Marking Time

2017 the year I was summoned back to my past; back to 1967.

I had received my invitation to our high school reunion and by April, facebook searching, name goggling and cell number gathering began in earnest. Merritt Hutton High School’s 50th Reunion was to be held in Denver, Colorado in September. My group, my home town. By June a lot of us had messaged or texted our way back in touch. Lists were made. One titled “Can’t Find Yet”. Another titled “Gone but Not Forgotten”. For a senior class of 280 graduates, that second list was surprisingly small. Go Team! We baby boomers seem like a hearty bunch.

For months I alternated between attending the reunion and staying home, as I am not a comfortable flyer but finally decided that anything to reach a 50 year mark should be celebrated. So in July I contacted Dena to ask if she would like to share a hotel room with me for that September weekend. She said sure but hoped her oxygen machine wouldn’t keep me awake. Huh?? Lung cancer had taken part of her left lung in 2015. That’s when I figured I’d be hearing more of those kinds of stories at the reunion. After all, we were all at least 68 years old and not immortal. Even though we had weathered the infamous sixties, I was pretty sure we hadn’t all done it in a drug induced fog. Then again, maybe that’s the reason so many of us are still above ground. Far out and peace on ya, baby. So with a firm grip on my flying phobia, I boarded a Delta flight bound for Denver and my past.

The first changes I noticed after landing, were things; streets, traffic, housing growth, and the airport. It was now known as Denver International Airport. It had been Stapleton Field when my father worked there during my teen years.

All these years later, I had to wait for a tram to scoot me from B concourse into the main terminal. People where everywhere. My turn to board the tram came only after a good ten minute wait. Having spent the last forty years in small town Oregon, I was ill prepared for the hoards and voiced my frustration to the gentleman standing next to me. “My goodness, this place is packed!” 

He merely grinned and stated, “Yep, it’s always like this on Friday evenings.”

I hoped my jitters might calm during the shuttle ride to the hotel. Wrong. The female driver kept up continuing chatter as she wove uncomfortably in and out of Friday commuter traffic. She was not uncomfortable; I was!

 By the time I’d been deposited to the hotel and checked in, I felt as if I might have made a mistake in coming but I nervously took the offered key card and entered the hotel elevator with another couple. That’s when the time warp opened. The couple both had long hair; hers red, his white, looking at them started an itch in my mind that I couldn’t quite scratch.

“I know you.” Stupidly came out of my mouth as I peered into the woman’s face.

“Yes, you do Lee. I’m Wendy B---.”

And so it began. The 1967 viewfinder clearing up more with each hug and update, each memory and shared event from long ago, all the reliving and laughter one weekend could hold. I noticed no divisions among us, no leftover grudges, no ill wind. It could have been fall of a new school year, everyone shiny and fresh and seventeen again, returning from summer vacations ready for a new beginning. 

Emerging from our graduating class of 1967 were a stained glass artist, a published writer (sadly, not me yet), a college professor, a world traveler, a marine biologist, just to name a few. The famous sprinkled in among a lot of normal lives. 

A few special moments from that weekend of renewal I keep simmering close in my heart.

 Like Rick, whose step-father was an Air Force pilot and listed as M.I.A. in Viet Nam in 1967. I asked him if he had any closure for this sad episode and his reply lifted my heart. Forty years afterward, a Vietnamese post-war committee located human remains on an isolated hilltop in their country. Those remains were returned to the US and DNA testing proved them to be his step-father. His pride was obvious as Rick told me his step-father was the last vet from the Viet Nam war to be buried in Arlington Cemetery.

Bobby and Jackie, two majorly poplar high school football jocks still living in the Denver area they remain close friends. Jackie is to go in for hip replacement next week. Bobby is taking him to the hospital and helping with care-giving when he is home. Their continuing bond warms me.

Patricia, an associate professor of journalism who published a book in 1996 titled My First White Friend. An excerpt from her book was printed in the June, 1996 issue of USA Weekend. I still have a copy. We grew up smack dab in the middle of the United States. At the time, major discrimination was going on in the south and probably on both coasts, but not in Northglenn, Colorado. Hers was the only face of color in our high school year book and for that matter, in our town. I don't recall seeing a difference. In fact, we seniors voted Pat our Class Secretary that year.

Danny. He aged right along with the rest of us but he never grew up. Still sporting greasy long hair and beard, and still wearing an old leather jacket with insignias too old to be read, slick denim jeans and motorcycle boots. It was cold and rainy that Denver afternoon but his Harley was parked along-side all the Volvos, SUVs and Smart Cars in the parking lot.

Debra. Still mending from the trauma of seeing her husband murdered during a home invasion fifteen years earlier. She was fully engaged at the reunion with laughter and light-hearted conversation reliving past craziness right along with everyone else but her eyes didn’t dance.

Pete, who started a band called the Fuzz in high school and still plays in a band today. This one called the Blue Rooster. Pete plays the harmonica, stand-up drums, guitar and sings. All of which he did for us at the reunion. Standing in the food line with one of his band members, I commented on Pete’s talent. With a definite roll of his eyes, he said one thing, “The rest of us are forever trying to keep his ego in check!”

Annette remains single and lives with her sister and nephew. She gives monthly speeches at the local chapter of D.O.R. and sends Christmas cards to classmates each year. I get one each year.

Randy, the stained glass artist, whose creations seem to come alive with color and motion. He missed a lot of the reunion. All during the afternoon I heard classmates ask, “Where’s Randy?” The answer I heard most was, “In the parking lot smoking a joint.” His latest creation is something he calls “Rainbo in a Jar” which I can’t wait to see.

And Alan. I will always keep his reunion comments close to my heart. Even now, his words keep me seeking, trying to dredge up the exact time, a particular moment. He told me that he always liked my mother. He’d never met a nicer woman in his life. Mom’s been gone over ten years. How I would love to tell her this. Yet I can’t remember when she and Alan met.

As the hours passed I learned of one shoulder surgery, two knee surgeries and one hip replacement classmates had scheduled. I heard of past damage also. Like Dena’s lung cancer and the kidney Sue lost. Survival stories, every one.

Reconnecting with childhood friends, reliving shared memories, songs, images, and learning of new events in their lives help color my life, help shape the woman I am and the one I am yet to become. Old friendships continue to wash over me even while separated by distance. We remain permanently glued together by our collective past. And what a past it was; The British Invasion, The Summer of Love, President Kennedy’s assassination, The Freedom Riders, Viet Nam, Hair, and Woodstock.

Standing alone in the hotel lobby at 5:00am Sunday morning, waiting for the airport shuttle to take me to my homebound flight, I pulled two pieces of paper from my purse that had been tucked away, hidden from loved ones, each page written in 1967. I unfolded and re-read two poems, one from him and one to him. As I ripped them into tiny mosaics, allowing them to drift into the trash can, I smiled as my personal ceremony released this small trace of my past, my heart, right here where it all began those fifty years ago.

People and places change. The heart savors what it will, holding on and marking time.