Good morning,
Our kids grew up in Los Angeles. I consider it a special gift to grow up in one of the world’s great cities—with music, the arts, sports, diverse communities, museums, great food, and energy all around.
Growing up in suburban Anaheim, California was a different sort of gift. It was an idyllic, safe, and forgiving environment. Decades later, it all seems to have been almost magical. While memories may not be completely accurate, I’m quite certain that all the girls in my high school class were beautiful, smart, and charming—from the most popular cheerleaders to the quietest bookish students. I’m equally convinced the boys were by-and-large athletic, good looking, and larger than life—both the stars on the gridiron, whose exploits I cheered, but also those in the audio-visual club.
As for brilliance, our school was loaded with smarts. I haven’t checked recently but I suspect several might have been nominated, if they didn’t win, Nobel prizes. Our drama group no doubt all could have been on Broadway. And there could not have been a band—with the possible exception of the River City Band (under the direction of Professor Harold Hill)—that could stand up to ours.
Growing up in suburbia wasn’t half bad. But it wasn’t always perfect. And maybe my memory has idealized my classmates just a little. That said, I have a few random recollections about the not-so-innocent aspects of our youth…
LESSONS LEARNED IN BATTLE
I have never been of particularly great strength and certainly am not one prone to violence to solve a problem. That said, periodic physical altercations were not unusual in the 1970s. Importantly, there were lessons to be learned in each of these. My “record” in fights at school can best be described as one win, one loss and one tie.
In seventh grade I got in a fight in gym class with a kid my size. Having been broken up by one of the older kids, it could be scored a “draw.” As we were pulled away from each other, this kid yelled, “wait until my cousin, Angel, gets a hold of you.” I didn’t think much of it until I met Angel. When we finally met, I realized Angel’s name was somewhat ironic—standing all of six feet at the tender age of 12 and, belonging to a club with which I was unfamiliar—a “gang.” He did not strike me as particularly angelic. Being on the wrong side of Angel and his friends precipitated a transfer of junior high schools the following fall. Chalk this up as a tie.
The next notable altercation was in high school, when I mixed it up with a kid who had said something about one of the girls in our class. Pumped up with some notion of chivalry, I took him on for his impertinence. I knocked him down and that was the end of that. Nothing much happened after that, until he came to school the next day with a sling over his arm. He went to our Vice-Principal to seek redress. I was prepared to be admonished, maybe even suspended. Yet, after questioning the two of us and learning the source of the conflict, her sole action was to remark to the other guy, “Well, what did you expect when you made that comment? Have you learned your lesson?” This would not likely have been the response today. But it was a win back then. And a lesson certainly was learned—my first lesson in rough justice. So, score this as a win—less for the altercation as the learning experience!
But the best lesson I learned came from an altercation with Dave Perkins in the boys’ locker room. It may come as a shock to many of you, but I had a mouth on me in high school. Some might say I was a smart ass. Dave also had a mouth on him, but he had the benefit of being quite a bit bigger, faster and stronger than I. I had made some snarky comment (perhaps even directed toward his mother, whom I had never met…remember, this was the 70s…). He said, “one more word and I’m going to let you have it” (or words to that effect). I couldn’t resist. The next thing I knew, a fist came to my face, I hit the lockers behind me and slid to the floor, much like what happens to cartoon characters when they melt into a pile. When people came to help me up (including Dave), I found myself laughing past the pain. After all, he said exactly what was going to happen and, lo and behold, he did it. I got precisely what I deserved. Score this one a definitive defeat, yet Dave taught me about situational awareness, temperance, and justice.
TRAGEDY FOUND ITS WAY INTO OUR LIVES
All wasn’t fun and games in the burbs. The realities of life and loss intruded. In my sophomore year of high school, I learned my “locker partner” (we shared lockers back then), Edd Zelezny, had come down with this strange disease called “lupus.” Being a kid, I had no idea what the disease was but assumed that he would recover and be back at full strength in no time. After all, modern medicine could certainly resolve a disease in a kid. But that wasn’t to be. He continued to decline, despite medications that left his face puffy and his body weak.
I was sitting in class when a note was delivered to me that I was to come to the office. When I arrived, I was asked to clean Edd’s books out of the locker and bring them to the office so that he could study at home. Since whenever Edd needed anything, he or his mother would call, I saw this for what it was—a lie. And I told them so, using the saltiest of language. At that moment, I learned several lessons: never to lie to a child, how to curse at adults, and life can be cruel.
Shortly after we graduated, I learned that Doug Suppa, a LaPorte Indiana transplant (how do I remember that…), who did a great Spike Jones act for our Senior Follies (and could do a mean impression of Groucho Marx), had died in a dune buggy accident. And there were others. It hardly seemed possible we would be mourning classmates at our five-year reunion.
A LIFETIME APPOINTMENT
The last election I lost was to Greg Linden for Student Body President in High School. What that meant is that I would run for the lesser office of Senior Class President. Greg got his picture on the wall of the gym but I got a lifetime appointment—little did I know at the time.
We have had reunions every five years since high school, some big and some small but all engaging. And at each reunion we fall into the same roles we had in high school and, as class president, I’m asked to welcome everyone and give out a few rewards—you know—most grandchildren, traveled the farthest, most joint replacement surgeries. Say what you will about lifetime appointments to the Supreme Court; I’m heading toward 50 years as class president. Who knew?!
As I scroll through Facebook and see my classmates, many in retirement, traveling the world, playing with their grandchildren, living in or visiting exotic places, or engaging in some social media silliness, I realize there is some value to this crazy social media craze, despite all its negative effects on civility, democracy, and mental health.
What I realize most as I see the pictures and read the words of these classmates, most of whom I see only every five years at a reunion, is that I was right about a few things. The girls are still beautiful and charming. The boys are still strong and larger than life. And while time has not always been kind, most generally are none too worse for the wear.
I await our 50th reunion with anticipation. And I’ll be at the ready with the question “what have you been doing all of these years?” for those of whom I’ve lost track in the last half century. And as these reunions pile up, I’m beginning to think we should follow the example of AYSO—everyone should get a trophy just for showing up!
Have a great day,
Glenn
PS: Okay, maybe there was one more fight… Yes, it’s true that the cops were called when I got in a fight with the manager of the local Bob’s Big Boy. But that’s another story.
From the archives:
One year in high school a homebound student was assigned to me for her honors geometry class. She had lupus, and was reportedly quite weak. I was to be the teacher of record, while an actual homebound teacher was assigned to her for home visits, instruction, proctor tests etc. For reasons unknown to me, maybe because another geometry teacher actually knew her, I was switched out in place of him. But I heard that her diagnosis of lupus had not been caught early, the disease had progressed, and she spent a good portion of her high school career, maybe 3 years, at home, missing out on the rewards that high school had to offer.
Recently I did one of the hikes at Manassas, a 7 miler on the Manassas II portion of the site. Keeping to the path, I happened to look down to see a deep red tick about 2 inches below my knee. I picked it off (having not yet buried it's head under my skin for lunch), and flung it away. I suppose they can lurk on the end of the tall grass, and hop on as people pass by. From then on my friend and I kept checking each other, finding another couple on our legs as we progressed. I do not believe I had been bitten. The color was just the tick's natural color. But I learned from a ranger to always have a little zip lock bag with you so the tick can be placed in it for analysis if necessary.
So the day ended at home, a good shower and dinner. Waking up the next day I felt a little stir on my collar bone. You guessed it, a tick. In my bed!! I picked it off and placed it in a zip lock bag. That gave me the shivers - where could it have hidden? In my hair? I had showered and shampooed. Two months later no illness, and the tick is still in the bag. Don't forget the zip lock back for ticks. And maybe long hiking pants is a good option.