My husband’s mid-’60s suburban high-school class scheduled a dinner-dance at an exclusive country club. Cocktail hour (cash bar, of course) buffet dinner, PowerPoint slide show, music, dancing and conversation, $58. Tasteful recollection of the way they were: priceless.
My own high-school classmates have organized what’s billed as “the granddaddy of all High School Reunions,’’ including graduates of four consecutive classes in the ’70s. It’s being held at the rural “50-acre estate” of my class’s top jock.
“Grads, near-grads, teachers and big bosses (like Mario)” are all welcome, the letter says. “Mario” refers to our assistant principal, the disciplinarian. It isn’t too surprising he and the host are on a first-name basis. They spent a lot of time together in four years, having serious “discussions” in his office.
The festivities get under way at 2 p.m. and include a pig roast, “free drinks” (a “beermobile” is mentioned), DJ, and “two ponds for swimming,’’ fireworks and “a roaring bonfire, 10,000 pallets strong, complete with fire truck on the side.” That’s reassuring; I recall several boys in the class were volunteer firefighters. I hope a few classmates joined the local police force, in case we need their professional services, too.
“Spend the night if you wish, by pitching a tent,” my invitation says. Aren’t we a little old — make that achy — for that, guys? Yet it’s more economical than reserving a $99 room at the Marriott, as my husband’s invitation suggested.
In fact, the whole affair is only $35, BYOC (Bring Your Own Chair.)
I’m wondering whether the two ways of doing things reflect our respective times: just before the sex-and-drug revolution versus the peak of it. Maybe it’s the affluence of a up-and-comers’ suburb contrasted with a less aspirational “ex-urb.” Separated by only 80 miles, the schools were, and their alumni still are, worlds apart.
Since I agreed to accompany my husband to his reunion, he graciously inquired whether we will be attending mine.
He might be surprised if I said, “Sure! Put the kid’s pup tent in the station wagon, and we’ll share his sleeping bag.” (Two used to be able to fit in one; has middle-age spread precluded such togetherness?)
Because high-school reunions are all about reliving our youths, I might add, “Last one in the ponds — or to belly up to the beermobile — is a rotten egg!”
_
Jo-Ann Greene is editor of the Sunday News Books pages. Write to her at jgreene@lnpnews.com.
Talkback on LancasterOnline
Welcome to the new TalkBack on LancasterOnline. Please use the comment box below to share your opinion on this
article. If you would prefer to use the previous TalkBack forums instead, please use this link.
