Tokomaru Bay High School Reunion Over Labour Weekend, 1968, a most enjoyable time was spent by pupils and ex-students of Tokomaru Bay High School. The reunion, initiated by a group of ex-students living at the Bay, was most successful, with all the returning students finding themselves reluctant to leave the ‘old home town’ with its memories of school life. Many were unable to attend the weekend, but those who did enthusiastically supported a decision to organise a similar reunion during the Tokomaru Bay Centennial celebrations. A committee was elected to organise these celebrations, with sub-committees set up to assist. All ex-students are invited to send their names and addresses to Mr Kiwi Huhu, P.O. Box 53, Tokomaru Bay, or to their local sub-committee. Ex-students in Wellington should contact Mr Tom Poata, 91 Salford St, Wellington, ‘phone 786–966. The 1968 reunion meant at first a hesitancy before making the plunge … ‘Are you Hannah?’ … ‘You're Lance. Do you remember me?’ … followed with hugs and squeals of ‘How you've changed’ or ‘You haven't changed a bit’ … on and on, swapping experiences and reliving the joys of the past, one by one dropping off to sleep in pleasant exhaustion, feeling once more the deep comfort of our own marae. No wonder the turning of the head to clear a speck of dust from the eye and the sudden appearance of handkerchiefs on departure day, and the excuse to stop the car to check a suspect rattle, choosing Busby's Hill to do this as it offers a final view of our beloved home town. Wild horses won't keep us away from the next reunion.

Affinity Beneath these leaves We sat and talked And as a weaver weaves So we propelled our thoughts Back and forth Making patterns Of similar kind From the dark Labyrinths of mind. Strange that the hands So close to mine Were brown, For while your ancestors Enjoyed the sun, Mine, In the northern clime Faced fierce blizzards In sombre woods of pine. Yet we felt a kinship, Found an affinity Based on thoughts Which like a garment Of invisible threads Wrapped round us Like a patterned cloak Enfolding us in its warmth As we sat and spoke. Margaret Dickey