(HOST) Commentary Willem Lange recently attended a 50th reunion – but not his own.
(LANGE) There are two kinds of things you’d like to do: one – the things that’d be nice to do if you had the money and the time; and two – the things you really want to do, no matter what. Coming here to Mother’s fiftieth high school reunion was from the second category. She’s been laying out ensembles for weeks; and since showing up either happily divorced or with a presentable, sober, and apparently solvent husband is important, I knew I was going, too
Central High School it was then, right in downtown Syracuse. It’s in the midst of a renovation, so the reunion was held at a restaurant specializing in functions. As we crossed the parking lot toward the opening reception, I noticed a little extra spring in Mother’s step, a leaning-forward anticipation, even a little vibration. Everybody at a reunion wants to check out the comparative effects of time, and I must admit, she’s looking pretty good these days.
A large room with chandeliers, table of hors d’oeuvres down the middle. Men and women of considerable diversity milling about with name tags with their yearbook photos. Mother dove in, looking for people she knew, and checking out the perfect doll who’d married the class hunk. To Mother’s ill-disguised delight, the doll had gained weight and been divorced for 25 years.
Prep schools, like colleges and universities, hold reunions every year for the classes that graduated multiples of five years earlier. This maintains the alumni donor base, and I must say it’s very enjoyable. High schools may or may not hold regular reunions. In the case of this class, it was their first in fifty years. No wonder so few recognized each other right away.
Mother found her best friend from high school. They’d once dated the same guy, and the friend had married him, to her everlasting regret. After only a few minutes with their heads together, they decided they were going to go to Paris next year, and did I want to go? Uh, thanks, but I’ll be working.
Next morning we toured the city on a bus. A lot of the old sentimental sites are gone now, buried under new buildings or boarded over. Time has done a number on the city, as well as on these lively old folks remembering the dances at the country club with the revolving mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling. That evening they tried to sing the Alma Mater. No one knew it, so they called up a member of the class who’d been an opera singer. She didn’t know it, either; the words are ghastly, and the tune is "Annie Laurie." She tried it to a different tune – "Battle Hymn of the Republic" – even worse. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I leaped up, wrapped an arm around the zaftig singer’s waist, and dragged the class through two execrable stanzas. Then gratefully back to hobnobbing with old, almost forgotten friends. Mother declared it all a resounding success.
This is Willem Lange in East Montpelier, and I gotta get back to work.