I can’t write about the news this week; it’s a repeat from the week before. And the week before that. Just plain tedious. I think I’ll write about my high school reunion last weekend. Let’s channel my inner James Joyce and see what happens. Sentence fragments and all.
Lunching on Friday with a dear friend at a restaurant which had been the home (more of a hilltop mansion, actually) of the uncle of a friend from high school. Filming a short subject there, years ago. Not a video. Film. With friends as Charlie Chaplin and Theda Bara. With me as the butler. At that house. Now the restaurant.
Helping to bring in the Memorial Board of classmates who have died. “Can you help me with these?” Why not? I’m not on the Memorial Board. Grace of God.
Getting my ten (count ‘em, ten) drink tickets as a reunion committee member. Thinking, if I have that many martinis, I’ll be under the table. Worse yet, under someone. At the country club. Thanking Dorothy Parker. Handing five back.
All grown up and going outside behind the country club to smoke (don’t judge). With some of the same folks with whom I smoked back in high school, when there was a designated smoking area at the school. Yeah, I’m that old.
Getting home (the hotel, that is) at 5:30 the following morning. Too late to sleep. Missed breakfast with a friend. I was up; he wasn’t. Off to lunch…driving past the Southern Baptist church of my youth. Parking lot full of cars. Realizing I’m in time for the 11:00 service, for the first time in 40 years. Not the first time being there after a night of drinking. Full circle.
Ye Gods! This stream of consciousness thing is harder to write than it looks. Kind of like writing a speech for Sarah Palin.
As you can tell, I had an off-the-wall good time at the reunion—probably the best time I’ve had in ages. And that’s coming from someone who has a good time most of the time, and always has fun at reunions.
I did come away with a couple of good out-of-the-past stories. “With her?”—“He did?”—“I never knew THAT!” If you replace those five drink tickets, I may tell you one of them, some snowy night by the fire. Until then, I’ll slip on my rose-colored glasses, pin on my mum (yes, we got mums!) and dance down memory lane. The dancing is always the best part.