A classmate of mine, a man named Fred whom I do not know because I didn’t know that many classmates back then, wrote a slim letter that I received yesterday. It seemed to be a letter of apology. Why was he, the unknown to me except for the association of his name every five or ten years announcing an impending high school reunion, apologizing? He used these phrases: “your class reunion committee has shrunk” “the few we have left” “our last class reunion.”
This is what “Fred” is inviting us to.
The cheery culimination? “No telling what will remain in five years of our reunion committee.”
Instead of a dinner and a two-day social – picnic, etc., the customary agenda—we are told “our reunion will be a luncheon lasting four hours.” Boy, does that sound like fun! Are four hours allotted to get the anticipated participants to their seats and have them fed by assistants? Make sure they’re able to eat the main course (surely mashed potatoes, something soft) as well as dessert (custard?). What would take four hours? Are “we” down to one table?
To both counteract as well as reinforce this idea of a gathering of senility, old Fred assures us that this will be “a memorable time that you don’t want to miss,” and to send the checks to him by July 10. He neglects to tell us how much the check would be for. But he also assures me personally by my name, “classmate,” that “it will be much better if you are there.”
No doubt it will be “better” if anyone is there. Who could resist this intimacy? This personal touch, this attention to detail?
Who would dare miss such an event.
Well, maybe me, for one. It’s across the country – the all-day lunch taking place in a country club near McKeesport, Pennsylvania (which I don’t think exists anymore), and so, living in San Francisco, I’d have to add airfare and hotel to my “lunch” tab. Who knows how my decrepit mind could arrange such a thing? But, assuming I did manage such a trip, managed to get there, I would have to insist that “Fred” wear a big sign that says “Fred” so I would know who he is. Would I know anyone else? I could ask the “jolly” Fred: Are any old majorettes going to be there? How about people that were in the band? They’re the only ones I really knew. And, oh yeah, Art H, whom I dated all my senior year hanging out with his intellectual crowd: will he be there? Any of them—if I could only remember a name or two! If so, have Art wear a sign, too. Maybe I can find my old prom gown so he recognizes something about me. Oh, but it’s a lunch! (albeit a four-hour one—how many trips to the bathroom will that necessitate for those gathered?) so maybe I don’t want to be that formal.
Well, I’m excited, Fred. I will start saving my money. August, you say? A Saturday, noon to four. Nice. Will there be tea served? Juice? So much fun. Amazing how we’ve all remained so intimate over this great distance.