Reunited

If anyone had told me, back in high school, that I would take not only such an interest, but such a large role in ORGANIZING, my class reunion, I would have referred them to the lyrics of a song by my punk band, the Morones. A high school friend of mine (Greg) and I started the group as a joke, but, looking back now, the lyrics of some of our songs were spot on emotionally, even if some of the words were just cranked out to complete a couplet:

The time you waste is really a shame
I dig that girl but what's her name?
High school, high school
Gym class first period's a bore
Research paper teacher's a whore
High school, high school

Sittin' in study hall, nothin' to do
Duck behind the Coke machine, sniff some glue
High school, high school
Girls are really down on their luck
Win or lose, either way you're stuck
High school, high school

Try to get into a party for teens
They won't let me in! I'm wearin' jeans!
High school, high school
If I ever get outta this place
Gonna spit right in the principal's face
High school, high school
Exercise in futility!
High school, high school

It's a track worthy of one of those NUGGETS garage band compilations, if only because the feeling is so REAL. I wasn't a "punk" by any means (if anything, I was a Writer Geek), but "High School" reflected the way I felt about being stuck there. Could... not... wait... for... graduation. I spent the time feeling mostly like Charles in M*A*S*H, when they asked him what he'd remember most about his time in Korea:

"No memories. I blot it out... as it happens!"

It was four years of watching girls I wanted dating guys I hated, sitting in classes staring at my notebook or at the clock, feeling dispassionate about required work and required schedules... all of it typified by waiting for the bell... waiting for the bell... waiting for the bell.

It wasn't ALL bad: I had my writing; I was on the school paper; I played drums in band... but I always felt on the outside looking in. My friends and I seldom if ever got the girl (one friend's mother, in a horrifying overheard phone call, told another mother that her son's friends were "Boys who don't like girls." To which my friend Greg said "WE like them fine. That's not the problem!").

Worst of all, although it seemed like a good idea at the time, I divvied up my senior year between two schools (Carlisle High School in the morning, and the Harrisburg Arts Magnet School in the afternoon), which made me feel like a boy without a country.

Typical memory: I spent my senior prom night at the college snack bar scarfing down ice cream with my best friend Doug while the girl I would have asked if all was right with the universe went with... someone else. A football player and wrestler. I just didn't measure up.

Sigh.

Anyway, again, it's amazing to me that the 17-year-old kid who shouted out his adolescent frustration on "High School" grew up to take any interest at ALL in his recent 25th high school reunion weekend.

But I did; further, as I wrote above, I actually got involved ORGANIZING it.

For those of you who want to run screaming for safety when you hear the phrase High school reunion, I just have to say this: your fears are well-founded. And yet... and yet...

First of all, going to a reunion and seeing old friends, old enemies, old flames, old crushes... it's remarkably LIBERATING. Six years ago, I went out on a limb and, out of curiosity, decided to contact Cris, the girl for whom I would have mortgaged several stars at age 17-18. I sent a letter to her college alumni office, and a few weeks later, heard from her: she was married, living near DC, with two kids, one a recent arrival. We emailed back and forth and then met each other at our 20th reunion in 2001.

Unlike 12th grade, when the thought of Her With A Capital H being with Someone Else, Especially That Football Player made my blood boil with jealousy, meeting Cris and her husband at our 20th reunion felt (again, I can't avoid the word) LIBERATING. I'd carried not only curiosity about her, but the remnants of that high school crush, for 18 years or so... but now I knew: she was alive, healthy and happy.

Further, we had a shared past, and, freed of my teenaged longing, I found a FRIENDSHIP with someone I could relate to, laugh with, and commiserate with. And in her husband, I found yet another happy surprise: someone I liked and connected with almost instantly, because he was the love of my friend's life. He made her feel happy and whole. How couldn't I like him?

So... Cris and I reconnected at our 20th reunion, stayed in touch, and then, as our 25th rolled around, started planning for that one: first by forming a Yahoo group for our classmates; then by (haha) letting someone else do the heavy lifting for the reunion dinner and dance while we teamed up to plan the reunion picnic, a much more low-key get-together.

Last weekend was the reunion. Cris came up on her own on Friday evening, sans husband and kids (they made the trip north on Saturday). Friday night's event was a meet and greet at a pub in Carlisle. When we met, she said exactly what I was thinking:

"Do you want to go to this?"

I did and I didn't. I was worried that it'd be lame; that we'd just feel awkward and trapped and old and fat and stammery and uncool... and by the time we pulled up in the parking lot of the pub, it was almost 8:30... two hours past the start time. "I bet there's not even anyone there," I said as she shut off the engine of her minivan.

"You think we should go in?" Cris asked.

The minivan was quiet.

"We'll go in," I said at last, "and if it's lame, we'll just go over to Walmart and buy things for the picnic."

"Yeah," Cris said. "Picnic stuff."

And with that, she opened her door, and I opened mine, and we got out of the van and walked to the door of the pub... and our reunion weekend started as soon as Cris saw someone she knew from 25 years earlier and, shrieking happily, fell into her arms with a hug.

The rest of the weekend was more of the same. I probably summed it up best in a post on the class Yahoo group board:

Was it just me, or did anyone else...

...sort of dread the whole thing, starting with the "meet and greet" on Friday night? (Did anyone else say to themselves beforehand O.K., I'll go check it out, but if it's lame, I'll just exit quietly and then find, three hours later, that you didn't want to leave?)

...find that when you looked at classmates from a distance, you were thinking "Who IS that?" But then, up close, when you zeroed in on someone's face (their eyes) and started talking, they suddenly looked "the same as ever"?

...connect with at least one person (and probably more) whom you didn't know at ALL in high school, and not just connect with, but connect with like they were one of your oldest, best friends?

...have at least one person (and probably more) come up to you and greet you BY NAME, like the old friend they were, but WITHOUT WEARING A NAME TAG, and the whole time you're thinking Omigod...who IS this???? But you just couldn't say Uhhhhh... excuse me... I know you know ME, but... WHO ARE YOU???

...want to take the DJ aside and say "WE DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE GOING TO GO SEE FOREIGNER AT HERSHEYPARK THIS WEEKEND. COULD YOU PLEASE TURN IT DOWN SO WE CAN TALK???"

...find that one of the best parts of the weekend was seeing everyone with their FAMILIES and meeting their wives-husbands (and, at the picnic, their kids)?

...take a look at at least one picture of themselves on the screen of someone's digital camera and say "O.K... delete that one."

...feel like you were THE ONLY ONE who would feel awkward, old, out-of-place, etc etc etc.

Really, it was great seeing everyone. I only wish that I'd had more time... wish I'd asked more questions, conversed more... There never seems to be enough time...

Reconnecting with these people from my past makes me feel like NOW is all right. Like letting go of my decades-old crush, I dropped the illusions, the ideals, the fears, and found a group of people who were right there with me, right now, coming from where I was, feeling what I was feeling.

Maybe some people like to hold onto old crushes, but I like new friendships better.

Best moments of the weekend for me:

* Having breakfast with Cris at the Hamilton, the best restaurant in Carlisle, and talking about our lives and my move to Vermont and my brother and her sisters and our parents and her husband and my work and her kids and everything... then sharing the book English As A Second F*cking Language with her, watching as she laughed, and walking out of the restaurant, down the street to her van, cracking each other up with stupid jokes.

* Seeing John at the Meet And Greet. John was a wiry, small kid in high school with long blonde hair... at age 17. John was a big, strapping, barrel-chested MAN with short-trimmed blonde hair at age 43. I didn't recognize him at first; when someone pointed him out to me, I said "No, that's not John..." But as soon as I walked up and introduced myself, and started talking to him... like I said above, when I looked at his face, focussed in on his eyes, there he was: the old John.

* Having Sylvia, another classmate, approach me at the picnic and tell me that she didn't recognize ME at first, "but when I looked at your picture in the yearbook and saw that same smile, I knew it was you."

* Cris calling me on Saturday night, nervous that we hadn't quite finished shopping for the picnic yet, and there her family was, on the way.

"We'd better get it done today, because tomorrow," she added affectionately, "the Time Suckers will be here."

And then, later that evening, meeting her family. I already knew Cris's husband, of course, but I'd never met her 12-year-old daughter or 5-year-old son. Seeing them all together made the picture whole. It was fun reconnecting with him (we sat at the dinner-dance while the DJ played his awful Club Mix TOO LOUD, shouting at each other about music: him, Squeeze and Zappa; me, Brian Wilson and Merle Haggard) but even better was watching him and Cris together, seeing them fill in each other and pick up each other and FIT TOGETHER.

As I told her in an email, I'm happy for her and proud of her (and a little protective, too). Like a sister, really.

* One more Cris moment: While we were wandering up and down the aisles at the Carlisle Walmart, hunting down balloons and paper product for the picnic, I found myself needing a nap... needing to get away. This is driving me a little nuts, I thought, and then, surprisingly, God love Cris, but SHE'S driving me a little nuts.

And just as I thought that, Cris said "Probably about now you're thinking 'O.K.... I can't wait to hand her off to her husband."

I laughed. "You know how they say about grandparents that the best part of having grandkids is that they're not yours, and you can hand them off to their parents when you get sick of them? Well..."

* Our class's tour of the high school, where one of our classmates (Sherri, who is herself a teacher) almost gave the CHS assistant principal-tourguide a heart attack when she wrote on a Smart Board with a dry erase marker.

Again, from my post to the Yahoo group...

Something about the tour that I keep thinking about:

There we all were... 42, 43, 44 years old, all of us CHS 82ers... some of the spouses maybe younger, maybe older... but we're all ADULTS.

Meanwhile, there this assistant principal was, who was probably in middle school when we were seniors. I'm pretty sure we were all older than he was. At the very least, we were his PEERS... all adults.

So: WHY DID I FEEL LIKE HE WAS GOING TO YELL AT ME OR SCOLD ME????

I wanted to make sure I didn't put my feet up on anything, didn't go through the wrong door, didn't go to the water fountain without permission. Yeesh.

Before the tour started, Shelly asked me "Do you want a stick of gum?" and I took the pack from her, and then caught the assistant principal out of the corner of my eye, and actually thought Do you think he'll LET ME CHEW GUM???

On the other hand, if Sherri didn't become the first GRADUATE to get assigned detention on a school tour, I'm sure we were all safe.

Still... it was funny, the way I felt going back into the school with this "authority figure" who was probably at least five years younger than me.

A principal, I suppose, is always a principal.

* A classmate, Abby, approaching me on Friday night and telling me that she had one of my Grandma's paintings in her house. My grandma painted on wallboard scraps that my Grandpa cut for her at the lumber yard: country scenes, usually... barns and mountains and shaded country roads and landscapes. Apparently, Abby's father (a teacher) got this painting from Grandma in the '60s and handed it off to his daughter when he had his house renovated. "I can bring it and show it to you tomorrow if you want," she told me, and I kind of forgot about it...

...until Saturday, when she came up to me at the dance. "I have that painting in the car, if you want to take a look at it."

It was overwhelming, holding one of my Grandma's works that I'd never seen before. It was really like holding a lost part of my grandparents: her paint and scenery; his wallboard scrap. Another piece of my past, surprisingly reconciled. Wow.

My only regret is that I was so overwhelmed (the painting on top of the reunion!) that I didn't really feel like I paid sufficient attention to the woman who'd brought the painting. I left that evening feeling bad that I didn't converse with her more, ask her more questions.

I'm sorry, Abby.

Anyway, after all that...

The capping moment of the weekend was the picnic on Sunday. It went off perfectly: Cris and I provided a hot grill, cold drinks and a venue, and the attendees and their families took care of the rest. We had a water balloon toss and all enjoyed each others' company for a few last hours before we posed for final group pictures and hit the road. Cris packed a few things in her van and told me she'd be back in a few minutes to help me finish cleaning up. I tossed out trash, gathered a few things into my car, and, just as I sat down to relax and listen to the end of the Orioles game...

... a motorcycle pulled up in the lot, with a man and a woman on it. He took off his helmet and sauntered over to the table with the woman (his daughter). "Max Shenk!" he called out, recognizing me after 25 years, even without a name tag.

Who are you? Good God, please introduce yourself, I thought.

"Hey, there," I said, and I apologized. The picnic had broken up, but he and his daughter could have a Coke. They sat down across the picnic table from me and sipped their Cokes. "We had a family reunion in Williamsport today," he said, "or else we would have made it sooner."

Williamsport. A two-and-a-half hour ride up rt 11-15 from Carlisle. On a motorcycle. Riding with his daughter. In 90 degree heat.

Now I really felt bad.

And worst of all, I couldn't remember his name... his first name... Lebo... Lebo... he was a Lebo... but which one? Lebos in Carlisle are like Stoltzfusses in Amish Country... Denny? Tom? Dan?

Please just say your name.

As I sat there reaching for any words, any, except the ones I wanted to say ("I'm sorry... I know you remember me, and I remember your face and your voice... but what's your name??!!"), I saw Cris's maroon minivan pull into the lot.

Saved, I thought as she strolled through the grass...

"Hi," she said to our last two picnickers, and the small talk continued.

The whole time he and his daughter talked, I could feel Cris looking at me, expectantly, and I knew just what she was thinking, because I was thinking it too. Finally, they finished their Cokes; we shook hands and said goodbye; I apologized one more time for them missing the picnic, and said I hoped they made it to the next one, and they walked over, mounted their bike, and rode off.

And Cris and I finally said what we were thinking:

"I kept waiting for you to introduce me so I'd know his name," she said.

"I kept waiting for YOU to introduce YOURSELF so he'd tell YOU his name and then we'd BOTH know who he was," I replied.

And we walked to her van and hugged goodbye while her daughter sat waiting impatiently for her Mom in the shotgun seat, a notebook in her lap.

(Cris said "Oh, she carries a notebook everywhere." I've got news for you, Cris: at that age, I did, too.)

(She's already a writer. Watch out.)

"Well," Cris giggled as she got into her van, "see you in five years!"

And I walked back to my car, and she drove off, back to Virginia and her life.

By the way, "Gary" was the motorcycle guy's name. I remember him from high school. Gary Lebo. One of those people I felt an inexplicable connection to back then. I didn't get it or question it; he was in a couple of classes of mine and I met him and just liked him.

Same as with Cris and so many others from two-and-a-half decades ago. Who knows why?

Maybe I knew back then that someday our paths would cross again... our pasts merging with our futures... our old illusions dissolving into new friendships... all of us looking for something in each other.

Mainly, though, just hoping to see each other again.



NOTE: If you want to hear the track "High School," email me --maxshenkwrites@aol.com-- and I'll send you the MP3 file!