Left Behind

Dear You,

When I studied psychology it was called approach-avoidance. The term was used to describe a condition that both attracts and repels -- a child's ambivalance towards a brutal father, for example. It is how I think about attending a high school reunion.

There is much to attract, and driving the hundreds of miles to reach that small Ohio town is an exercise in whetting an appetite. Will my pals all be there? How about that girl I spent my afternoons dreaming about all those years ago? (I watched from an upstairs window on Kilbourne Street as she passed on the sidewalk, her red ponytail swaying in time with her skirt.) Even the building itself -- what memories will it evoke, just standing at that imposing entrance?

The reality of a reunion, of course, never can match the expectation. It's not just the forcible reminders that we are on the downward slope of life and that so many (more each year!) are already dead, reminders of one's own mortality. Nor is it even the dreary surroundings -- the threadbare hall, the bland food, the over-loud background music with all those silly '50s songs. It's really that there is nothing more to say.

Classmates who left town are the most interesting; those left behind seem . . . well, rather dull by comparison. On the drive home I keep thinking that I didn't so much leave there as I somehow managed to escape. And I wonder why I will probably come to the next gathering.

Sporting Life

Dear You,

Last weekend I found myself in proximity with a number of men -- friends of each other but of only passing acquaintance with me. Such encounters are never comfortable; since I am often not part of the conversation, I seek excuses to be elsewhere.

It was my wife's school reunion. Three dozen or so classmates, along with a number of us spouses . . . and several of us were at the same motel. The morning after the dinner/dance and before the traditional afternoon/evening soiree at a nearby home, a half-dozen or so men appeared at the complimentary breakfast area, all dressed in golf attire. Now middle-aged, they looked relaxed, easy with each other, joking and sharing their mutual past. And headed out for a morning of golf.

I do not golf. Unlike them, I played no sports in high school. I had no stories to share about the Big Game or That Winning Shot or a Beloved Coach. And I don't think that I "play" in life the way I concluded that they did and still do.

For example, it was interesting to see how they decided who would ride in whose automobile and in which seat as they headed out. It's the sort of detail that is not part of the plan to "play golf tomorrow morning" along with the course and tee time. But seamlessly as they must have made plays 40 years earlier, they created a natural formation, opened doors and drove away.

Not for the first time, I thought about how high school affects each of us in its time of sorting-out. And I felt a bit of envy for those who played games in addition to all that which has shaped our subsequent history.