High School

Bee Gees Song of the Day: Spirits Having Flown

I'd like to take you where my spirit flies,
Through the empty skies
We go alone,
Never before having flown.

I am home today with a sick daughter and therefore, not posting what I had intended to post today. That will have to wait until tomorrow.

Interesting. My 25^th High School reunion is coming up (dreadfully aging me for all my readers, I know). I have learned that some of my high school peers have found me on this blog and are reading what I write. It’s fine when one’s readership consists mostly of family or people overseas searching for anything on line about “Dae Jang Geum”. One feels safe and anonymous. It’s just the strangest thing. I feel somehow like I’ve been ‘outed’.

Not that I mind. I don’t write about anything for which I should be ashamed. All my deep inner ugliness is reserved and secreted within my private journal, WHICH is password protected and WHICH no one will ever see. Ever. Of course, my strange fascination with Korean Drama doubtless raises some eyebrows – it certainly raises my kids’ eyebrows. I’m waiting for the day my boys come down from New York with a therapist in tow to conduct an intervention. “Mom, we’ve been talking and we're a little worried…”

It makes me ponder though, what has changed in my life since my days as a Maroon Knight. The days where those relationships were the most important of my life. I’ve been married. I’ve been divorced. I’ve had three children whom I’ve raised, I miscarried two. I have one child married off, and am watching the other one work his way through college. My baby is 16 and this summer, grew up overnight. I have lived in no less than 13 different dwellings since my graduation, which means I have lost to time all my high school memorabilia. I still like the Bee Gees and was devastated when Maurice died.

I’m not quite the clueless goober I was when I was 17, though I’m still naïve. I’ll admit that that is finally wearing off and I’ve become rather jaded. I am a fan of chardonnay and prefer my martinis dirty with three olives. I cannot drink Irish Car Bombs. I still can’t do math and I will count on my fingers when a calculator is not accessible. I remember “Esta Susanna en casa? Si, esta con una amiga. Donde estan, en la sala? No, en la cocina.” And “On va a la plage!” I can say good morning (annyeong haseyo) and good evening (annyeong hi chumuseyo) in Korean now too. Bwahahahaaaaa!

I’m conservative in my views and still really Catholic. I’d buy a hybrid car if I could afford it, but only so I could drive in the HOV lane. I don’t watch many movies and I still love to read. I’ve had some crap hole bosses and I’ve had some incredible bosses. I have been called “the voice” and have been told I give good phone. I do not work for a 900 number. I can’t stand superior bank tellers and I love really old people. Except for really old men who grope. That’s just disturbing on all sorts of levels.

I miss everyone. Barb, Jackie, Nancy, Mary, Donna, Alesia, Gina, Karen, Ken, Dave, Dave, Mike, Dan, Lisa, Lisa, Joe, Sally, John, Floyd, Tracy, Mike, Joan, Pat, Frank, ...eff it, I could go on. Hell, I miss ‘em all.

We change. It would be a big ball of wrong if we didn’t. Yep. We change. But there are threads that still bind us.

If I close my eyes, I can still see Mrs. Reina, (she knew what an idiot I was at math), Mr. Chudy, Mr. and Mrs. Goodale, Ms. Tasovac, Mr. Frank, Mr. Dunadee, (I remember ‘helping’ Mike during that health class with eye blinks Mr. Spina, and…

Poor, poor Mrs. Watson. We should have been shot for what we did to her. God, please bless her. May her fish always swim and her barn never crumble.

See? Threads.

Homecoming Week

Bee Gees Song of the Day: Nights on Broadway

Here we are. In a room full of strangers
Standing in the dark. Where your eyes couldn't see me
Well I had to follow you, though you did not want me to
That won't stop my love for you
I can't stay away

I interrupt my narrative to talk about high school.

It is Homecoming Week. Sport Enthusiast Day, Pep rallies, bonfires. I remember those days. My graduating class, Frankfort-Schuyler's Class of 1982, due to the amazing artistic gifts of those talented people, our float took first prize every single year. It was such a fun time.

I haven't been a Maroon Knight for 25 years. Seriously, in one's personal novel of life, high school holds just a few chapters. But the color in those chapters is so diverse, so full of drama and yearning and pain and joy and fun that they are not to be missed or read over carelessly.

I went to my daughter's Powder Puff football game last night. The Junior Girls versus the Senior Girls. The Seniors won – that was sad. But what was wonderful was the energy and the fun that IS high school.

The Senior side of the football field was quiet overall. Parents coming to the event were sparse; few and far between. I strolled over to the Junior side of the field, weaving in between students holding hands, boys horsing around, girls talking about the boys horsing around, kids eating hot dogs, drinking soda, lined up outside the bathroom. As I approached the Junior side of the field, the noise level increased. The bleachers were full of parents. The crowd screamed and cheered. Six boys were on the track doing cheers, egging the crowd on. I named several of them. One was "Hairy" , which is self explanatory, as is "Knee-hi" and "Spaz". Knee-hi wowed the audience with his back flips. Nothing was spared in an effort to pump up the crowd. Spaz just kept running back and forth screaming.

At half time, four senior boys got on to the middle of the field and lip synced something that sounded like the Back Street Boys. It was cute. A young lady was then called to the field. "Will Melanie Blah Blah please go to the middle of the field?" Nothing more embarrassing than that. "TO THE MIDDLE" as she tried to stay near the sidelines. "Melanie, will you go to homecoming with Jason Blab Blab?" Squeals, shrieks, she covers her face. "Is that a YES?" She nodded, and everyone applauded. It was fabulous.

I got to meet my daughter's beau. I was sophomorically pleased at seeing how cute he was. My daughter's friends and I all squealed with delight at his cuteness. And it warmed me that her friends are so happy for her. I was introduced to the young man and was pleased at the clear and honest look in his eye. Indeed, I liked the cut of his jib. I tried to appear casual as they walked off the field together to get her bag. She's 16 now and according to house rules, able to date. I can now only hope that 16 years of drilling appropriate behavior and self-respect have done their job and she's prepared for this toe-dip-in-the-water foray into adulthood.

While I am thrilled and shrieking with delight at prospect of her first date, I'm already preparing for her first real heartbreak. As a parent, one has to be eight steps ahead of the ball. Her brothers and their friends will be down in mere hours to break his legs if he hurts her. I have it all worked out.

Homecoming game on Friday. Dance on Saturday. A young lady growing up. These are days that will fly for her. These are days I will never get back. So I write them in my book and I keep the pages special. I mark the chapters, so that if she ever comes back to read them after I'm gone, she will know how privileged I felt that she shared them with me.