This weekend is my 35th high school reunion.
Thirty-fifth. Thirty-five years ago, back when I knew everything.
My hometown is a place I love and miss like an amputee must miss a limb. Part of me is always there, this morning and every morning - remembering the sunrise over the mountains in the distance and maybe planning a summer Saturday on the lake later today.
But I am not there. I am not there for the reunion and I am not there to see the mountain sunrise or enjoy the lake today. I am at my kitchen table in Eagle, Nebraska and feeling a confluence of emotions that prompted this post.
It appears that I haven't posted in a couple of months now, so just to catch things up, we moved from Iowa to Nebraska in June. The eight-month mess that was our Iowa experience came to a bitter end in early January, but because there were dozens of people to lay off and some offices to close down, I had to stay for a while longer. That, plus I had no clue where I was supposed to go or what I was supposed to do next. My company offered a few options (for which I'm both astonished and grateful), yet as always, God had already written the next chapter. And it is a doozy!
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But in June of 1981, I was leaning on the hood of someone's car and boozily admiring my classmates' handiwork. These unnamed champions of anarchy had managed to liberate the stone statue of Ethan Allen from in front of the local furniture store and brought him to one of our many senior parties. There he stood, holding a six-pack and sporting a jock strap, and we all were in awe of the foolish bravery of those who brought him to share in our festivities.
Foolish bravery, though, was in amply supply among my particular set of friends in those years and beyond. We risked so many precious things in the name of fun. Things like dignity and reputation and self-esteem and sometimes our own lives and others' lives behind the wheels of cars we had no business driving in that condition. I learned the hard way about "liquor on beer, have no fear... beer on liquor, you're going to be sicker", but as was usually my mindset, I thought I was tougher than chemistry and had to learn this lesson several times before I accepted it.
In 1981, the drinking age in Tennessee was 19, and as you might imagine, there were a lot of 18 year olds in my graduating class who easily passed for 19. Though I was still 17 when I graduated, heredity had been overgenerous in certain physical attributes, so I didn't have much trouble buying beer either. (Bartles and Jaymes peach wine coolers were my particular poison at that time, though. Bleccch). But there was always that thrilling moment, when I walked up to the register with my intended purchase, not knowing if I'd be victorious or humiliated. It was a moment of inner celebration, those times when I waltzed out of the Pop Shoppe with my wine coolers or Miller Lites or whatever I'd been sent in to get.
In those days, ("back when dinosaurs roamed the earth", as my kids like to say), we couldn't get Coors or Corona in east Tennessee. Venerated was the person who showed up at parties with one of these rare and prized libations - they'd clearly been to Colorado or Mexico and were generous enough to share their smuggled booty.
Pot, quaaludes, hash, valium, sex, mushrooms, the occasional sheet of LSD - these were usually found at the outer edges of our parties, too. I can neither confirm or deny my participation in any of that because that would be stupid. Suffice to say that I was stupid about some things, but eventually wised up.
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So was my entire senior year a blur of parties and debauchery? Sometimes I think so, but then I also remember a flush of pride when English teacher "Loony" June Mitchell read one of my poems to the class and praised my talent and potential. I remember going to the "MidWinters" conference in Gatlinburg and accepting Jesus as my savior. (Actually I think that was my junior year... have I mentioned that I'm a slow learner? I ran away from Jesus for the next 15 years.)
I remember the pure and unfettered joy of riding around with my best friend Anne Smith in her Cutlass Supreme 442, early spring of 1981, windows down and Yes' "Roundabout" on the 8-track. I remember giving George Hooks a haircut after Coach Whetsel's history class. I remember feeling victorious when I finally solved a challenging algebraic equation. I remember hanging out in the pit with Jane Austin and Missy McDonald. I remember Ginger Gray saying that she liked my haircut. I remember piercing Doug Hall's ear one spring Saturday afternoon down at the Boulevard. I remember singing "Homeward Bound" in the talent show with Scott Nitzberg. I remember listening to Seals and Crofts with Bart Yancey on the way to his lake house. I remember telling my mom I was spending the night with Wendy Hall, the same time that Wendy Hall was telling her mom she was spending the night with me. I remember putting on makeup with Milaray Mann in her room, getting ready to go out for the evening. I remember thinking Jerry Spiegel was one of the coolest people I'd ever met. I remember my cousin Ben giving me crap about my outfit. HAHAHA, and that reminds me of the time that I came back from the bathroom to Loony June's classroom, and Janet McAfee had to tell me that my skirt was still tucked in my undies in the back.
I remember the heartache of a one-way crush and the easy comfort of a few close and true friends. I remember being grateful that I had friends in all of the different cliques - the freaks, the jocks, the geeks, the nerds, the dopers, the cheerleaders... and then the rest of us. I remember feeling that I didn't quite completely belong in any of those groups. At the time, I didn't feel like I quite belonged anywhere...so I remember feeling warm pleasure when I was accepted by any of them.
There we all were, poised at the edge of adulthood. Most of us were college-bound, either to UT, another SEC school or the local community college. Grief had already sneaked in on us, as we'd already lost some of our number to fiery car crashes or suicide.
I'd already made all kinds of mistakes, each one feeling like the end of the world and further distancing me from all the happy people around me. For me, happiness was always just around the corner... I could see it from where I was, but it was always just a little beyond my fingertips. When I was 17, that made me unutterably sad. I was relieved to graduate high school - not because I was worried I wouldn't, but because I struggled to be around everyone else's happiness when I couldn't reach it myself.
Little did I know... everyone else was reaching, too. I just couldn't see far enough outside my own self to realize that I wasn't alone after all.
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Gosh, how grim if that was the end of this post! In the 35 years since 1981, I have lived the biggest fattest joyous life! The thirteen years between June 1981- June1994 were still a bit of a shit show, mostly by my own doing but also because life is just plain hard sometimes.
I've seen much more of the world - I've been to Nicaragua and Alaska and the Bahamas and the Caribbean and Hawaii and Mexico and all over the continental US; in 1981, I'd only been on family beach trips, spring break and a couple of school field trips.
Though I haven't been diving in a long time, I learned scuba and went so far as to be licensed as a cave diver and rescue diver. I've been diving in the Bahamas and the Virgin Islands (US and BVI) and Norris Lake and Vortex Springs and Jupiter Inlet. I've walked on a frozen lake in Wisconsin, and I've driven a SeaDoo off the coast of Mexico. I've panned for gold in a creek outside of Anchorage, and I've been deep-sea fishing in the Gulf Stream. In 1981, my watery experiences were mostly in pools and mountain creeks and Fort Loudoun Lake and the dark green Atlantic crashing against Daytona Beach.
I've been married twice - both to beautiful men born far away from east Tennessee - the first time for about 18 months, this time for over 18 years. In 1981, the longest relationship I'd ever had was maybe three weeks.
Since 1981, I've been to symphonies and Broadway plays and Pearl Harbor and jail and museums and Disney World and Callaway Gardens and Biltmore and biker bars and Lambeau Field and all kinds of houses of worship - cathedrals, synagogues, mega-churches and tiny chapels. I've seen U2, the Grateful Dead, the Eagles, Aerosmith, R.E.M., Boston, Journey, Jimmy Buffett, James Taylor, Squeeze, the B-52s, Kansas, Styx, the Moody Blues, Yes, Rush, Dolly, Pink Floyd, CSN (with my dad!), the Police, Michael Jackson, Bruce Hornsby, Vince Gill, Toad the Wet Sprocket, CrossRhodes, Rhodes and Phillips, Tall Paul, and many more. In 1981, I'd seen REO Speedwagon and Foghat and Foreigner and Journey.
I've survived many things that I thought might break me at the time - the death of my mother, a difficult divorce, excruciating depressions, mortifying consequences of idiotic choices, the deaths of special friends and of special dogs, family estrangements, blistering hangovers, surprising flaws in my character and the character of others.
I do plan to write a memoir one of these days, but I haven't quite yet outlived some of the feelings that go along with some of these memories. I'm almost done with them, though. And lord knows it is going to be one seriously funny book.
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All of the life I've lived in the past 35 years has been rich and full and difficult in places. I love the saying - I wouldn't be who I am if I hadn't been where I've been. I've turned out to be a reasonably kind and decent person, and I have learned the value of appreciating the journey. I have a comfortable life and a family that loves me and a career that makes me feel like I'm doing something that matters. The regrets of my life thus far are mitigated by the lessons they taught me.
And most of all, I have a solid and dependable friendship with my Creator, even though He refuses to follow my script.
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I know that my fellow classmates from 1981 have equally rich stories - probably different than mine, and perhaps more or less turbulent. I am sad that I'm not there this weekend to hear them - to share stories about our moments of grief and our seasons of joy.
The passage of time has given me the gift of clearer perspective - all of us, we've always been reaching for something, at some point. As usual, it isn't just me. (And as usual, I'm reminded that I'm not the center of the universe after all.)
It occurs to me that those of us who've found peace in our time travel since 1981 didn't find it outside of ourselves. There's no newer car or better house or different spouse or smaller dress size or change of scene that has given me peace and happiness.
Reasonable peace and happiness arrived in my life when I stopped trying to buy it or find it or create it myself. Reasonable peace and happiness always show up when I give up my demand to control people and things and circumstances.
Life is still life - it is hard sometimes and there are certain things that I can't say I enjoy.
But gosh what a life I've lived since 1981! And how grateful I am this morning to be here, appreciating it at my little kitchen table in Eagle, Nebraska.
And I don't even know what I did with that script.
