I’d give a million tomorrows for just
one yesterday…
Lyrics by Milton Berle, 1950
Music by Jerry Livingston
What always surprises me as I read accounts of class
reunions is the focus most authors have on what one of them termed the “muted
sexuality” of the class reunions. I wasn’t aware of that at our reunions, any
more than the usual and very same kind of kidding that went on in high school,
which I never thought of as “muted sexuality.”
Perhaps, as some authors suggest, with the passing of years
memories of high school crushes grow more desperate or one is freer to be open
with these feelings when less can be done about them. Or it could be that the
one who does the approaching just wants the person to know that he/she was the
object of their affections in high school.
Authors who write about reunions often describe incidents of
persons who hold the fantasy of consummating a relationship that was not
completed in high school. They further indicate that almost every one of these
persons expressed a poignant regret at the loss either of friendship or, in
some cases, of the continuation of the shared love never to be realized. What an
intriguing thought it is, however, that many of us now have the adult resources
to fulfill any lingering passion of our adolescence. I wonder how many people
actually do.
What is most touching to me, however, is the deep caring
many people have for particular classmates and the number of them who have the
courage to express these feelings. I am amazed that these men had the courage
to express their feelings. The following are examples classmates have shared.
Why didn’t you tell me how you felt
about me?” was his question.
He admitted that he, as well as others,
had been intimidated by me because they thought I was so smart that they were
afraid to ask me for a date.
You always were special to me.
I had a letter from him today in which
he told me he had had such a crush on me in junior high. A couple of years ago he told my daughter
that he and I had dated, and sure enough, written on March 15, 1951, as only an
8th grader would write, is, “I do hope Bob likes me. Lucille asked him if he likes me and he said,
“She knows I do.” I hope he does.
He thanked me for preparing special
football scrapbooks, adding, “Thank you for all you are and do. This all goes
to show what I said a long time ago—you scare me with all your smarts, talent,
and energy. You bury me!!” I’m still not sure if that was a compliment.
Personally the compliments I most treasure are from (1)
those who told me I should have been our class president, (2) those who said the class had made a mistake electing the same male for four
years, and (3) those who think I really was the class president. I hold to my
heart being termed the “soul,” or the “memory keeper” of our class.
The photos you found hit me
like a tsunami of time and memory. A collection of our youth and changes and
how we all were integrated with each other, our families, and other friends.
Thank you.
One of the positive results of reunions is getting to know
classmates better. By listening to them talk about how they saw themselves as
teenagers we often can gain insight as to how they see themselves today. What
is curious, however, is that while classmates seem to be willing to talk
conversationally, many still hold back on discussing substantive topics or
talking about anything personal. A few misunderstandings have been aired among
our own class, but never quite to the point of resolution. And some
misunderstandings never will be overcome, because the persons with the
unresolved issues do not attend reunions.
How sweet and wonderful we all were,
remembering and finding nice things about each other in our emerging selves. It is heartwarming to share such memories of
the tender time we passed through together.
Every year, even prior to the reunion tours, I find myself
imagining all of the local buildings as being the way they were in 1955, and I
still get a lump in my throat on the last wide turn, under the railroad bridge,
heading into Curwensville. The passenger train station is no longer standing,
but I can’t help thinking of my Aunt Jessie waiting there in the summer of
1924, full of the sense of adventure as she headed to Clarion Normal School
I don’t want to go back to Curwensville to live, but there
is something compelling about the momentary sensation of thinking I am going
home. The most difficult part of returning—every time—is the absence of the
Teen-age Center, the Patton Building (our high school), and my family’s fine,
late nineteenth century home on lower Thompson Street—all of which were razed.
However, every year we go back with heads full of pleasant
memories, a few amusing stories to retell, and hearts full of goodwill. The
most difficult time in recent years has been saying good-bye at the end of the
week-end, wondering how many we will see again the next time. As one of the
fellows wrote, after he had remained in Curwensville for another day after the
reunion and then had taken a long, circuitous flight home the day following, “Things felt empty yesterday after you all left.”
My reply was, “It was empty also
to those who left. I suddenly felt very lonely on the way home.”
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