August and September seem to be the prime months for class reunions.
In my city, these are usually the hottest months of the year, and our class reunion organizers inevitably have picked the hottest day of the year in a non-airconditioned venue to hold our infrequent get-togethers. However, this year was different. The reunion took place in a family backyard on a rather pleasantly warm evening. Everyone generously contributed food and drink which fueled an evening of much hilarity and talk. I would guess 50 or 60 classmates elected to attend out of a graduating class of over 700 "baby boomers" attending what was then the largest school in the state by student population.
It was a gregarious group gathered at this reunion. I've noticed over the years at these get-togethers, that most everyone has overcome high school shyness, inhibitions, "hang-ups" and cliques. At our age it seems the most important thing has become the celebration of our shared experiences while in high school, and marking the unforgiving passage of time.
My husband has often suggested to me that the only people who attend high school reunions are those who perceive themselves as being successful. I don't know if his assessment is correct, but our class certainly has more than its fair share of success stories, including noted doctors, lawyers galore, a judge, artists, writers, educators and administrators, businessmen and women, and even a professional athlete of some note. But there are plenty of us who live plain-old ordinary lives, who perhaps because of a common history, feel confident enough at these reunions to share amongst each other the ups and downs of marriages and divorces, raising children and bragging about grandchildren, the ever-increasing struggles with our own health issues, and now, for many of us, caring for ill and aging parents.
People comfortably chattered about ordinary lives, of classmates who could not attend, and shared so so many memories. We recalled who did what crazy thing and if they got away with it. We remembered who sat at what lunch table in the cafeteria and who rode the bus and who car-pooled. We talked about the faculty and administrators who taught us and shaped us. And each time we get together, we sadly note the passing of a few more classmates and sadly add their names to that ever-growing list.
This year I noticed a few topics of conversation seemed new. For instance, there was so much more discussion of health concerns and how we are dealing with them, and one topic I noticed being discussed for the first time: how we are choosing to spend our time and fill our days now that many of us have retired.
For me seeing high school classmates is good. It "grounds" me. My classmates serve to remind me of where I came from and how that effects where I am now. My classmates were there with me in some of my very formative years, and it is somewhat comforting to know that so many are still there for me. I like to think of our high school years and memories as both formative and positive.
And sometimes my thoughts turn to high school students of today, who it seems too often, can face life or death challenges in the hallways of their schools. And I wonder if they will perceive themselves as successful and what they will reminisce about at those hot August/September class reunions of the future?
Love to my classmates,
Looking forward to seeing you at our 49th and 50th!
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
Rocket from Gaza Straight Into My Heart
I am hating this most recent iteration of the Arab Israeli conflict. That is mostly because I'm not sure what is behind it all: Muslim factionalism, hatred of Zionism and Jews, or something else that I don't yet understand. But I do know that way too many children are dying in this war, from the three young students found murdered on the West Bank, to the hundreds of small innocents being sacrificed in schools, hospitals, and homes in Gaza, in my opinion, for no good reason. I have been sick at heart about this for weeks now.
And yesterday, as I attended the funeral of the mother of one of my long-time, dear friends, the war in Gaza took an unexpected and personal turn. At the funeral, the large vociferous family of the deceased made what is so often a sad occasion into a stunning tribute to their mother, grandmother and great grandmother. They spoke to her life as a celebration of love, and memories, and stories were shared, and there was much laughter among the tears, and it was a most loving time. And there was much visiting and sharing among those attending, and I was able to visit with people who I had not seen in a long time.
Among those I spoke with was my dear Rabbi, one of my long-time teachers, an adviser, and a mentor and a friend. It has been some time since I have seen him, and I wanted to find out how he was doing. It was a very hot day and we sat down in a cool place away from the funeral crowd to have a brief visit.
I have known him since I was 5 years old when he first came to our congregation in the early 1950's along with his wife and young family. His oldest son and I are the same age and we are friends now for more than sixty years. Rabbi's son and I were classmates from kindergarten into high school, where he proved himself to be brilliant beyond the rest of us, and entered university at a young age. Rabbi's son and his family have resided in Israel for decades now, and he is a respected and internationally known scholar.
Rabbi is now close to 93 and, I noticed, walking with a cane. As we sat down together, he immediately shared with me something that obviously was at the top of his mind. Every time his phone rings, he told me, he is afraid to pick it up. I could not imagine why, and then he went on to explain to me that his son (my childhood contemporary and friend) has a son who has been called up with the Israeli army, and is now, as I write, serving on the front lines in Gaza. He also casually mentioned that his grandson's particular unit has taken the most casualties. Rabbi is afraid every time his phone rings.
In a moment, a rocket from Gaza, made a direct hit to my heart, as instantly, the war became personal. An Israeli soldier, very much in harm's way, was someone I knew. I have known generations of his family. He has family members who are special to me. The new knowledge sent me into shock. It took a moment to sink in, and then I gave Rabbi a supportive hug. And though I don't usually say prayers, I promised him I would direct all my positive focus and energy to that very place where his grandson stands among those who seek his demise.
Ironically, at the celebratory funeral of woman who lived a fulfilling and long life, I went home with sadness and feeling quite empty, as figuratively, "a rocket from Gaza had created a huge hole my heart".
And yesterday, as I attended the funeral of the mother of one of my long-time, dear friends, the war in Gaza took an unexpected and personal turn. At the funeral, the large vociferous family of the deceased made what is so often a sad occasion into a stunning tribute to their mother, grandmother and great grandmother. They spoke to her life as a celebration of love, and memories, and stories were shared, and there was much laughter among the tears, and it was a most loving time. And there was much visiting and sharing among those attending, and I was able to visit with people who I had not seen in a long time.
Among those I spoke with was my dear Rabbi, one of my long-time teachers, an adviser, and a mentor and a friend. It has been some time since I have seen him, and I wanted to find out how he was doing. It was a very hot day and we sat down in a cool place away from the funeral crowd to have a brief visit.
I have known him since I was 5 years old when he first came to our congregation in the early 1950's along with his wife and young family. His oldest son and I are the same age and we are friends now for more than sixty years. Rabbi's son and I were classmates from kindergarten into high school, where he proved himself to be brilliant beyond the rest of us, and entered university at a young age. Rabbi's son and his family have resided in Israel for decades now, and he is a respected and internationally known scholar.
Rabbi is now close to 93 and, I noticed, walking with a cane. As we sat down together, he immediately shared with me something that obviously was at the top of his mind. Every time his phone rings, he told me, he is afraid to pick it up. I could not imagine why, and then he went on to explain to me that his son (my childhood contemporary and friend) has a son who has been called up with the Israeli army, and is now, as I write, serving on the front lines in Gaza. He also casually mentioned that his grandson's particular unit has taken the most casualties. Rabbi is afraid every time his phone rings.
In a moment, a rocket from Gaza, made a direct hit to my heart, as instantly, the war became personal. An Israeli soldier, very much in harm's way, was someone I knew. I have known generations of his family. He has family members who are special to me. The new knowledge sent me into shock. It took a moment to sink in, and then I gave Rabbi a supportive hug. And though I don't usually say prayers, I promised him I would direct all my positive focus and energy to that very place where his grandson stands among those who seek his demise.
Ironically, at the celebratory funeral of woman who lived a fulfilling and long life, I went home with sadness and feeling quite empty, as figuratively, "a rocket from Gaza had created a huge hole my heart".
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