Get Your Ass Up, We're Going to School

I attended my 30 year high school reunion last weekend.  Let that one sit for a minute.  Thirty years since high school.

In preparation for the big event, I pulled out my box o' stuff from the 10-year and 20-year reunions.  I helped plan those (and this) gatherings because I was a senior class officer.  I believe it was Class Taxidermist.

[For those 16- and 17-year-olds out there I have a piece of advice.  Well, two really.  First, don't read this blog. It's not that it's inappropriate (usually), it's just that my cultural references and middle-aged-guy observations cannot be that interesting to the 2014 adolescent.  But if you are reading this, do NOT run for a senior class officer to pad your resume.  It won't help that much, and even though it seems like the duties include planning senior skip day and well, not much more, you will be planning reunions FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.  They don't tell you that when you turn in the 50 signatures to get on the ballot unopposed for Senior Class Civil War Reenactor.*]

[*Side note to my side note - while there wasn't really a senior class office of Civil War Reenactor, I did go to Albert Sydney Johnston High School, a predominately black and Hispanic school named for a Confederate war general who was killed in his first battle.  The Battle of Shiloh in fact, for which my high school newspaper was named, of which I was senior editor (actually as a sophomore) until removed in a coup** by the teacher sponsor.  And our yearbook was actually named "The Confederate"]

[**So, in retrospect, I was removed for cause.  We were bussed to the predominately black and Hispanic school named for a failed confederate, and I was a cub reporter as a freshman.  Mr. Balla, the odd Romanian man with a VW beetle that couldn't go in reverse, was very hands-on putting the paper together, getting the ads, etc.  All the editors were seniors, so when they graduated after that first year, it really was only me and my friend Bobby, so we became the editors.  Mr. Balla still did most of the work, leaving us to write editorials on Acid Rain, Reaganomics, why the student council doesn't do anything, and what the hell is up with all the freaking mums***?  Mr. Balla left early in my sophomore year, and the replacement teacher rightly decided I had no real idea what I was doing.  I was "emeritus" by 16.]

[***Actual articles and editorial topics from my short and turbulent reign as senior editor (as a sophomore) of the Shiloh.  By the time my tenure was up (around January), I was not that popular among the student council and mum crowd.  And probably not with President Reagan and his cabinet, which may or may not have played a factor in my removal.]

Editor's note (of the blog, not the Shiloh, since I was removed "for cause" from that): next aside about Mr. Balla and his VW was removed. For cause.

So, in my box o' stuff from the previous reunions, I found the nametags some creative person had put together for our 10-year HS reunion.  Cool nametags with our high school senior picture and red and powder blue ribbons****.  It occurred to me that these nametags had been sitting forgotten in the bottom of a box for 20 years, and were older than we were when we graduated high school.  That will make you feel old.  That, and the reunion prize to "graduate with the most grandchildren."  I didn't win that one. Nor the "graduate with the least hair", which was a twelve-way tie.

 [****In case you were asking yourself, "how did the force-integrated high school named after a failed confederate with a ram as a mascot and powder blue as one of the school colors do in football?"  The answer is - not so good.  We won two games in the four years I was there.  Which is two better than General Albert Sydney Johnston did.]

The reunion itself was a great deal of fun.  I got to see many old friends and acquaintances, and I am happy to report I knew most of them.  We don't all have the same memories, of course.  It was great to reminisce.

My friend Ken told a story about me that I did not remember.  He said that one summer he had to go to summer school, and didn't have a car (or maybe a license - he told the story eight days ago so I can't remember).  Apparently, I came and picked him up in my 1981 Toyota Starlet (I loved that car) every day and took him to summer school.

An interesting story that I don't recall, made more interesting by the story told by my friend John ten years ago at the 20-year reunion.  He related the story of our senior year in high school, after he had gone through some difficult times with his family and was no longer living at home.  He told me that I came and picked him up every day and took him to school.

I have many great memories that include Ken and John. I just don't remember either of these two stories.  And now, with two data points, there seems to be a theme.  Upon reflection, there are only four possible explanations:
1) I was really, really into school and made sure that I did everything I could to make sure everyone possible made it to school every day;
2) I was a really nice guy;
3) I really liked my Toyota Starlet (which I did), and took every opportunity to drive;
4)  Ken remembered John telling the story 10 years ago and made up his story to mess with me.

I lean toward #3, with #4 being possible (and would be impressive).

I'm waiting for another data point.  Someone at my 40th reunion may tell me that I was in fact the bus driver.  And by then, I may have grandchild(ren), and quite possibly no hair.

Go Rams, Go!