We are who we were when…

Through the door, there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh, my friend, we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts, the dreams are still the same

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we'd choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days
        -- Gene Raskin

Friendship, in fact culture itself, is mostly an outcome of shared experience. Some experiences – war, major disasters and high school, for example – are so powerful or occur during particularly critical stages in our lives that they tend to create correspondingly strong (or at least memorable) friendships.

To some extent, the bonds created while sharing space during such times can supercede a lot of other factors that otherwise might make friendship very unlikely.

Two former high school classmates drifted back into my life this week. Both were in band and orchestra with me – in fact, we all played percussion together in the marching band.

There is – at least was at the time I was involved – a special bond between drummers. We had a sense of being the critical element; we set the beat, we triggered the start of every song, we provided the steady, rhythmic heartbeat to which all of the others marched and played.

Bill walked through the door and into the lobby here in Tucson. He was heavier than the kid I had been struggling to remember, and the ramrod-straight posture was modified a bit by an uneven gait that results from hip surgery.

Then he flashed a smile and I recognized my former fellow bandsman. That seemed a bit strange because I remember him mostly as a more-serious-than-most kid. But that smile was familiar. Hmmmm.

There’s a tendency to focus on recollections. Having one’s memory jogged by input by another who was there and did that, from a different perspective, is stimulating and often revealing. Bill’s memory and sense of time and space is far superior to mine and he was able to not only recall events, but to locate them geographically and chronologically – a very helpful process.

Though I didn’t try to establish our differences in terms of values and beliefs, I’m certain we wouldn’t have agreed on many of the issues of the day not would our standards have dovetailed. The overlap in life experience – which includes all of what I consider my most critical childhood years – provided plenty of fodder for our conversation.

I did learn that Bill and Cindy – who is another Hoover grad and fellow percussionist from my class of ’66 – have five children and obviously spent many more years as parents of teens than they did as fellow teens in my world. Their life seems to have been much more “typical” compared with mine.

I enjoyed the time I had with Bill and then with both him and Cindy at dinner. I’m certain that I’d arrange to see them again if they were in range – mostly to continue tapping their reserves of memory regarding the old days. They seem like good and happy people who no doubt have a wonderful family and qualify as a Hoover High School success story.

A few days earlier I had a much different encounter with yet another drummer from Hoover. I have no memory of Pat’s participation in the marching band – I had her confused with a string bass player. But we had a great time talking about experiences we shared even if we were largely oblivious of each other.

Pat’s smile, though not familiar to me, was her most engaging feature. It was quick and open and friendly. She is one of those who frequently reach out and touch those with whom she’s conversing. It’s a violation of my “body bubble;” but I found it to be a very friendly behavior – it alerted me to statements she wishes to emphasize and ensured that I was paying attention.

The time we had available passed quickly; she reminded me, at last, that I had a schedule to keep – I could have continued the conversation much longer.

As with Bill and Cindy, our conversation focused mostly on the past. Pat has participated in some reunion activities and has maintained a few personal attitudes toward folks I only remember in vague generalities. It was fun to listen as she compared a few classmates from then and now – and noted that some things just don’t change.

Pat pursued a career in music, spending several years on the road. Though unable to make a living that way, she continues to perform and write music. Like Bill, she suffers from a leg injury – hers the result of a serious accident. The resulting disability cut off a career she had entered as a construction worker. She’s written a book about women in that line of work and maintains a very positive outlook despite some bad luck.

We met in the middle of the Arizona desert – within sight of the mountains used as a final point of defense by Cochise. The wind was fierce with waves of tumbleweed breaking loose and darting across the highway, many times snapping into fragments against the front of my Saturn.

The blowing dust and cold wind made the stark landscape seem even more desolate and I wondered how a San Diego girl could end up in this God forsaken land 40 years after high school.

Pat’s explanation was logical and reasonable and it was impossible to argue that she must be insane. But she did admit that some of the time she isn’t happy there.

Though I’ve steered clear of all class reunions in the past, the time I spent this week with Pat and Bill and Cindy made me realize that there is much to be gained from reconnecting.

With the exception of a few couples, like Bill and Cindy, the class of ’66 and others in that cadre have been tossed by many winds into many directions and through all kinds of storms and troubled waters. But there was that time when most of us were constrained by the walls and governed by the bells and rules and academic regimen of Herbert Hoover Senior High School.

We passed our classes and, at the same time, went through a number of rites of passage, culminating in graduation – also known as commencement.

Hail! Herbert Hoover High
This is our song to thee
Long may our banners be
Crowned with victory.

We pledge our loyalty
And our sincerity
We will be true to thee
Hail! Hoover High!