1987, Reloaded (Part 3)

Day three's event was, you may recall, the real reason I even considered attending my 25th high school reunion. It was designed as a social for those who weren't necessarily fond of shotgunning beers or making spectacles of themselves in any fashion. The afternoon gathering of about 15 classmates, held in the clubhouse of an organizer's (Joy) development in Jupiter, was comprised of people I really liked and wanted to see. Genuine, real folks who never played the attitude or socioeconomic cards. The sort of people with whom you could have both earthy and intellectual conversations. This was no kegger out in the woods.

On a couple of screens in the clubhouse, there were rotations of old photos throughout the day, including one of me pointing a water gun at my temple. Nice. This was snapped at Project Graduation, an all-night, school-sponsored drug and alcohol free party held graduation night on the football field. I remember it being a lot of fun. Tents were set up with games and even mini-movie theaters. A mobile stage allowed the newly graduated to jump around and "sing" Beastie Boys tunes. There was an old car parked in the end zone that you could whack with a sledgehammer. I think there was a car giveaway, too (not the clunker). Most vividly, I recall leaving around 3:30 in the morning, long after the friend who had given me a ride left. I walked past the infamous fountain near the band room and up through the outdoor hallways. When I reached the front lawn I felt a huge sense of relief. I don't recall feeling even a mite of sadness. I walked home, ready for life to move on.

Susan, who I had met in 3rd grade and nine years later was my co-editor of the Academic section of the yearbook, was one welcome face at this Saturday meet. She was always a quiet, somewhat shy person. Kind of like me, though it really depended on the environment. She, like several of the other women at this reunion, always felt like a sister I never had. Susan lives with husband in rural Gainseville now. I got to meet him, as well as other tag-a-long husbands who the entire weekend chatted with each other while their spouses waxed nostalgic.

Speaking of yearbook, our editor, Kim, was also there that day. By Saturday we had already caught up on a great deal, but I found myself talking with her and her husband for quite awhile. The conversation ran a dizzying gamut - from child rearing to bizarre kitchen accidents. She looked almost exactly as she did in the 80s, and was still as friendly. Being on the yearbook staff senior year was great fun, in large part due to her enthusiasm and leadership. Her assistant editor, Fernando, has been MIA of late and Kim is determined to reconnect. He was also quite friendly, rarely prone to outbursts, excepting one memorable day as we were approaching yet another deadline. Everyone's nerves were singed, and he blurted "Treat me like shit, I ENJOY IT!" Caught everyone off guard. But there were few such moments.

There was a table filled with old penants, buttons, school newspapers, and other goodies. Lisa was surprised when I showed her a poem she wrote in a lit. journal. She had no memory of it, but was surprised at how good it was! Especially hilarious: copies of The Dead Penguin , a series of comics and poems that mercilessly skewered the entire FH High environment. No one was spared: teachers, administrators, jocks. None of the authors of this subversive journal attended the 25th, unfortunately and unsurprisingly.

Just like that of your high school, there were some colorful authority figures at Forest Hill. The dean of boys with the deep Southern drawl who every day during morning announcements read off a list of names he needed to see in his office. The eternally angry, frightening 10th grade English teacher whose chalk sometimes spit particles as he furiously diagrammed sentences on the board. Another dean who made note of who was singing risque cheers at Friday night football games. All of them were ribbed in the Penguin. The hosts of the gathering were kind enough to let me keep a copy, as my originals were long since lost. Much of the humor was very dated, but intriguingly so. Thumbing through its pages is a real (if scathing) walk down memory lane. Tellingly, one of the poems on the last page talks about hanging on during the misery of high school to get to the rest of your life...

When the party ended, my wife (who attended) and I joined three of my classmates (Joy, Kimberly, and Karen) for dinner at a really unique place in Jupiter called Little Moir's Leftovers. Creative cuisine in a funkily decored space. Great fish. We shared more fond memories, including the time a physics teacher, who knew damned well several kids cheated on a test, had them go to the board a few days later to solve one of the test problems they so thoroughly worked out earlier. Of course, they couldn't, and the teacher let them squirm and bleed up there. "What's the matter, you did it a few days ago!" It was justice. It made you feel that something was actually right in the world. Somewhat like the recent story of a female jogger in Canada whose attacker found out the hard way that she had a black belt in martial arts.

So much more. A perfect cap to a nearly perfect reunion weekend. The antidote to the 20th disappointment. Better than I could've imagined. Thanks, guys! Let's not wait till the 30th to join company again.