The High School Reunion

“Some things look better, baby, just passing through…” Elton John

High School…a prison with a mandatory four year sentence, no parole, for the reformation of teenagers in preparation for future class reunions. It’s merely an endurance of passing through and passing on.

It’s that time of year when previous Glee Club members plot a reunion of the former inmates. The result is a synod of strangers, societal misfits, abnormal personalities, tortured body shapes, bad hair, no hair and dysfunctional weirdoes. And for kicks throw in a couple of sociopaths. The law of unintended consequences gone wild! If you like nursing homes, this is the place for you on a Saturday night. It’s a Gothic sideshow in the actualities of life.

Dante attended his 50th reunion. Historians say it’s where he got the description of hell. To re-enforce his resolution to forever refrain from such a farce, he wrote, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Translated, if you intend to attend a reunion, Don’t!

Darwin studied reunions. He postulated they were also evolutionary, his thesis being man’s transition from Ape to Neanderthal to Homo sapiens. Interesting. Since reunions are generally held every 5 years, the first 20 are tough for most. They’re too busy evolving, not imagining what they’ll look like at their 50th reunion.

We still go. This year Charles is planning our 50th. I think his judgment’s flawed, since it’s being held at noon, in broad daylight. Brazen. Most reunions are held at night, and for good reasons. Not the least of which would be coiffures, cosmetics, cleanliness and conceits. Many things are best observed in darkness. Age bestows such wisdom.

The usual venues are school gyms, church cafeterias, motels or Masonic Temples. All small towns have these. Colquitt qualifies. This year the Moose Lodge was conflicted out due to an extended booking of the Bikers for Bisexuality Bash from nearby Climax, Georgia. Would I make this up?

The Baptist Church’s cafeteria was the first choice. But the deacons vetoed the request, citing the propensity of the attendees to indulge in unclean bottled spirits and past reports of the unsupervised laying on of hands later in the evening, especially in the parking lot.

The local motel, a retro 1950’s motor court, was happy to accommodate overnight guests, having recognized many local names on the list as regulars. It’s run by a nice Indian couple who knows all of the town’s secrets, but keeps them quiet. Unless they need a loan from the bank, or some favor from a merchant. Some say they have interesting photos. Just gossip.

So at noon this June the 1960 class of Miller County High School will assemble at Moby Dick’s, the local landlubber’s seafood restaurant. Their specialty is fried, fried and more fried. Tooth picks and Pepto Bismal are available at no charge. BYOB is suggested as a medicinal, in case the catch du jour has exceeded its expiration date.

The reunion begins with a meet-and-greet session. It’ll be short. Noon is feeding time for Neanderthals.

Then there’s the “entertainment program” to eat up the clock. I suggested door prizes be given for the most artificial body parts, but it was summarily rejected. Then I suggested costumes, since nobody would know anybody anyway. Botox, cosmetics and transfat have seen to that. Still under consideration.

It’s advisable to carry a yearbook for identification. Recently I ran into a lady who looked vaguely familiar. Come to find out she’d graduated from MCHS in 1960, too. I asked her if she’d been in my class. She replied, “Which class did you teach?” Women are vicious!

The best thing about class reunions are the old memories. Time has embellished and burnished them to a radiant shine. Forget reality, they get better with age. Nature’s cruelty to faces notwithstanding, we do have a common history, albeit only 4 years of our lives. We were important then in our own strange ways. Still are.

But like dispersed vagabonds we return to the indignity of the reunion. We celebrate, embrace and laugh at the spectacle, thinking, My God, they’re old. Or whew, what if I’d married that one? Then we leave, back to our own world. Perhaps melancholy, but glad that we passed through and passed on.

So, if you must attend your class reunion, remember: Men, park your pride and baseball cap at the door. And ladies, Mary Kay sells cosmetics…don’t leave home without them!

Bud Hearn
May 13, 2010