You can run but you cannot hide

This is widely known . . .

                                    James Taylor

 

I DON’T THINK I EVER really believed that someday I’d go back to my 50th high school reunion.

For one thing, I would have said I hated high school. For another, as my dear friend Jennifer said over tea probably twenty years ago or more now, the whole problem is I never expected to be this old. We were part of the Bicentennial class of 1976, which felt like a big deal at the time—such a big deal that our annual that year had a patriotic red cover instead of our school colors, purple and gold. In 1976, I’m sure none of us were thinking that meant our 50th class reunion would fall during America’s Semiquincentennial year. But somehow that anniversary makes the past 50 years more visceral—a recognition that not just we, but the country, grew a half century older.

Growing up in a small town in Washington state with an ugly-sounding, difficult to pronounce name (the first syllable of which is PEW, like something that smells bad), all I wanted for most of the time I lived there was to get out—as soon as I possibly could. Part of that was because of my parents, who I felt were old-fashioned and overly strict in a way that made me feel like I stood out at a time that was all about desperately wanting to fit in. I felt like such an alien in high school that I swore to myself I would never be nostalgic for that place or those people. But for a girl who wanted nothing more than to get away, I made a serious mistake.

I married my high school sweetheart.

Kurt and I 1976 — the beginning of 50 years together, though we didn’t know it then . . .

So not only were my parents in Puyallup, but his were too. Though I lit out for college and the big city as soon as I could, I could never fully get away. And what I realized last Saturday night at the reunion of the PHS Class of 1976 is that maybe I never will—and that’s okay.

Why do we cede so much space in our heads to those people we grew up with? It was a strange experience to walk around a room filled with old people who looked vaguely familiar but whom I couldn’t quite place. I realized later that I should have had my glasses on, because even if I couldn’t recognize them from their bad-hair 50-year-old annual photos, at least I would have been able to read their nametags!

The classmates from my junior high at the reunion–I’m in the back row (as always!) under the Viking ship

Interestingly enough, the people I found most fascinating were the ones I knew at Maplewood Grade School, some of whom went all the way back to 1st grade. Seeing them was like being given back parts of my past I’d forgotten. One guy told me he remembered being part of a group project with me in 6th grade where our map-making entry won us a hamburger and a milkshake—something I’d long forgotten, but he never had. Several women mentioned being in Bluebirds with me, another thing I hadn’t thought of in years.

One of the people I enjoyed seeing most was Deb. (In the photo above she’s in the row in front of me, to the right, with short blond hair wearing a black top.) We’d played violin together in the orchestra from 4th through 9th grade and I had a sudden memory of being at her house practicing a duet for a music contest, with our sheet music propped on one of those twiggy metal music stands that was always on the verge of collapsing. Seeing her and hearing about her life now made me wonder if I’d missed a good friendship by not staying in touch.

Later in the evening, we were telling another classmate that we’d been in orchestra together and Deb surprised me by saying that she remembered me playing the violin with all my heart and soul. That felt like a gift because that’s not the way I remember myself. But her comment made me think that maybe there were people around me who understood me better than I realized at the time. I wish I hadn’t been so defensive and painfully self-conscious, so that I could have relaxed and not worried so much about all the nuances of high school social groups and where I fit in—or didn’t.

But high school IS high school, and as we all know now, our teenage brains weren’t fully formed yet. When I think about my PHS classmates today, it seems to me that we were just people who grew up together in a small town during a weird time.

Looking back now, I really wish I’d given myself more grace, and also that I’d been able to give the people around me more grace. I’ve spent a lot of my life wishing I’d grown up anywhere but there, and at this late date, maybe it’s time to finally make my peace.

So . . . Pax Puyallup.

No matter where I go in the world, your name will always be on my passport. So I claim you now, for good or ill, as you have always claimed me. I took the best of you with me when I left—my husband, Kurt, good friends like Becky and Jennifer (rest in peace, my dear), and of course, my beloved siblings, Susan, Sharon, and Brian.

The 1970s were a weird time, but one thing that was undisputedly great about them was the music. It seems only right to give the poet of our generation, James Taylor, the last word:

Now the thing about time is that time isn’t really real

It’s all on your point of view

How does it feel to you

Einstein said that he could never understand it all

The planets spinning through space

The smile upon your face

Welcome to the human race . . .

The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time

Happy 250th birthday America! And happy 50th anniversary to the Bicentennial class of 1976!

 

Two punks from Puyallup 50 years on–blessed to have made it this far!

 

Lyrics from Shower the People and The Secret O’ Life by James Taylor

All photos my own