The Beautiful Few

To look at me, you wouldn't believe it, but I graduated from high school fifty years ago with the class of 1963. I don't recall the exact date but I'm sure it was around the middle of May.  The reunion is coming up in a couple of weeks so I'm planning to take a trip back to the place of my youth, Colfax, Wisconsin. Luke 2:3 says "And all went to be taxed, every one unto his own city."  In some respects, our government seems to be much more proficient at taxing than the Caesar administration to which Luke was referring. After all, we can be taxed anywhere anytime whether in our own city or not.

 Furthermore, I can't really claim Colfax as "my own" city. I wasn't born there although it is the only home that I can remember.  My house and lineage is scattered across several states, and that is just the lineage I know about or choose to acknowledge. I myself have contributed to that scattering by spending my life away from my house and lineage, but that doesn't alter the fact that I'm going back, or that I suspect it may be a taxing experience.

I've taken a few steps to prepare though. I found my class ring.  I'll finally get a chance to wear it. I really didn't get to wear it when it was new for, you see, I was going steady at the time. Going steady was the first level of monogamous dating. It was between playing the field and being engaged usually right after simply going out with. It didn't carry the implication of promise for the future that engagement did but it required a certain level of commitment. Like having to spend the lunch hour hanging out with your significant other in front of her locker, escorting her to both school and private social functions and resisting copping a feel from any of her friends, at least if there was a chance that she might learn of it. Since that chance always existed in a small school, that was a burden that one simply had to bear. 

It also required the exchange of the personalized class rings which resulted in the larger ring, in this case mine, being immediately re-sized with thread and clear fingernail polish to reside comfortably on a more delicate finger.  The smaller ring, hers, could not be enlarged and was condemned to be worn on the pinkie finger of the less delicate hand, in my case never above the second knuckle. That made it vulnerable to the inevitable launch every time a snowball was hurled.  It was for these very reasons that I believe my class ring was preserved in pristine condition while hers, to the best of my recollection, was lost.

I've located and dusted off the 1963 edition of the COHIAN, the COlfax HIgh ANnual (who said we weren't clever back in the day?) I opened it for the first time in many years, admittedly with some trepidation, to determine which of my memories were actually documented and which could be freely embellished without the threat of discovery. There they were, all of the beautiful few with whom I had spent "the best years of my life". Unchanged in their youthful beauty and vitality. Even me.

Just as an anthropological dig contains more than just the shards of pottery and bone fragments that document an ancient existence, so too my annual contains more than just the pictures of activities and events and roles that document my ancient high school experience. Tradition of the day demanded that each of my classmates have an opportunity to write some reminder of a memorable, shared experience. And just as the anthropologist must contextualize and read between the lines to properly interpret the ancient runes, so too must I employ some interpretive skills to get to the heart of these matters. 

For instance when a band mate writes, "Andy, You're still a nasty guy! Some of the things you say don't really flatter a person.", I read, "I'm just a stupid sophomore and apologize for being alive". I'm almost sure that is what she meant. And, yes, I was in the high school band.  I played drums and was required to serve a short stint in the tuba section, not because of my horn blowing prowess but because I was strong enough to actually carry a tuba. Ironically though, I didn't have the wind for it.  I didn't develop the wind to blow my own horn in public until just a couple of years ago when I started blogging.

And then there is this: "Andy, Best wishes to a real nut.  Keep up the fine humor and you'll have many more friends."  Now there is some solid truth that certainly doesn't require interpretation. She continues, "Don't forget your teasing me in Journalism class and how I pounded you up. I hope I see you after you graduate." Should I even try to discern the motive for that last remark? Should I assume that she meant that my gentle teasing was so endearing that she wanted it to continue even after graduation? Or should I stop by the tactical shop on the way to the reunion to pick up a bullet proof vest assuming that she will try to kill me on sight?

In the interest of fairness and balance, I must mention that there are also many positive salutations. Taken by itself, there are more references to the word good than I can count. While most are followed by the word luck there is also a smattering of byes and at least one riddance. Best wishes seems to appear a lot, especially in entries by the faculty. Hope was already out of the question. Best wishes appeared appropriate to them. And the ubiquitous LL&S, that pre-texting acronym for Love Luck and Success, tops the list without modifiers.

As I reflect on the events that got me to this point in my life, I may have to do some rethinking.  I recall graduation day.  While others were thinking of the beer party or elaborate home celebration that might ensue following the ceremony, I was quietly pondering the benefit of a quality education.  But now, after reviewing the annual, and perusing the thoughts of my schoolmates, well those that I could decipher, I have another thought; penmanship was not a very large part of our curriculum. And without trying to sound mean, I'll quietly add neither were spelling and punctuation. While I used to think that the sound education that I took from Colfax was of primary benefit to my ability to rise above the challenges of my life, i.e., my success, as much as I hate to mention it using that term, I now think it was something else.  I think it was the good wishes, the good luck and the LL&S of those beautiful few who ushered me through "the best days of my life". I now know why they call them "The Good Old Days".

You may have noticed that I didn't mention any names here even though each of the remarks to which I referred was boldly signed.  This was done intentionally, but not to protect the innocent.  As you well know, in the Class of '63, there were no innocent.