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The High School Reunion


I graduated from Wahlert High School twenty-five years ago this last May. Still, sometimes it still seems like it was not that long ago although it doesn’t feel like yesterday anymore. This weekend while we were back visiting my family and seeing friends, there was a reunion. I had tried to convince a few friends I haven’t seen since my wedding to Will to come but they begged off for various reasons. Truthfully, nearly all of my high school friends are simply not the home-town types. They all went away to university and moved farther away for careers and whatnot after that. They aren’t necessarily the family/homebody types although some did marry and some more started families. We were the types of kids who didn’t party really and found entertainment in the oddest of ways and places. We belonged to the band and orchestra and school newspaper. The clubs we joined were of a more intellectual nature and I can’t think off-hand if any of us managed to stick with a team sport for more than our freshman year. No one who was anyone in our high school knew who we were or cared to know, really. But isn’t every high school like that. And every college? And once you are out in the “grown-up” world these social hierarchies don’t disappear. The neighborhood you live in. The place where you work. The playgroup your toddlers are in and the school PTA you were guilted into joining. They will all have their cliques of “popular” people who find you wanting in some rather unimportant way or another. I guess as human beings we just have this need to be liked and admired or envied that leads some of us to form groups with the unspoken purpose of excluding others and some of us to feel unworthy when overlooked .

I ran into my first former classmates in the wee hours of Saturday morning. I had thought to call my old friend (and third cousin) Julie and hook up with her and whoever else on Friday evening, but after taking the kids swimming at the hotel and then dinner at my folks, we barely managed to meet my sister, Kate, on time for drinks in the hotel bar. Nine o’clock swiftly became 1:30 in the morning as we rounded off our night in East Dubuque at a local place where my brother-in-law cooks and tends bar as a side job. Back at the hotel, as we were making our way towards our suite on the third floor, we passed two drunken women at the snack machines loudly joking about their need for sausage. Later in the room, my husband commented on the “sausage” thing, and I replied that they can’t all be as lucky as I am. The next morning as we were waiting for the elevator, another loud-spoken woman approached and I knew the voice somehow. It struck some long-forgotten nerve. Funny how the most annoying people have voices to match their irritating personalities. It wasn’t until I got a good look at her face in the elevator that I was sure I had gone to school with her, but it was when she began idly, and again quite shrilly, chatting up a very young man in a tux that I was sure of who she was.

She was a cheerleader all through our high school days and possessed all the physical characteristics that were important back in the late seventies and early eighties. She was short. Thin. Blonde. And could fake idiocy without a trace of resentment. My only real memory of her was in the freshman locker bay after lunch one day. She was decked out in her cheer outfit and walking around with her shoelaces flapping. She never tied her own shoes. “I don’t know how,” she would simper like a southern belle from Gone with the Wind, again at quite an impressive volume for someone who was not much more than a midget, until some boy would tire of the charade and acquiesce to her ploy. I saw her again that evening at the lounge where the reunion was held. She flounced in fashionably late in a summery dress that was out of place in mid-October Iowa but then dress weather appropriate wouldn’t have gotten her the same attention, I suspect. My friend (and also another cousin), Gwen, pointed her out and I told them the story of the elevator. I also told them the joke that Rob had told me after I remarked to him that she was the woman from earlier. “What do some women wear behind their ears to attract a man’s attention?” I didn’t know. “Their heels.” Sums up Shoelace girl and her crowd fairly succinctly.

It was a pleasant evening. We arrived too early and very few people were there yet. Checking in with two of my former classmates at the door, I was asked to update my address. Seems they had lost track of me. I didn’t recognize either of them nor did their name tags provide much of a clue. My classmates who have appointed themselves the supreme planners of all reunions instituted a rather quaint practice of printing up name tags with women’s married names on them and nary a sign of who they actually were once. Of course this made those of us who remained single for ten or more years after graduating stick out, but I am thinking that was the point anyway.

The first person I recognized was Clete. We were friends from the end of senior year and for a few years after until we lost touch. His hair was shorter but he looked the same. Same smile. Same quiet manner. We chatted about superficial things. Jobs. Kids. Family in the area. After Rob wondered that my widowhood hadn’t come up and what that conversation might have sounded like, already knowing really because we have both had those types of conversations. But, I saw no need to lead the conversation in that direction. Clete is a nice guy but we are not friends anymore. We are two people who were once friends and are now just two people who share a pleasant conversation every five years. Julie and Gwen came next. I saw Julie first and saw as I approached that she was with Gwen and another woman, Sue. We ended up sharing a table for a bit and being a bit catty as our former class queens and other minor royalty sat at the table nearby. I had already seen most of these women earlier and had noted that they looked the same but with facial features more pronounced by the carving out that time imposes. They were all dressed liked middle-aged women who hoped that they were still as hot as they had been at eighteen. But they weren’t. No one is. And those of us who were never hot at any age have the consolation of not having to inflict such things on ourselves now. That longing for our youthful beauty. The truth is that youth itself was the beautiful thing if we had only known it at the time.

I don’t know all their names. I didn’t back then either. If you weren’t my friend, I didn’t really pay all that much attention. I was either hunched over a spiral writing stories and poems and letters or I was nose deep in a book. If I wasn’t doing that, I was daydreaming about the future. I was always far away.

I was even a bit far away that night, thinking about home and the novel I am starting to work on next week and about Rob.

Before we left the reunion – early, as we had a flight to catch Sunday morning in Cedar Rapids – I had to make a stop in the washroom. Rob was waiting for me when I emerged and I was obliged to run a short gauntlet of well-dressed women who, according to my husband, nearly broke their necks sizing me up as I flew past. He thought they were wondering who I was. Was indeed. Weren’t they surprised when they finally found out?

Coming Home


Even without a black cat sighting, our trip back was a tad bit trying. Neither Rob nor I managed to get more than a few hours of sleep Saturday night despite the fact that we were both exhausted. I don’t know if it was just the preoccupation with making sure all the details were in order or just the stress that occupies air travel generally these days. I was worried about crossing the border since my status is not yet official.

The Cedar Rapids Airport isn’t very big. Small jets that contract with larger airlines mainly. Checking in set Rob’s teeth on edge within ten minutes of our arrival. The touch and scan machine they have at the counter was backed up due to a passenger who either couldn’t read or didn’t understand the concept of touch screen or both. For some reason we weren’t allowed to choose our seats prior to check in which is annoying beyond words when you are traveling with small children. The woman in question was one of those who was trying to hang onto the best years of her life and these years were clearly her twenties. She was wearing tight jeans, a leopard print shirt just as clingy and was so expertly balanced on 3 inch stilletto heels with an open toe that you knew she didn’t own a pair of flats beyond the cross-trainers she probably wore when she went to gym once a week. Too much make-up for 7:15 in the morning and a shaggish type hair-style that doesn’t really suit people our age. I say “our age” because she couldn’t have been much older than I am and was likely a bit younger but that’s what tanning beds actually do for you. Having just spent the evening before at my 25th high school reunion, I was a bit more conscious of my peers who put a lot of effort into staying young. Rob fumed openly at the woman, and I didn’t blame him. The more I watched her, the more obvious it was that she wasn’t incapable of traversing the seating situation. She was one of those women who had lived her life getting others, probably men more often than not, to do things for her. As she explained to the employee who finally gave up trying to explain it to her and just did it for her, she had paid a lot of money for this trip and she was going to sit next to her girlfriend but her daughter and son-in-law didn’t need to be near-by if that was too much trouble. It was then I noticed the young couple tying up the other kiosk. The daughter was obviously her mother’s clothing and hairstyle inspiration and she was browning herself to an older looking middle-age in her mother’s footsteps as well. The younger woman was also a graduate of the school of dumb blondes, pretending incompetence as her husband indulgently guided her through the check in procedure.

The jet we were taking was being boarded out on the tarmac. We don’t always take advantage of the right that passengers with small children have to board ahead of our seats being called but with the walk out and carrying the carseat to check this time, we did. On the smaller jets they are very strict about the one carry-on rule. Even purses are deemed carry-on which is beyond stupid as most women don’t travel with backpack size handbags and many of the purses these days are very small. Mine you might not even notice if you saw me only from the front, which is the angle the flight attendant first spied me from as I helped Katy on and we walked past the attendant and a long-haired passenger arguing about his carry-on. It appeared he had quickly moved his cameras to his larger carry-on and was folding the camera bag to stuff in the first bag as well but the attendant continued to harangue him. Until she saw Rob. He was carrying his computer case and wearing the backpack that the three of us share and which also contained my computer. The flight attendant seized upon the chance to force someone else to check a bag, having failed with Mr. Pony-Tail. Rob quickly pointed out that he did have one carry-on and was handling mine because I was taking charge of Katy. And that is when she saw my purse.

“A hand-bag is a carry-on and you cannot have two carry-on.”

So now I was blocking the aisle, which always makes one popular on any flight and Katy was getting ahead of me and the other passengers were looking on with interest to see if I would make an issue and likely get us ejected.

“Okay, can I put the purse in the pack?”

Thwarted again, and clearly unhappy about that, she replied, “Yes, because you can only have one carry-one.”

I suppose I could have gotten uber-technical and pointed out that there were three of us and therefore we were allowed three carry-on. If I had wanted to be a real smart-ass, I could have handed Katy my purse (she loves carrying it) and taken the pack from Rob. I wasn’t in the mood. I was tired and worried about getting through Canadian Customs and thinking a bit about my dad, whether or not I will ever see him alive again, and the woman was clearly one of those people who saw the world from her eyes only. Whether or not she would have been kinder if she had known my circumstances isn’t even relevant. The world at large is not equipped to deal with us all as individuals with needs and feelings. Sometimes, you just suck it up and shrug it off as best you can later.

I was most of the flight and a while longer in Minneapolis “shrugging” Brunhilda off. It wasn’t until I had a skinny chai from Starbucks in hand and finished reading the last thirty pages of The Other Boleyn Girl that I felt more like myself. When we finally hit Concourse C and Katy was happily making friends with the other children in the play area, Rob wisely sent me off to the Starbucks which was a bit of a walk. The walk helped a lot. The chai and a literary immersion got me the last little bit to my “zen” place. The man knows me pretty well.

The flight into Edmonton is about 2 and 1/2 hours. We were late taking off because the pilot waited for a few passengers whose connecting flight was late, but we still made it on schedule. There was quite a bit of turbulence early in the flight. The kind that reminds you of a rollercoaster. Stomach-dropping. I wasn’t afraid as much as physically disconcerted. I am keenly aware of motion. I can feel the floor move and the sway of buildings. Air turbulence might as well be an earthquake in terms of what I feel. Fortunately it passed quickly though the flight didn’t. If it is calm, I can write and even read a bit. Bumpy and I have nothing to do but wait.

In Edmonton, customs turned out to be a non-event, as Rob had said it would be. We did get booted over to the Immigration Office but that turned out to be a good thing because we were able to get one of the clearest explanations of my status and what we needed to know and remember to do that we have ever gotten from Immigration. It was worth the wait.

The kittens went a bit feral while we were gone but on the upside, they are eating kitten food now and we should be able to hand them over to their new owners soon. I had to make a grocery run and nearly fell asleep over my cart as I schlepped around the Safeway. But, by nine we were all ready for bed and the bags were unpacked, put away and laundry was half done.

It was a good trip, but I am so glad to be home again.

My Dad is Dying


My father is dying. Odds being what they are it would be surprising if he made it to the new year. Ironically it was two years ago this coming week that I had to come back here to help out because he was having surgery to unblock as artery in his neck that was causing him to have small strokes. He hasn’t been well since but has fought very hard to regain his health and independence. He quit smoking and drinking cold turkey. No small feat for a a life-long smoker and a functional alcoholic. He probably would have beaten his way all the way back but for the pulmonary fibrosis which set in a few months after my late husband died.

It seems to me that Dad is ready to go now. He is finally allowing he and mom’s will to be revised to reflect that changes in our family over the last five or so years. He talks openly about not being around much longer. My next younger sister, Katie, told me frankly last night that he is not doing even as well as he looks as though he is doing. The tell-tale sign to me is that he spends most of his time in bed sleeping. It’s one of those that the hospice people would point out when Will was at Kavanaugh House two years ago.

In light of all this, I pinned my sister down last night and we discussed the details that I would never get out of my mother. My sister admitted that she wishes I had moved back here after Will died. She is tired of taking care of the folks on her won as our youngest sister is, as my brother-in-law puts it, “A forty year old with the mind of a sixteen year old” and that is exactly as frustrating and maddening as it sounds. Katie has the power of attorney for both our parents and will make all the decisions once dad dies or goes into the hospital, which I think is unlikely. If he is fighting at all now it is to die at home. Being in Canada, I be the one walking in after the fact and taking instructions. And dealing with Mom. That my sister is emphatic about. Truthfully, I deal with her much better than Kate does and, sadly, I will understand where she is coming from too.

As often happens when we discuss Dad and the final arrangements, the subject of inheritance comes up. My dad grew up quite poor. My grandparents were tenant farmers during the depression and eventually ended up living with my grandmother’s father and working the homestead for him. My uncle eventually managed to buy the place in the mid-sixties but died in 1972 leaving the place to my grandmother who when she died had it divided up among the surviving children. It wasn’t a fortune but it gave my dad the opportunity to invest on a much larger scale than his pay from the meat packing plant ever could. And my dad is one shrewd money man. I have realized since college that he was amassing quite the tidy sum. He has explained bits and pieces to me over the years but I have never factored inheritance into any of my plans the way my siblings have. As it is, a careful person with a head for investing, or a good financial planner, could live a comfortable life with what my dad plans to leave behind for his children and grandchildren. And even though I am not one of those who views insurance money or inheritance as “blood” money, I would prefer not to be made comfortable this way.

Today, we are going out to the old homestead. Perhaps Dad will come along if he feels up to it. I haven’t seen it in years. For some reason I want to visit the old places from my childhood and teenage years. Take pictures. Share memories. Maybe it’s because of Dad or possibly it is the move to Canada and the feeling that I will not live here in the states for any extended length of time again. Whatever the case, the rain has finally stopped and it is a certainty that Rob, Katy and I won’t be seeing sunny day in the low seventies until next summer, so we will be spending our last full day in Iowa outdoors.