)

Hebron was leading when, late in the third period, I was rammed headfirst into the boards. As I lay unconscious, the ref looking away, my teammates threw sticks and gloves onto the ice to get his attention. I was carried off the ice and laid across several seats behind our bench. The temperature was minus five.

Hebron was awarded a penalty shot because of the debris. Their attempt failed, and we went on to win in overtime.

As my vision cleared, there was John Kemper leaning down, placing his raccoon coat over me. He stayed by my side until the Hebron meat-wagon carted me to the infirmary.

The headmaster called every day to check on my progress until John Bronk, PA’s head athletic trainer, drove from Andover three days later to retrieve me. Short of sleeping in my own bed and Mom and Dad being there, I couldn’t have had better care.

I’ll always remember that freezing night and the warmth and attention of our new headmaster.

More than a half-century later, our 50th Reunion was, as anticipated, an event-rich, four-day celebration. The Sunday memorial service in Cochran Chapel honoring our “absent friends” was a highlight. As each name was read—the Abbot girls first—a relative or classmate rose, walked up the aisle, and placed a ribbon in a special box. The interval allowed us to reflect on happy times and shared events of long ago.

In 2002 Joe Wennik of the Class of 1952 invited me to their 50th. My first wife, Betsy Waskowitz ’52, died of lymphatic cancer November 14, 1963. My brother Ken ’52 died suddenly of an undetected heart condition April 29, 1995.

Fifty-two’s memorial service was similar to ours, only this time I was participating.

Seated 10 pews back on the right side of the chapel, listening as the Abbot girls’ names were read, I clutched one of two ribbons I was given, waiting for Betsy’s name.

Flashbacks: Friday evening Abbot calling hours; five exciting years; our home for a year in New Canaan, Conn.; Betsy’s prize-winning painting hanging in Abbot Hall; her early battle with polio; and her tenacious 15-month fight against cancer.

“Betsy Waskowitz Rider.”

I was on my feet walking up the aisle. I placed the ribbon in the box and returned to my seat, more than a little shaken.

The names continued. Now it was the boys. I held the remaining ribbon and again came flashbacks, this time of Ken: Christmases with Mom and Dad; endless summers lifeguarding together on Fire Island; being hockey and lacrosse teammates; trudging alongside him through a blinding snowstorm, from Rockwell to the Andover Inn, for the ritual Sunday evening call home; and serving together as officers on, ironically, the USS Abbot (DD-629).

“Kenneth G.S. Rider.”

I rose again and retraced my trip to the altar.

After the service, I walked down the long aisle toward the vestibule, alone with my memories, rapt in the moment, oblivious to the crowd. My thoughts shifted to my adored wife, Dorothy, our daughter Jennifer ’86, son Graham and his wife, Paulette, and the grandchildren. How fortunate I was, how very lucky I am.

Suddenly in the vestibule there was Head of School Barbara Landis Chase coming toward me. Without a word, she smiled knowingly, hugged me, and patted me on the back. She was gone in an instant. Just as the memory of John Kemper’s caring and the warmth of his raccoon coat has stayed with me for more than half a century, I always will cherish Barbara’s heartfelt hug.

Looking out across the campus as I walked down the chapel steps, I was struck by the simple majesty of the Memorial Bell Tower, silhouetted against the dark blue sky and standing guard at a distance. Like this very special school, the bond that we—as former students and now aging alumni—feel with Andover truly stands the test of time.

Do you have an interesting memory of a favorite teacher or a campus anecdote to share?
Please send your account, approximately 700 words in length, to Scott Aubrey at the Andover Bulletin.