June, 1955 I graduated from Union High School in Union, New Jersey. I wish I could say that I remember it vividly but, unfortunately, these days I remember nothing vividly. However, while I am unable to recollect specific events I do recall feelings associated with that period of my life.
It was a time of naivety, trust and vulnerability; a time when we ventured into the world and tested values, morals and beliefs that had been instilled in us since birth. We experienced new and intense feelings of rapturous first love, painful breakups, and devastating betrayals. Never since have we felt such depth of joy and sorrow.
It was during those years that we learned how the world perceived us and how we viewed ourselves. We discovered our strengths and our weaknesses, whether we were comfortable as leaders or followers, athletes or intellects. It was a time when what our peers thought about us was more important than what we thought about ourselves; being accepted was everything. We tested the limits of our independence, and dressed alike toward a goal of being different.
It was a period of tremendous growth – a rocky transition from childhood toward adulthood, and some of us still have emotional bruises and scars to show for it.
I’d been to our previous high school reunions, but this one was different – it was better. For one, the crowd was the largest ever. People flew in from four corners of the country and from Canada, in the belief that this would be our last hurrah, and perhaps that belief is what made it so special.
This time there were no pretenses; nobody asking what you did for a living, or how many countries you’d traveled. This time we listened intently as the names of deceased classmates were read; a list that served to intensify our need to appreciate and enjoy the evening.
Our 1955 yearbook photos were pinned to our chests as not-so-gentle reminders of who we once were. Not until cataract eyes had zoomed in on a photo, then refocused on the aged face above it, could we acknowledge a glimmer of similarity between the two.
With exception, men – damn them – had aged better than women. Several facelifts were noted and, no surprise, very few women sported gray hair. Old stories were retold and secret feelings of past affection were revealed. Heartfelt hugs, kisses and laughter were abundant.
Awkward moments were also abundant. Repeatedly people approached me with fond memories of moments we had shared. I not only didn’t remember those moments, I had no idea who the people were.
I stood with a childhood friend, pointed to a group of men and asked if she remembered one of them.
“Which one is he?” she asked.
“That one,” I pointed. “The one with gray hair.”
She turned to me and smirked. “Duh.”
We broke into hysterics because every man in the room was gray – or bald.
Elaine had been secretary of our senior high school class; a position that included being responsible for planning class reunions. With very little help, she had labored over numerous reunions throughout the years. This was to be our last. But we wanted one more – in another five years. After all, promise of another reunion was nearly as good as assuring us another five years of life.
Elaine looked weary. “We’ll see,” she conceded.
Timing is everything, I thought. Asking her to plan another reunion at this time was akin to just giving birth and having your husband ask if you’re ready to start working on the next one. You’d wish him dead. But once wounds healed, and life resumed a semblance of normalcy, you might be willing to give it some thought.
At every reunion we have a small round table covered with a white table cloth, and white candles. Hanging from the table are high school photos of deceased classmates pinned to white satin ribbons. It is a sad, but lovely sentiment. Should we have another reunion five long years from now, I plan on doing my swinging on the dance floor and not from a white satin ribbon.
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