Collect memories at my fiftieth class reunion Last weekend—and a warm sunny three days it turned out to be—I spent, as I had written that I would in the last newsletter, with those of my my high school classmates who could attend our fiftieth high-school reunion. Some of us had not seen each other in […]

Collect memories at my fiftieth class reunion

Last weekend—and a warm sunny three days it turned out to be—I spent, as I had written that I would in the last newsletter, with those of my high school classmates who could attend our fiftieth high-school reunion. Some of us had not seen each other in 30 years—not since our 20th class reunion—while one had not been with us in 50 years. Needless to say…

We had changed. The skinny boys we had been had become older white-haired men—except for on man who was mysteriously still dark-haired. Through the wrinkles and the few extra pounds (we were actually quite a fit group), it was uncanny how it seemed to me we had kept some essence of identity intact. The boys I had spent so many years with were there once again with me. I recognize the boys I had known transformed into thoughtful and kind men that I felt so much affection for. We spoke about our years in the seminary high school, our now-grown-up children, our life’s work which had occupied the middle decades of our lives, our goals and aspirations for the years that remained.

Since I can only speak for myself, I can say I was amazed at the affection I still felt for these men whom I had known when we were at the beginning of our lives when all was potential and promise and now were finding ourselves on the other side of that life where the surprises were likely to be few. Grown children, grandchildren, careers mostly behind us, spouses living and dead.

It was delightful to see how we were still active in life, involved in projects that were consuming and contributory. A few of us were still working at jobs, others were committed to volunteer projects.

Gathering information at a reunion is a memoir writer’s heaven. Imagine writing a memoir and having an entire weekend to talk to men who had “been there and done that!” Enormous fun to relate stories and have everyone recognize the event and its players. Even as much fun to have someone say, “I don’t remember that!”

“Don’t remember! You’ve got to be kidding!”

Trying hard to remember

There would ensue attempts to recreate scenes to bring the memory back to life, to show how this teacher or that student had said this or that. Sometimes the scene came out of the mists and stood among us distinct and drenched with meaning. But there were other times when all the squinting we could manage into the darkness of the years were not able to delineate a scene for us. And then…

There was the freshman (First Form) class photos. Two groups of thirty boys on the classroom building steps. I was shocked to realize I could identify perhaps fifteen on my own. Then, as other men put names to faces, I began to remember. There were some boys, however, who, despite clear faces and first and last names, I could not recall having ever known. (This was a seminary we were in and boys left as soon as they understood that the religious life was not for them, so some of these boys were not with us long—in fact, half the boys were gone by the second year.)

Then there was the reminiscing about the faculty—who after, fifty years, had stood the test of time, and who was just not that good a teacher. While there was some discussion as to who was best, there was uniformity on who was the very worst.

In the end we enjoyed ourselves so much, that there was some talk of getting together again next year. Perhaps that was the best proof that this reunion was a success.

If you wish to post any comments, please do so below. I’d love your feedback. If you have a reunion story, send it in for guest posting.