A Fresh View Of Reunions

Somewhere along the way, high school reunions were no longer silly.  I changed my opinion at our Twenty-fifth.  To put that in perspective, that was twenty-five years ago.

My Iowa high school class, Algona High, 1961, has the ideal elements for such events.  There were only 89 graduates in a rural town with two high schools and ours had an abundance of organizers and overachievers who voted to have a reunion every five years.  I remember smirking at that plan and I missed the early ones.  Looking back, it was my loss.

A school reunion was like the old letter jacket, put away never to see the light of day.  High school was not the highlight of my life, so let's move on. However, with every reunion the class ranks shrink and with each loss I miss a chance to reconnect with a part of my childhood.

For the earliest reunions, I found myself embarrassed to be back in my hometown, which we called "Gonerville" for all the folks trapped in conformity and boredom.  I couldn't quite get in tune with those celebrating the return to their roots. I felt a bit inadequate  compared to the defense lawyer in LA, the professor in Florida, a doc at Mayo or career military, including one at the Pentagon.  So I skipped the earliest of the ten reunions we've had.

Our last gathering, the Fiftieth, was the best yet, but we've lost some colorful personalities.  Gone is my chance to better know them, because as a self-absorbed teenager so long ago, I may have sat next to the same gal for years and not really known her life story.  Now I am at a stage in life where I'd like to see her scrapbook or watch her home movies.

As a career journalist, I believe every life has a story of interest.  The key is to ask the right questions and hope that established trust will provide honest answers.  As time marches on I will miss classmates who mutually helped shape our childhood foundation.

It's a selfish sadness because with their departures go a bit of myself.  Our paths had crossed in that Iowa community so long ago before life sent us in divergent directions, but I yearn to hold onto that connection.  I've come to treasure that common history that made us who we are today.

Self-absorption takes a toll.  Oh, I remember the pranks, incidents, adventures and personality quirks from school days - stuff I've compacted into a recent childhood memoir. A friend says he's amazed at my "anecdotal history," but I don't think it's a compliment. 

Who were the youngsters sharing nearby lockers or laughing at a dirty joke or sweating alongside during football drills?  And that farm girl in homemade dresses, so quiet with her shy smile?  What unknown afflictions or joys shaped their futures?  By missing reunions, I forfeited my inquisitiveness.

My adult children have mixed views of reunions.  With a career move, two transferred from a small private school to Iowa's largest and they have no interest in returning to the bigger institution.  Another was so deeply offended by classmates there is no desire to return.  Our youngest two, both graduates of high schools in Southwest Washington, are just moving into the reunion phase and we hope they'll participate.

At about the Thirtieth Anniversary of a high school graduation, we quit worrying about where we live or what we do for a living, but we might still try for a quick tan or hair tint or get that new car.  By the time the Fortieth rolls around, the pain, envy and resentments from previous relationships should be dissolved and besides, everybody has a gut now.  And by the Fiftieth, we don't care how we've aged or that we have that cane.  We're just glad to be hobbling through the buffet.

Now, with all my fresh enthusiasm for reunions I have to wait until 2016, but I'll be there and I want to hear their stories before it's too late.

One more thing in hindsight about my hometown: it is a great place to raise a family, get a quality education and build lifelong friendships.  And when it all winds down and you prepare to graduate from this life and onto the next, there's likely to be a crowd of good folks who know your story and wish to honor your farewell.

Treasure them.

Memorable Fourths of Forgotten Julys

Like fireworks, Fourths of July memories tend to run together for me.  Now, without little ones nearby to ohh and ahh, the aerial displays and bombardments are for someone else.  Residents in the Chehalis Valley here in Washington state started early this year.  Last night (June 30) I felt like a kid, smiling from our deck at the 45-minute colorful show courtesy of someone right next to Interstate 5.  It was quite professional and cost someone a bundle. At first I wondered if a fireworks stand was exploding.

Two Fourths in particular stand out in my mind.  The first was when I was 11 and is documented in my childhood memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders." Our Iowa town celebrated its Centennial in 1954 and if fell over the July 4 holiday, so many festivities were packed in, including the grandest fireworks display ever held there.  Or so everyone said. Actually the fireworks misfired and sent us and the crowd scrambling.

A couple decades ago, a prominent Iowa grocer, who shall remain anonymous, decided to make the Fourth memorable.  We were guests at their beautiful home in the Iowa Great Lakes (yes, there are great lakes there!) for the long weekend.  Sharing my penchant for fireworks - illegal in Iowa - my grocer friend thought it was a good idea for us to fly his plane to South Dakota, where fireworks could be purchased. We pooled our resources (actually, his resources) and loaded up his plane with boxes upon boxes of promising rockets, starbursts, rain-makers and bombs for our own little lakeside party.

Loaded with hundreds of of dollars in fireworks and safely in the air, my friend (let's just call him "Bob") had this strange smile as he detailed all the violations we could be charged with.  Taking explosives across state lines was one thing, taking them in an aircraft was another.  I hadn't given it much thought, I just wanted some damn fireworks.  I owned a newspaper at the time and Bob thought this caper and the resulting charges would make a funny story - "One for the old scrapbook, eh, Denny?"  Once we got out of jail, he asked, would it make page one?

Well, the story ends happily, except for one little thing.  We had a brilliant display for our children and every other family on West Okoboji that night.  It was truly impressive.  There were so many fireworks going off that the grand finale was one to remember.  We caught his wooden dock on fire.  No one was hurt and we had plenty of water to extinguish the flames.

So, Bob, our story didn't ever make the newspaper, but in this newfangled digital age, it's on a "blog."  Someone explain it to him, okay? (And thanks for the memories.)