I regularly acquire advice from a variety of sources, verbal and written, attempting to be kind and concerned, but oblivious to their condescension. One phrase pops up consistently. It is this, "people of a certain age." What they mean is "old folks." It's the imprecision of language that annoys me. Words mean things, or should, and flabby phrases just mentioned don't mean much at all. All of us are "people of a certain age," and I'd just as soon be called "John," if you don't mind. That is precise.
Clinton High, co 1963
Quite a few years ago my father-in-law remarked, upon attending his high school's 50th reunion, "What were all those old people doing there?" He had a point, of course, and it was an insight into his attitude that his classmates might have been old, or certainly looked old, but that didn't apply to him. I can relate. I attended my high school's 50th Reunion a little over a weekend ago, and it was an unqualified success. Some of those people looked, even acted, old. Most didn't look old, were in good shape, and were fun to be around. Names tags with our high school pictures on them were useful, but in many cases not needed. People looked good.
We all seem to have adjusted, at least the 180 or so who were there. Since we graduated, there have been quite a few changes in our world. Electricity, automobiles, and indoor plumbing were science fiction back then. Paper was a new thing, and quill pens were only for the rich kids. Also, there was no such thing as sex. Then the world changed and we went along with it.
Some of my classmates (Martin Luther, Jane Austen [our Foreign Exchange Student], Carl Sandburg, had gone on to their just reward and were missed.
A reunion after fifty years is significant. It provides one with perspective not otherwise achievable, a perspective that lends depth and understanding to the seasons of life, the joy of old friends, and optimism for the future. One perspective is why those old girlfriends came up to me, slapped my face, and stalked away. I would say, "What is that for?" and they would stop, turn around, declare "You know what you did!" and march away, sometimes to applause from other women. No idea. None.
Other than those embarrassing moments, it was great fun. We're already planning a gathering again come spring. And, Lord willing, I'll be there again. Expecting to be slapped.
