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August 11 - 13, 2006 I did the Fox gig in Manhattan and got driven back to Basking Ridge where, again, I was hoping at least one of my classmates would be out for an afternoon stroll and would see me getting out of the Lincoln so I could say,
Alas, no one was outside the building and I considered, but decided against, having the driver take laps around the property until we ran - literally - into a classmate.
I had also thought about leaving my makeup on so that if one of my classmates mentioned the fact that I looked like I was wearing makeup I could say:
But I had used the wipes in the Green Room to take it off before I had left, not because I didn't want people to ask me about having been on TV, but because it irritates my skin if I leave it on too long.
Dear Mr. Mullings:
Signed,
No. At least, I don't think so.
It was now about three in the afternoon. The cocktail party wasn't scheduled to start until about seven and I hadn't eaten, so I thought a beer was the appropriate solution to my carbohydrate depravation problem.
I walked into the bar and a goodly number of classmates were there, two of whom recognized me - not from TV but from high school. Two others said they had looked me up in the yearbook last night after we'd chatted and they remembered me now, and still others assumed I was waiter and ordered drinks from me, all of which made me feel much better about myself.
Another couple strolled in and said they had just watched me on television and pronounced me "very smooth."
I wanted to shout,
But I was busy handing out the drinks people had ordered, so I didn't.
After the beer, I went back to my room to change for the big event. For those of you who know me, or have seen me on television, you know I am not a slave to fashion. That is to say I have been wearing essentially the same outfit since seventh grade.
Back in my era, the school uniform included a button-down shirt, khakis (which we called chinos), and Bass Weejun penny-loafers for boys. Jeans were not permitted as school garb. In fact, I didn't own a pair of jeans until I was about 30.
Women (or, as they were known then, girls) were not permitted to wear slacks to school. Skirts or dresses, no higher than knee length. Girls were sometimes required to kneel so a teacher could check and make certain their skirts touched the ground and were, therefore, chaste enough to wear to Spanish II.
T-shirts were not allowed outside of gym class. Flip-flops hadn't been invented as non-locker-room-footwear yet.
Oh. Socks. White, bulky, woolen (not cotton) socks went very nicely with penny-loafers. But, it never occurred to me to come to school with loafers and no socks. That look hadn't been invented yet, either.
Nehru jackets came and went. Bellbottoms never graced my closet floor. John Travolta Saturday Night Fever outfits danced past me. I did own a three-piece suit once when I first came to Washington, but that was pushing the envelope for me, fashion-wise.
Other than having traded up to Johnson & Murphy loafers instead of Bass, I was dressed pretty much the same I had been 42 years previously.
The cocktail party was a cash bar with one bartender. Given that there were supposed to be some 75 people I thought this was going to be like the scene in "Jaws" where Sheriff Brody sees the shark and says, "I think we're gonna need a bigger boat."
I said, to no one in particular, "I think we're gonna need a bigger bar."
But, as it turned out, we didn't.
Happily, Marla and the other organizer, Debbie, had name tags for everyone and they were written in big block letters so we call all sneak a peek and say, "Hi, Jeff! Gosh, you look great!" And not be afraid that "Jeff" was really "Jennifer" who really didn't look that good at all.
Many of the classmates live in driving distance and so this was the first time they had been around. Picture of chidren and, in not as many cases as you might think, grandchildren were shown to the appropriate oohs and ahhs.
We drifted into the dinner which was a buffet but I was busy table hopping so I missed it.
Everyone chatted with everyone. People whom I thought hadn't known me in high school hugged and talked. The good dancers danced to the music of our era.
As to the music, 1964 was the year of the British Invasion led, of course, by the Beatles and flanked by the Rolling Stones.
All those groups, in those days, dressed in matching suits and ties. Girl groups dressed in … dresses. Grunge wasn't even a word yet, much less a musical style. Rap was something the nuns did to the knuckles of the Catholic kids who misbehaved in catechism class on Thursday afternoons.
We all congratulated ourselves on not looking a day over 45. Or at worst 50.
The appropriate thank you's were given to the organizers (but Marcia and I had to shush Marlene who was talking to Gary about something really important so I couldn't hear Lynn thanking Merrill and Steve) and the class picture was taken.
I was struck by the number of classmates who had gone into government service and teaching. We were the end of the June Cleaver era.
Someone shouted "Raise your hand if you had sex in high school!"
I said "You mean with another person?"
No hands went up.
Girls were more likely to be aimed toward teaching or nursing. If they were interested in business, they went to typing class. The only economics classes girls were offered were home economics which, I suspect, has ceased to exist.
One of my classmates became a physical therapist and has worked in VA hospitals for over three decades. "I could retire, sure," he told me. "But, (1) I don't know what I would do with myself, and (2) I really enjoy working with these folks."
God bless him.
A woman told me that she had gotten married while in law school, but she dropped out when she got pregnant. "Can you imagine nursing an infant in law school back in those days?" she asked. So she, too, became a teacher.
We talked about having to take turns reading a bible verse in homeroom every morning. Now, it takes a state law to make school districts have the kids recite the Pledge of Allegience.
The harsh lights and sharp edges of a hotel ballroom became the warm glows and sweeping curves of pleasant memories shared among people who were once in the same place and time.
This being our 42nd Reunion and all, people had started drifting out to their cars well before midnight. The heartiest of the celebrants made another trip to the bar which closed at a reasonable hour - about one - and good-nights were said all around.
Breakfast on Sunday morning was on a when-you-get-up, show-up basis and by the time I got there the most of the folks staying at the hotel appeared to have been through the buffet line.
The party was, for all intents and purposes, over and those who had looked 45 the night before now looked fifty. Those who had looked fifty … you get it.
Loose ends of conversations started the night before were tied up. One group got into a discussion of Ambien - the sleep medicine - and why they never leave home without it.
At our age sharing drugs means: Do you have any extra Ambien?
I hung around until about 11 AM and started plotting my drive home. I was walking around saying goodbyes when one of the women - one of the prettiest girls in school and still holding up very, very well - looked up and said:
Cool! I couldn't wait to tell the guys.
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