The Best Reunions

After a while in life, you start noticing that there are only so many faces in the world, which causes people’s identities to really blur in the mind. Someone spoke to me in the supermarket yesterday and it took me three whole aisles to realize it wasn’t Bette Midler at all but some girl I had sat behind for four years in homeroom.

This is basically why I’ve come to believe that there are good, and less-than-good, ways to run a school reunion.

The less-good way tries to do the thing in just one evening, when it takes three hours to figure out who people even are. Sure, nametags are great in theory, but you can’t be peering at people’s chests trying to read them because weren’t we all taught since we couldn’t even see above the grownups’ kneecaps that it’s rude to peer at people’s body parts? Plus if they see us doing it, boom, there’s proof that we don’t remember them.

No, the best reunions are definitely NOT the ones where all the fun is jammed into one night. The best ones are the ones that take place over two or three days, so that by the time you get to the big event on Saturday night you can match at least some names with the right faces.

But in truth what I’ve come to believe is that we should all throw our own reunions, and invite only those people who know exactly how weird we looked in our gym suits.

You don’t need nametags for this kind of reunion, or decorations either.

You don’t need music, or neckties, or the latest fashions.

All you need is a nice reasonably priced hotel, a place to take walks between sessions of maniacal laughing, and a few restaurants laid back enough so you can hang around the tables for four hours talking and crying.

One summer I attended such a reunion, hosted by a classmate who lives on the ruffled coastline of Maine and that first night our hostess assigned us roles to play at her kick-off dinner.

I was assigned the role of President, charged only with proposing a toast and calling on the others: the Bard, who told stories of escapades best forgotten; the Seer, who predicted our futures; the Pragmatist, who, as our hostess, furnished all our food; and the Wine Steward, who kept on pouring.

We slept two and three to a room, just like in the old days.

Did crossword puzzles out loud, collaborating on the answers.

Inspected a lot of flowers.

Walked ‘til our feet hurt.

And talked: about … well, what didn’t we talk about?

And in the end this reunion seemed to be just what any school reunion should be: A field trip of the imagination to the time when we would gather in dormitory hallways during study breaks to joke, and commiserate, and tell fond, semi-mocking stories about our families, who turned out not to seem so crazy after all when compared to other people’s families.

They should be field trips of the imagination to the years before we were tied in tight to this old world by the cords of work and food prep and obligation. To the days when we believed – really believed - that Time would never touch us.