Last night I let my high school class know I probably will not be attending our 50th (51st thanks COVID) reunion next month. I might, but right now I’m doubtful. I was lucky driving home from Colorado Springs that there was little traffic. I don’t think I could manage a two-handed evasive maneuver with my arm as it is right now. This realization dampened my enthusiasm.
I don’t see the doc until the 27th. Even then I have no idea what it will mean. And…I can still show up if it works out.
But…I am at this point in my life a little surprised at what my high school classmates mean to me. Out of our class of 200+ only about 60 had signed up for the reunion. I know some of my classmates have shirked off this mortal coil, others aren’t interested in high school reunions, others are too far away. After 51 years, 60 attendees is a pretty good number. Many of those coming to the reunion I don’t remember at all, but they remember me (?). One of them was once my sister-in-law! I wonder if she remembers that? All she seems to remember is that we were in the same gym class. IF I go, I will give her a stained glass box her sister made for me one Christmas. Another (who still hates me) married one of my best friends from college. It didn’t work out which was somehow my fault. Another’s reading group read Martin of Gfenn and we Skyped so I could enter their discussion. Others I’ve been in and out of touch with this whole time. Some of them were my classmates in junior high, and one of THEM — my best friend in 9th grade — is the cousin of my friend Lois’ best friend. Thanks to Facebook we found each other again and we’re happy about it. The world is small even if you don’t stay in the same place your whole life.
Each of us is vessel holding a lifetime of unique experiences. My own life is full of more stories than I ever could have imagined in 1970 when we all graduated. It’s crazy. We’re all survivors of godnose what. Whatever our stories, here we are.
Anyway, I hope I can go…