Spitball Army

My high school classmate, Casey Campbell Spaccarelli, is, without a doubt, the Michael Phelps of memorization.  After not having sung our school’s Alma Mater in some 30 years, she achieved the impossible feat of singing it almost word-perfect (if not note-perfect), and she didn’t need to flap her arms three times to do so.

Our 30th reunion took place at the beginning of the month in San Diego, and several folks travelled from good, long, out-of-state distances to attend: Florida, Illinois, Nebraska, Virginia, Arizona and, yes, Alabama.  You’ll most likely be hearing about this event – what ended up being a series of events spreading out over several days, in fact – in a variety of ways on this site in the future.  You have been warned!

But, about that Alma Mater.  It first came up over lunch on Reunion Saturday, and as Mike, Mo and I struggled to remember the words, Cathy quietly began singing it.  We sat in stunned amazement as Cathy plowed through the whole song, while its jagged, uneven melody (it’s about as easy a tune as “The Star-Spangled Banner”) floated across the table over my chicken caesar salad and Mo’s root vegetable and goat cheese mélange.

Then, on Reunion Sunday, inspired by the inspirational homily delivered by another one of our classmates at the USD Immaculata, or perhaps inspired by the idyllic hilltop setting, or perhaps inspired by one last gathering of old friends, Casey delivered the above performance.  Bravo!

In case you were wondering, the word “Olé!” is written into the ending of the song.