AROUND THE KITCHEN TABLE

By Maureen Weber

Ask anyone and you’ll find that attending a high school reunion does not feature prominently on a list of enjoyable activities. In spite of that, more than 1,000 people recently attended the 100-year reunion of my high school, Humboldt Collegiate Institute.
 
The first reunion I sort of attended was 10 years after graduation. I say “sort of” because I got as far as the door and no further. Bad memories were too fresh and not enough of life had passed to sand down the mean edges of the ruling class. In school I was, to put it kindly, unremarkable — shy, a little overweight, with large thick glasses and an unbecoming haircut, not the least bit athletic, maybe smart but not in math, as my algebra teacher loved to remind my mother. A sense of inadequacy came roaring back when I saw the reassembled hierarchy that existed in my teens.
 
Fast-forward a few more years and attitudes, and appearances, had begun to shift. Some of the best visits I had 10 years ago were with people I would have walked on the other side of the street to avoid in my youth, so it was with optimism that I looked forward to this 100-year gathering.
 
It was definitely an older crowd — according to organizers the bulk of registrations were from those who graduated prior to 1988 and most from the 1960s and ’70s. This partly affirms my belief that one needs to have distance — lots of distance — from the pain of adolescence before it can be confronted with a relaxed sense of humour.
 
Many not interested in attending said it was because they keep in touch regularly with good friends and don’t care to see people from years ago they never were friends with anyway. But I was fascinated to see faces I hadn’t seen in years, classmates or not — how they’d changed and how they hadn’t. Like inimitable Darrell whose appearance had barely changed in 36 years. The sound of his voice brought to mind the black car with orange flames everybody had given him such a bad time over. The silly panache of those flames. Only he could get away with it.
 
Or Leon who never forgets a face and wouldn’t miss a reunion for the world — he’s still as tall as the prairie sky, and his smile as wide. Blue-eyed Neil, exotic Cheryl, five brothers and the astonishing way they’ve grown to resemble each other, and their father, as the years go by.
 
People wore name tags and I laughed as I walked through the crowd, observing that everyone’s eyes strayed to where the tags were fastened. One person even congratulated me for greeting him by name without looking. Nicely done! But recognizing people wasn’t easy every time. One woman whose name I couldn’t quite place and whom I judged to be somewhat older, stared closely at my tag and said, “Weber?” with a shake of her head. I pointed out my maiden name and said perhaps she remembered my father who was the principal. Saretsky. Oh, yeah, of course. But you? No. And she walked away. It was at that moment I realized she was actually a year younger than I am, and that in high school she had been a somewhat leaner member of the basketball crowd. No wonder I didn’t register on her list of People Who Matter.
 
The best name-tag encounter I had was when a woman stopped me to say I looked familiar. “I want to know what your name is,” she said. When she realized I was a Saretsky, she seemed delighted. “You’re Tony’s daughter! He taught me in the '50s and I just loved him.” She made my night.
 
The one visit that made me wistful was with a teacher who taught with my dad on staff. Al and Dad were good friends and Al’s laugh, exactly the same as ever, reminded me of the good times they had together. My dad’s been gone six years, and many his age were still there to reminisce. One person I spoke with had lost both his parents as well. His eyes were moist. It’s hard to be an orphan. I could feel the weight of his thoughts and wanted to ask more questions, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate. People visited like butterflies flitting randomly through a blooming meadow — so much choice. It wasn’t a time to drink deeply.
 
A woman of about 60 paused long enough to tell us she’d been mistaken for her 80-something-year-old mother. She was laughing about it and appeared to be as good-natured as I remembered her back when I was just a kid and hung out once in awhile with her sister. Not everyone would be as accepting of being mistaken for one’s mother at a high school reunion (it’s probably a hazard of the event), but it wasn’t an insult. Maureen really did look like her mother — but as lovely as her mother looked years ago when that person probably last saw her.

We remember in strange ways, and 40 years goes by in a blink. That thought was on everyone’s mind. One of my classmates mentioned with some apprehension the fact that the crowd was old and we’re not getting any younger. But where she found anxiety, I saw hope in the spirited conversations and animated faces.

As gatherings go it was pretty ordinary — people talked with shining eyes about their children and grandchildren, their spouses, what they do and where they live, they talked about their parents if they were still alive, or not.

The circle of life goes round. What’s extraordinary is to be a part of it at all.

ENCASED MEMORIES — The demolition fence goes up around old HCI, Maureen Weber’s Alma mater. Trees along the wall by her dad’s former office window were selected especially for their spectacular colours in the fall. The building will come down, but the memories will always remain. (Maureen Weber photo)