Thursday night I didn't go to bookclub to discuss Lynne Withey's Dear Friend: A Life of Abigail Adams, partly because I had whatever to do before leaving today and partly because in anticipation of its being the evening before leaving I hadn't made the effort to finish the book. It would have been a good companion to the first volume of David McCullough's biography of John Adams that I recently finished listening to, if the first 100 pages had said more than that she missed her husband and if it hadn't had three glaring grammatical errors, just that I noticed.
I had made a list so packing went well. I would have mailed my dangerous make-up (a lot more dangerous to me than to anyone else) had my mother been in town, but she and her husband were away. I was indulging in expensive nostalgia and girliness, so Fedexing a small box of items vital to my vanity like contact lenses and Burt's Beeswax wasn't that much worse. To me, an eyelash curler is much scarier than lotion, but I don't make the rules.
The flights went well, but I reserve the right to be grumpy about nondirect flights within the contiguous states. I had a long enough wait in Cincinnati to eat, and I chose Outback Outpost as the one sit-down place. It's an airport restaurant: people do not dine there but only fuel, and therefore having to wait 30' before even ordering narrowed my eyes. Don't tell my sister but I asked for the bill when the server deigned to bring me my meal and tipped far less than 20%.
I landed at 8:45 and was zooming away from Bradley by 9:35. With a stop at my mother's house to pee and brush my beak and of course add contact lenses, I arrived at the Hideaway, previously the Elephant Walk, by 10:15. Since I would never speed, clearly I discovered a tesseract.
Everyone looked great! I recognized almost everyone immediately, the exception being the woman who was new in eleventh grade, whom I got on the second try. I made a circuit of the room, because that's what I do, and talked to everyone. My late arrival meant I missed two people I hoped to see the next night. One of the five intraclass couples, who've been together since freshling year of college and comprise a girl who was particularly friendly to me and my first kiss (ninth grade), sat at the bar side by side so cozily I had to ask them if they had seen each other since graduation. Another conversation that lasted longer than a chat was with my ninth grade crush, who was trying to figure out how to fold sailor hats out of paper, 25 of them for his son's fourth birthday on the morrow.
We all closed the bar at 1 and because the weather was bad, the planned "hike" at Devil's Hopyard was scratched. This felt a tiny bit like high school, when a select few made the decision for the masses who might not know about that decision. Being one of the select few who was told, even if I didn't vote to cancel--what's a little rain?--didn't make me feel any better about the ones who didn't know. However, now, unlike in high school (when I wouldn't've known anyway), I protested, questioning whether everyone knew who ought to.
So Friday was successful.
Instead of a hike in the nearly nonexistent rain, there was breakfast. When CLH called to say hi and good morning, I told her we were in Pat's Kountry Kitchen in Saybrook, selected as a nearby spot that could seat us all, but yeah. Kountry. Amy, Kim, Shaye and I were there for about an hour before another four people showed up, and in that time we had coffee and stories. Also they waved to the phone and yelled hi to my sister.
Surprisingly to me, Kim and Shaye didn't remember one of my favorite stories--a funny one that also was a mother thing. So for all three of them and not just Amy, I told the story. In ninth grade, one Tuesday or Thursday when classes ran 4-3-2-1-7-6-5 and we therefore had Ancient & Medieval History first period, before Latin, they were dreading a test and not wanting to take it and therefore invented National Latin Teacher's Day. They left that particular teacher's room--easily, I'm sure--to use the payphones, and actually got their mothers to go to the store and buy cake and soda and decorations and bring them to school before 8:57 a.m. The Latin teacher bought it, and we had a party that day instead of the test. Shaye didn't remember that but she did remember the "Who Died?" incident, sympathetically for my gaffe as well as for the others' bereavement.
Relating this to my sister on Monday, I said that of course the thing that strikes me most about this is not that the teacher bought it or went along with it but that these people got their mothers to go along with a scheme that involved their children's evading a test and their own running unplanned errands with unplanned money at the drop of a hat and quick-like.
I asked if anyone had got in touch with Ken, who left after eighth grade to attend a private high school but still lives in town. Yes indeed, many had. I told how I had invited him to junior prom (we didn't have a senior prom) because maybe, unlike every boy actually in my class, he didn't hate me, and because maybe he'd like to see people and I would be an acceptable means even if he did. Most of my best stories are told against myself, and so I told these three women that I wouldn't tell them how many boys I asked to prom before finally giving up and going stag (four), and that when Ken said no I heard only rejection but that the conversation--burned with shame into my memory--probably indicated something else. The way I recall it, anyway, was that I looked up his number and called him and asked him, and far from saying no immediately, he went to ask permission; and when he came back to the phone what he said was no and "I guess I've had too much fun this year." At the time, I heard only "no," but the fact that he had to ask his parents or father and returned with that line eventually--over years--suggested to me that his father, not he, was the one saying no. My three companions agreed that that was likely--and that was reassuring even after 20 years and I don't care.
The classmates who joined us eventually happened to be four of the several boys who participated, in twelfth grade, in a Spirit Week talent show, and their talent was a beauty pageant in pathetic drag with tennis ball boobs. Indicating just what sort of popularity contest the school was, they won, rather than the 10th-grader who did a traditional Cambodian dance that took actual talent; or Bruce, Erin, and Anne's rendition of "They Are Naked and They Do Dance," which was actually funny; or--someone else remembered this--Lynn accompanying herself on guitar singing the Eagles' "Desperado," which took both talent and bravery. But I chortled, "No, that wasn't Lynn who sang 'Desperado.' That was me, describing my attempt to get a date to prom!" and I cracked up. Everyone else laughed--thank goodness--with Shaye saying she loved how I laughed at my own jokes.
After breakfast, which lasted three hours, I went to the lake. Despite its being the Saturday of a holiday weekend, no one was there, perhaps because of the weather. The Forest Service has built a retaining wall to keep the bare little stretch of not-beach from eroding into the lake, which makes nudey-dipping much easier: you can grab your towel, and suit if need be, without leaving the water, though two inches of water doesn't disguise much. But no one was there! So I swam happily for a while.
I stopped at Kenny's market to add my voice to the throng inviting him, encountered a closed Phoebe since it was after 1:00 on a summer Saturday, walked along the boardwalk at the DEP (and no one rents kayaks at Ferry Landing that I saw), drove to the beach and wrote for a while, and finally bought a sandwich and brought it home to eat. I ate on the deck in the now-heavier rain because I find the house so oppressive even without other people in it. Besides, I like rain and trees and wind, which the house didn't provide from the outside.
The most frustrating aspect of my preparations late that afternoon was locating the iron. I remembered my mother recently ironing in what she now refers to as her sewing room, so I looked there first. This is the only reason I looked in closets, but not the only reason I noticed that boxes in many closets were labeled "Store in [whichever] closet next to [whichever other] box" but not labeled with, say, their contents. Whatever, it's not my house. Unless her wardrobe really requires no ironing such that the appliance is tucked away in one of the unhelpfully labeled but neatly arranged boxes, my mother's iron was not in the main living quarters--should I call the Kim who lives within a half mile?—and then I remembered laundry. A miracle worker did do some damn thing or other in the cellar which has rendered it nearly dry in the five years since, and that's a good thing even at the cost of the floor being a foot higher than previously. (Before that, the laundry machines were on a platform three feet up and you stood in the stairwell with the washer door opening nearly into the ceiling, often surrounded by two feet of water.) The improvement is not quite so good a thing, nor is the room's height quite sufficient, to justify the iron and the ironing board being set up for use there, with a towel on the cement floor to cushion the feet a bit. But a cement cellar is tough to torch, I grant, and the clothes are right there out of the dryer. At any rate I ironed my dress.
After that my luck was good, beautifying-wise. The one thing I hadn't had was a haircut, because I knew I'd wear it up anyway. A cut would only delay its getting long enough to put up easily, and I have missed that since June. But I got it arranged, back if not up, and not even in April's updo that was more pins than hair. The Egypt Game I put in a small braid at one side, rolled the two sides back and secured them with clips, and used a plain faux tortoiseshell barrette to make a flat ponytail, hiding the clips. Plus I'd got a manicure and, heaven forgive me, a pedicure. Yes, I wore makeup on my feet, a pink so pale it was barely other than nail color, but shiny. The eyelash curler didn't pinch my lid. The eyeliner went on neatly. The mascara didn't clump. It was decidedly weird. So off I went.
The other best current story (I really liked my "Desperado" line) happened Saturday evening. My ninth grade crush, I decided, had not signed my yearbook, and I wanted him to do so now. We swapped books and, pen in hand, I flipped his open to my picture, and there in my likes and dislikes I saw that he had underlined the initials JPS. I wish I could cock a single eyebrow--and Saturday night I discovered that one of my classmates can do that, though now I forget who, Laura?--and asked him why he underlined that bit.
"Jon-Paul," he replied. "He was always saying you had a crush on him and here you confessed. He underlined it."
"Tom, that's my dog."
He and I and people overhearing laughed, and we discussed how I was going to have to go break Jon-Paul's heart. So I found Jon-Paul elsewhere in the room and showed him the initials and told him I'd have to douse the torch he'd long been carrying, because that was my dog. So my 20-years-on signature in Tom's book spells out Jessiman Pachaug Shadow, so there will not be further confusion.
But when the time came for a group shot, and I was among the last to join the group because I had been using the mic to herd everyone toward the bar, I was therefore at the front, and got to sit right next to Jon-Paul. I cooed at him and my luck.
I didn't have a crush on Jon-Paul in high school, no. I did have a crush on Tom, when he was new, a short-lived one and possibly memorable only because he broke my little 14-year-old heart. I asked him if he remembered what he called me, and yes he did. Ha! And where the name came from, and he said it was a television show.
So I am not the only one with Poppin' Fresh Memory. But I think that I remember so much school stuff because I don't have a lot of more fun, more meaningful, off-campus personal interactions to remember instead.
It was a lovely time. I would have been glad of more people, and the two people I missed on Friday night didn't come to Saturday night. Plus there was a weird thing by which the manager of the restaurant was one of our classmates, I think trying to remain incognito, successfully until a classmate's spouse told the organizer who'd been arranging the event for months with this woman, who she was. I think she didn't appreciate being outed. Or perhaps she felt she'd been slighted by the organizer, who in my opinion was in no way obligated to know that Generic Name X was Generic Name Different LastName. Whatever.
Shaye told me that Saturday afternoon when they went shopping and dishing after breakfast, they were talking about me--about how cool I was, and had I been this cool in high school? Answer: not really. I am glad I spent my high school years alone. Less peer pressure. A proving ground: could I think for myself, and what thoughts would I come up with?
The bit of current peer pressure I enjoyed succumbing to concerned shoes. I searched Zappos.com for the first time. Red was out for certain, Scarf's best efforts notwithstanding, but I filtered the site for green sandals, slingback mule or slide, and found a fetching pair of celery-colored slides, tooled leather with a stacked kitten heel. The footbed was outlined in what looked like pinking, a last pretty detail. This pair of shoes was waiting for me at work when we returned from Aspen, and they fit comfortably out of the box. It was at this point I scheduled a pedicure.
Gretchen and her husband are both gorgeous. And they could dance! When it came time for the group picture, I stopped midway across the room realizing my plan to go to everyone individually was not efficient and asked the deejay to use his mic. I started calling everyone by name, classmates and companions (a feat of name-remembering that apparently impressed people). I called him, who had been politely reluctant to join a class group picture, and a Kim corrected me. So I called him again, using the moniker by which he was better known: "Hot guy who can dance, get in the picture."
A Kim and I could remember the third girl who shared a room on the eighth grade trip to D.C. but not the fourth. I'll have to look through the 1982 yearbook. She and I danced swing together, while another Kim and I did salsa. I led the swing and followed for salsa. Later: it was yet another Kim (a tenth of the girls in the class were named Kim), who actually graduated with us, unlike the girl we could remember, who did not.
The only other couple who danced, until right at the end, was Laura and her husband. They maybe weren't hot but they were enjoyable to watch, actually knowing some steps, and he was my favorite non-classmate spouse. Her smile is the same and her manner, and my particular anticipation to see her again paid off.
The deejay asked what we wanted the last song to be, and after rapid discussion we asked for "Tainted Love." The entire evening had been '80s music, of course, but we hadn't had Soft Cell yet. Jodi and I blared at each other "and that's not nearly all" like we'd been dancing together all along and not last (and first) together at the AFS Cruise to Nowhere after twelfth grade.
Confusingly, two songs followed the announced last song. I don't remember the penultimate but the deejay, announcing that his time was now thoroughly up, said he'd chosen a special last song, "from 1987!" to groans that evidently did not change his mind. He played that hideous and anachronistic and absolutely dreadful song from the hideous and dreadful movie "Dirty Dancing." Mass exodus from the dance floor.
I joined Ken, a Kim, and Connie's conversation, and Kim admired my shoes (which are, in fact, super). Connie said she could never wear shoes without backs, and Ken admired how I could dance in them too. I said something or other about how I was never a girl about shoes until I discovered mules and slides, and I'm still not much of a girl. Kim said in a tone that nearly pat me on the head, "Thirty-eight years old and finally a girl. All grown up." I grinned. Ken said my ungirlishness seemed like me, that I was always kind of a bohème. Now, this is interesting, because however true that statement is, and I like to think very, I cannot think that I could express it before the end of eighth grade, when our acquaintance stalled. But his correct impression of me goes along with his immediately recognizing me that afternoon. He also asked what sports I do, because I looked like I do something. Possibly he said this after seeing the racerback tanline on my back, but his saying that was an opening to mention the triathlon. He also said something about the success of my anti-aging campaign. Wasn't he delightful?
When I walked into the market Saturday afternoon, his aunt was at the register as ever and I asked her if Kenny was in--the Ken my age, 38. He was. I walked to the deli counter and in a few moments he emerged. "Hi Kenny," I said, and he, not to be outcooled, immediately returned, "Hey Lisa." Just like Zaphod and Ford (did I just uncool myself?) Now, granted, he probably had heard from Amy and maybe others that I was due in town, but still. So there was that. Also Saturday night, Chris told me that when I walked into the bar the previous evening he would never have known me. I leaned to kiss his cheek. "I'm serious!" he protested. "So was the kiss!" I hadn't suck out his tongue by the root, for heaven's sake, but affectionately kissed his cheek. Whatever.
Both Ken's immediate recognition and Chris's non-recognition made me tremendously happy. I've known Kenny since infancy, and though I forget whether he went to Mrs. McGovren's nursery school, we were together certainly from kindergarten through eighth grade. Chris was either new or new to me when the elementary schools combined in middle school. I like that Kenny recognized me from when I was a cute little kid and that Chris didn't recognize me from my awkward teens. Besides, that weekend I was prepared to be tremendously happy with everyone.
A Kim said something flirtatious or something to Ken and I continued the flirt when she'd turned away, asking why he hadn't responded. He said he made a living reading body language and unspoken cues and would not have, and I understood he meant Bruce's reaction to Kim's remark. I mention this only because it has bearing on something otherwise unrelated that followed:
Another reason I could have spent a few more hours in Ken's company was another form of validation. I mentioned staying at my mother's house, and how with her away it was easier. He nodded, "I can see that," whereupon I apologized, because no one wants to spend an evening listening to me complain about my mother. "No, it wasn't that," he assured. It's just that my mother comes into the store occasionally and he tries to engage her and joke with her, as he does with most people usually successfully, and he has never been able to connect with her. "So I figure she might have been hard for someone like you to grow up with. I can imagine the fun quotient just wasn't there."
Good lord. Of course none of my friends can meet my mother without prejudice, because even if I don't bitch about her incessantly anymore I do still stress about her plenty. So for someone who knew me from infancy, who perceived a few other true things about me from an hour of company after 24 years of no communication (aside from the botched invitation, which I successfully resisted mentioning), and who has had his own independent experience of my mother even after her second husband ameliorated her somewhat, to observe that simple truth, was tremendously gratifying. It's not all in my head! Just like that, he jettisoned a piece of emotional baggage. Sweet man.
This later conversation happened at the bar we retreated to when the restaurant kicked us out between 11 and 11:30, and there we stayed until closing at 2. As we left the bar, I crowed that I was turning over a new leaf: closing two bars in two days! Bruce wondered if that was a good leaf to be turning, and a Kim asked if I was okay to drive. I cracked up: "I've had nothing but club soda all night!" and she cracked up, because she was not okay to drive (but Bruce was).
Thus Saturday went well too.
Sunday morning I managed to get to the coffee shop for coffee, even though Kim and I wondered why we weren't going to Kenny's for coffee. I stumbled in, and Shaye observed that I looked like I had just rolled out of bed. Her teasing comment was absolutely fine, both because in fact I had and because she had observed equally accurately the evening before that I looked fantastic.
I bought coffee and a doughnut for $2.12. Two dollars and twelve cents, people! Small towns, sheesh.
Also I got to meet some offspring. RDC and I have opposite impressions of Denver, him that it's blonder than Connecticut and me that it's not. He grew up in a town predominately Italian and Jewish, and I grew up in Old Lyme, and this morning I met five blindingly blond children. Iseult of the White Eyebrows blonde. Whew.
Afterward I called my math teacher to see if I could invite myself over. I could and I did. RCS and Ms. RCS, whom I struggle to call by their first names as I have been further invited to do, and I had a lovely visit. I was proud to find myself (and RDC and Blake, in a recent Yule card) on their fridge.
And that was the end of the reunion and Old Lymeing, and presto, the rain had cleared into perfect blue. I returned to the lake and had a proper swim (Saturday I'd forgotten my goggles) before driving up to visit RPR and our little girl. SFR tells fascinating stories, compellingly listenable-to-able, wholly nonsensical, impossible to follow, and charming. We sat by the outdoor firepit and talked, and MPR did all baby-wrangling and cooking so RPR and I could talk for five hours. And we did.