This morning on my run, I started to reminisce about high school after seeing pictures of a couple of classmates on Facebook. These were now old faces that I only knew as fresh faces. Their features may have been a bit wrinkled but still recognizable. Each brought back a memory, although none of them were close friends or even casual acquaintances. These were the cool, rich kids that lived on the river and were in a class by themselves. Untouchable as far as I was concerned.
It was a big class, over 1,000 at our grade level, in Middle America, the late sixties. I guess it’s top of mind because my 50th reunion is less than a year away. I’m not sure I can handle a gathering this large, considering the challenges with my hearing and vocal cords. I’m curious about all of these fellow students and where they’ve ended up. However, just like in school, there will be cliques of those that have stayed in touch through the years and still live in the community. Some of my closest friends are dead, while others have gone their separate ways. If I go, I want it to be for the right reasons and not just the satisfaction of knowing that my life might have turned out better than some of these untouchables.
It was not their fault that they were born into richer families, and I shouldn’t have been envious. Likely I didn’t know better. I still trying to find myself and that continues to this day. I remember a pair of pants that one of them wore to school one day. They looked like a patchwork quilt, colorful squares of “bleeding” madras fabric. What’s ironic is that the unique material was regarded as belonging to the peasant class of India, but it’s lightweight nature and colorful patterns became popular with the upper-class, particularly golfers in Indiana. It was often sold without proper washing instructions, resulting in the bright madras dies “bleeding” in the wash. It could ruin an entire load of laundry or wash-out and stain your skin in a rainstorm. I had to have a pair of these pants, but I felt like a clown wearing them. It was embarrassing to wear them because they attracted so much attention, but I thought they would make me cool. To make matters worse, I failed to tell my mom about this unique “bleeding” quality, and it ruined many of my other clothes. I wasn’t cool at home either.
The other classmate that I was remembering, his father owned the Goldberg’s Mens Store, a popular hometown fashion outlet where I would buy my Tuffies jeans. They looked even more fashionable when they were heavily starched and creased like the son would wear. He also donned starched white shirts that would show-off his tropical tan after Christmas vacation every year. I was also envious of this, but my tans were the product of staying in a trailer park in Florida, while his golden glow was more likely from an exotic destination.
I probably should mention that he did not celebrate Christmas, along with some of my wealthier classmates.
Their parents were doctors, lawyers, car dealers, bankers, jewelers, other retail owners, and top executives that belonged to the prestigious local Country Club. They would often eventually disappear to private schools, but still included as part of our class in case they ever came back.
I should probably present myself as not totally deprived, just relatively. I did not grow up in the Country Club, but my father eventually earned a membership through his company. He was not the club type, so it somehow became my responsibility to fulfill any required monthly financial obligations. I tried to fit with the golfers, swimmers, tennis players, and even curlers, but I didn’t learn these sports at birth like most of them. Similarly, we didn’t own a boat and live on the river, so I never got involved in the showy Jumpin’ Joe’s Ski Club. However, I did attend basketball camp with them, but we never became close friends. I was probably too intimidated with their projected status.
As I look back, I was too caught up in trying to be something I wasn’t and should have been more content with what we had. I also felt victimized by my nickname of “Smiley” and considered it a lack of respect despite its popularity. I should have embraced it, but instead hated being called by a name that wasn’t mine. I finally escaped the unwanted moniker when I went to college, and later gave the name to our golden retriever. He too had a big smile like Snoopy!
I’ve also considered what life would have been like if I hadn’t been adopted by my loving parents, who gave me everything I asked for…or didn’t. They gave me work-free summers at the Country Club, a college education, an upper-middle-class home, color TV, a sister, fancy pants, church, and patiently put-up with doing my “bleeding” laundry. I lived like a king when I could have been a pauper. Somehow, I never felt like I had as much as the next guy.
Here I am today comfortably retired, and finally doing my own laundry. I lead a privileged life of marriage, travel, family, friends, career accomplishment, love, good health, and life-long income that few ever achieve. I’m sure that everyone at the class reunion will claim the same thing, and I hope they honestly can. I don’t see any point in going to an event to see people from my past that I could have easily made contact with through the years in this age of social media. I figure there’s a reason we haven’t stayed in touch, and unfortunately, some of that is attrition. I’ve attended other reunions, am not exactly a recluse, and consequently anyone who’s interested can find out exactly how I’m doing almost every day by reading this blog. As a result, unless someone other than the organizer encourages me to attend or I happen to be in the area for my mother-in-law’s 98th birthday, I am not going to spend thousands of dollars to meet the classmates I never met 50 years ago.
