West By Northwest: Day Three

The Class of '73 met once again, this time at the home of "TJ," then a mild-mannered fellow with a flair for acting, who later became a successful enterpreneur. (They told me his wedding was celebrated on a riverboat along the Ohio.) He couldn't make the official event, so he staged his own unofficial event, at his spacious ranch home on a hill overlooking the river.

Paul and I got there around "noonish," as suggested. But the party didn't really get started until after two. Until then, Paul kept the party going with his authentic re-creation of TV's King of the Hill, including voices of the main characters. But by mid-afternoon, he was feeling poorly. (Not enough sleep since we left home, I imagine.) TJ was kind enough to find him a guest room in the quietest corner of the house, where Paul sacked out for a couple of hours.

Hannah showed up with her boyfriend, both of them riding their motorcycles, and sporting tee-shirts for Rolling Thunder. That's the cross-country bike pilgrimage of Vietnam vets, that converges on DC every Memorial Day weekend. (Hannah, if you're out there, I'll make a note.)

One minute they talked of how many beers they used to handle, and still could if the need arose. The next minute they would talk of kids, school meetings, soccer practice, their careers -- the many turns their lives had taken. Even the guys would open up about themselves. (What? These guys?)

I mentioned my history with bullies in an earlier entry. I still remember two occurances to this day, where I would be a classroom, and the kids across the hall were talking out loud, and I could hear one of them: "You know that Dave Alexander? I can't stand that guy!" The first was freshman year, the other junior year. Both were there the night before. The second guy was the worst bully of all. But there we were, shaking hands and talking like old comrades. There's a lesson there somewhere.

More classmates would show up, some bringing their children. John came with his daughter, a lovely young girl about Paul's age, whom he introduced to everybody as "my wife." Then there was "Russ" and his daughter Annie, about the same age as well, who didn't look much like her father, but seemed to inherit his quick wit. Russ talked the night before of his wife leaving him, and his marriage ending in divorce only recently. So I gave him a copy of Crazy Time, the book I've given to many others in the last thirteen years. Inside I wrote: "To Russ, because I'm on a mission from God. David A, 8/3/03."

Another classmate, "Lisa," was fishing down at the pond with her daughters. I helped them put worms on their lines. MC was trying his hand at it alongside them. He talked of losing his young son after a long illness. It wasn't sudden, but it still hurt. Suddenly there was a tug on his line. Not a bad catch for a bluegill. Life goes on.

I went back up to the house. There was my old pal "Seadog" manning the outdoor grill. He and I went back to those great summers at Kings Island, where he and I acted like animals -- literally. I reminded him of how he helped me prepare for my audition. I couldn't have pulled it off without him.

"Frank" was the last fellow I expected to volunteer for the Army right out of school, let alone become a policeman afterwards. I couldn't believe it when I first heard it, so I got the straight story for myself after all these years. He made his home in a little town in north central Kansas, where the priest in that town was an online colleague on an old e-mail discussion list. (You can't miss my old pal Frank, Padre; he's gotta be the tallest guy there.")

Paul slept a couple of hours, and things were in full swing by the time he re-emerged. As we prepared to leave, we had an impromptu meeting. Ron the architect is a man not given to great emotion,but he was quite touched by the whole gathering, and didn't want to wait another ten years. So we decided to have a 35th, this time skipping the overhead costs and crashing TJ's place again.

What a great group of people. They gave me something I never thought I would have -- a chance to revisit my childhood, and look upon it in a whole new light. I am grateful to them all.

Later that day, Paul and I went to Mass at the parish where another old buddy from KI is pastor. He asked me if the renovation met with my approval. "Well, Jan, once I found where you hid the tabernacle, I thought it was a wonderful job." I love to kid that guy. The place where the Eucharist was reserved was in a shrine to the right as you walk in, the tabernacle itself flanked by angels. At night the room is beautifully lit, and eventually there will be separate access for perpetual adoration. It's the least he could do.

After all that, I took Paul through the town of Milford where I grew up, and went up the hill, to the great white house where Ron the architect grew up. The place had since been sold since his parents were getting on in years, and the house, which dated from about 1870, needed a lot of work, including the foundation, which had settled over the years.

We went up the driveway. The place looked much as I remembered it, although the house had undergone some renovation. There was a guy working in the yard. He ran toward the car as we were turning around to leave.

At moments like this, it helps to play dumb, and have out-of-state plates. The exchange went something like this:

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, no thanks. We were looking for someplace, but I think we got the wrong one, so we're just gonna turn around here."

"Well, this is private property, and we have your license plates, so you'll be reported to the authorities for trespassing."

(Sounding indifferent) "Okay."

(Sounding like a pompous ass) "Yeah, 'Okay.'"

"That's right, 'Okay.' Bye now."

Paul and I had a good laugh over that one. I should mention here that I was informed by others of how the place had been sold, to what was described as "a religious cult." I can just imagine that guy calling the Milford Police, where they no doubt have a separate file on the complaints from these clowns against the neighbors (which would include some of the town's oldest families), complaints from the neighbors, and who knows what else? Then I'll get home and find a letter from an attorney, citing the incident and demanding information from me, engaging in what is known by the less litigious among us as "going fishing."

I keep a separate file for these myself -- a round one. Although in this case, I may have this one framed.

But just in case, I think I'll get out of town for a few days, till the heat dies down. Wonder how the weather is in, oh, Seattle.