Looking back 50 years later
When is the point when you finally admit that you are old?
Heck, I’ve been telling people that I am old since I was 40, but last Saturday sealed the deal.
My husband and I were privileged to attend the 50th reunion of the Marcellus High School Class on 1966.
Gathered at the Marietta House, we were, in fact the oldest people there.
I had hoped that there might be other teachers from that era, but no, I was the representative of the faculty and given the intellectual and professional power of that faculty, I had big shoes to fill.
Thankfully, my weight loss journey still has about 30 pounds to go, so…
But, truly, I was also privileged to work with superb teachers, and, in this particular instance, a tremendous group of students.
Strangely enough, arthritis and so forth in full swing, seeing those still familiar faces, shining through the extra weight, facial hair and wrinkles, time seemed to fall away.
I was almost 26, OK, not really. My 1966 picture was in the yearbook all decked out in a smile and pearls but on that reunion evening, my biggest claim to fame was the fact that I didn’t wear my brand new orthotics and high top orthopedic sneakers.
I also had prepared for this by taking two ibuprofen. Reaching back would only be in terms of the people and the memories, anything else might activate my benign postural vertigo.
It was the members of that class, so eager then and still so earnest now, that created something that goes beyond my words to explain.
After being warmly welcomed by Mary Horsington Salibrici, my first encounter was with a tall gentleman, who, with a twinkle in his eye, dared me to identify him.
No problem; he was one of the Calhoun twins and since I could never tell them apart 50 years ago, there was small chance that I could on Saturday.
I admitted, “I don’t know if you are Curtis or Clyde.”
Both had come from Hawaii. That says something very special about the pull of high school memories.
While Hawaii is the farthest any of the class had traveled, Ann Hammond made another kind of journey from her home in Paris.
“I always wanted to live in France, so, after retiring; I went to Paris and found a little apartment,” she said.
Is she not the epitome of fulfilling a life’s dream? But, she too, living that dream, came “home”.
There were license plates in the parking lot from Georgia, Florida and Massachusetts, but the majority had remained in the area, if not in Marcellus, nearby.
There were numerous Newmans, a Murphy and my old neighbor Paul Estergard to make the evening even warmer. Mary Horsington has the list of all of those in attendance.
My memory is not as good as it was — but then nothing is as good as it was.
The tables hummed with conversation as each member of the class visited and relived old memories and shared their life stories.
Time was very generous to Gwen Abbott, someone I remember as a lovely young woman who gave me a salad bowl as a wedding present, and who along with Bill Volko thought that I had given them a passing grade on their Regents. I assured them that they earned their grades. They could rest easy.
For me, there was something even more moving.
I was hired in 1963 by Lincoln White to teach anthropology as a senior elective, but the school budget wasn’t prepared to implement the class with texts, etc. until 1966.
That was the first year that I taught anthropology at Marcellus. I had worked hard on putting a semester long class together as a pilot, hoping that it would resonate with high school students.
While I did follow up assessments, it was the ones that were spontaneously shared last Saturday that gave me what most teachers only dream of, affirmation. So many of my former students remembered that class and the positive affect it had on their choice of career or on how they viewed the world.
I wouldn’t give you two cents for my first year’s performance as a teacher.
To say that I was in over my head would be an understatement.
It was a difficult and distressing year. My father died, my fiancé joined the Peace Corps. I had over 200 students, five preparations, two of which had no syllabus or text books. I spent a lot of time at the doctor’s office.
But I persevered.
I grew and, if measured by the positives that I received last Saturday, I did well.
So that 26 year old self had something of value to give to the world.
She could claim to be a part of the stellar group of teachers that she admired. She also was thinner, much thinner, had dark brown hair, could walk without assistance and slept through the night.
I could look at the picture of that young woman and ask “who were you?”
I met her again through the eyes of my students — an unexpected reunion with someone for whom I had mixed feelings. I guess she was OK.
