Bad luck at reunions
The envelope arrived a few weeks ago. The return address indicated that it was from the Alumni of Utica Free Academy, my husband’s high school. I speculated correctly that it was an invitation to an alumni event. My spouse opened it, read the invite and then looked at me with that quizzical look that means, “Do you want to go?”
“No” was my unspoken reply. He got the message. Not again! I went to one of his reunion events and that was enough. Now, don’t get me wrong, reunions can be fun, but only if they are your reunion and even then the chances that anticipation will outstrip reality is very real.
My high school is over 300 miles away. There were 50 people in my class. Everyone knew everyone. My husband’s high school was huge. There were 400 in his graduation class. Even the most social of individuals couldn’t know everyone.
And then, given people’s busy lives and general feelings about high school reunions, there would be no guarantee in a large a class such as my husband’s that those who you knew would be at the event. Such was the case at this particular event. I can’t remember which reunion this was. I do remember that I was wearing a dress that I made out of several print fabrics, so that probably means that it was some time in the ‘70’s. You could also, from the physical appearance of the attendees, garner that these were people who were, in the not too distant past, once, high school students. That is no longer true when you attend reunions now. Most of us admit that we are surprised at all the old people who attend these things.
So, there we were, sitting at one of those long cafeteria- like tables talking with a someone who connected with my spouse is a rather tangential way.
“Weren’t you in my history class?”
This fellow worked for a winery that produced a type of beverage most known for being consumed behind a drug store in a brown paper bag.
OK, so he didn’t work for Chateaux Neuf du Pap. He was friendly and willing to talk to me. He described in detail, great detail, how many cases of this beverage he sold over the past five or so years. But, once you have revealed this, how many other ways can you embellish the story for three hours.
I tried very hard to appear interested, thinking at one point that a bottle or two of his product might make the time go faster or dull the ennui, French for overwhelming boredom. Come to think about it, that may have been the way he made a sale.
I never want to do that again.
Now it’s not that my high school reunions were all that wonderful either. I clearly recall our 50th, and before you gasp…I know it’s hard to believe…50 years?
No! That can’t be possible. Yes, more than possible.
We were promised all of the nostalgic stuff as well as a great dinner, catered by, according to the organizer, the best caterer in Putnam County.
The fact that we were having this event in Dutchess County in a town called Poughquag should have given me pause. This reunion was billed as a simple affair, a time to share and catch up. OK.
So, there we were in my friend’s lovely back yard, outfitted with more of those long cafeteria like tables and folding chairs when Hurricane Hanna hit. Yup! A hurricane, you know the kind with big time winds and rain.
Drenched, we moved the long cafeteria like tables into the friends basement –garage and tried to figure out how we could move around in what was now a very crowded space. Once you sat down, you were pretty much going to remain in that seat unless everyone else got up with some having to move to the open doors where the rain was the decoration.
Doling out the catered food was also a problem. Our plans had the food served on lovely white table cloths with vases of wild flowers as a backdrop.
Our only choice, given the space shortage, was to serve the food on the oily surface of the friend’s husband’s work bench between Stillson wrenches and jars of nails. I say oily surface but we really didn’t know what contributed to the shiny black substance that we tried to wipe off with some of the white tablecloths.
Strategic placement of bottles of wine did smooth out the difficulties and make the fabulous food which was fading fast in the oh-so-humid and very hot air. A similar description would also be applicable to my carefully coiffed hairdo which went from nice to “what happened” in a heartbeat.
There was one more teensy problem.
Mr. Friend’s Husband, who we never actually saw, had laid down the law. No using the inner house plumbing. They were on a septic.
So, we had rented a rather capacious portable toilet which, when the weather was good, was perfectly situated. When it started to rain, and I mean rain, the location was…how shall I put this…off-putting? I mean who thought to bring foul weather gear or even an umbrella. Rain cascading off of the house roof once threatened to wash said commode away.
We survived and have a picture to prove that this reunion occurred. We do look a bit bedraggled but then after all these years, who could tell the difference.
And then, to round out all the ways that reunions can be problematic, it was about five years ago when I received a phone call from a former student asking if I might be able to attend her class reunion.
I was flattered, even surprised that someone would remember Miss Smithwick. But it was mid-summer and with family and the camp, I wasn’t sure.
I told her that it would be something that would have to be a last minute thing. After all, I thought, I had grandchildren now and they come first.
A bit of hubris…like I am the only person with grandchildren. Anyway, on the day before the reunion, I received another call from the same gal.
“Are you coming,” she asked rather cheerily.
My mind raced around my calendar. Hey, if they remembered and wanted me to make an appearance?
But, when I said that I would be there, she cleared her voice, apologized profusely and told me that she was asking me not to come. Seems that one of her classmates had very specific remembrances of a 23 year old Miss Smithwick and refused to attend if I did. WOW!
I couldn’t help but wonder what about me could yield such abhorrence. Was it something I said? A grade? My singing? This column? My vast inexperience as a teacher when I was 23?
I really didn’t know what to ask next, but agreed that I would be dis-invited. Somewhere out there in Marcellus is a person who sees me as the bête noir of reunions.
Gadzooks. While not a ripple salesman or a hurricane, I have attained reunion notoriety.
Would this be on my permanent record? Would I be forever banned from MCS class reunions? The answer to the last question is happily, “No.”
I’ve been honored to be invited and attend others and today I received a message from a former student telling me about his class reunion next summer. Could I help out by getting the addresses of the teachers who are still able to speak in complete sentences? Sure, I could. Found about eight already.
