Why you should attend your reunion

I could have easily talked myself out of attending my high school reunion, but it had been ten years since the last one I attended, and I like to think I’m no longer the social chicken I used to be. Most people say there are reasons they don’t keep in touch with their classmates, that the lack of communication over the years is intentional. I’m not so sure I agree.

My extended family is about as large as my high school class. Sometimes months and years go by before I can stand in the same room with certain cousins, aunts, or uncles. But it’s not intentional. It is a consequence of work, family, and even to some extent, energy. Geography plays a part since everyone is a bit more spread out these days. And while family will eventually bring everyone together for a wedding or funeral, it just doesn’t work that way with classmates.

I do have anxieties about being in the same room with the people I remember from grade school. Having gone to Catholic school for a while I tend to remember my mistakes and flaws much more than anything that went well. I remember I wasn’t attractive or well thought of, and I didn’t seem to have a definitive social group within the walls of the high school. I remember there were kids who seemed to make a sport of upsetting others. I worry about the night triggering feelings of inadequacy, ugliness, loneliness.

To combat my nerves I brought along my husband, a wonderful sport and conversationalist in any setting. He’s also very logical. He couldn’t help asking me why it was I wanted to go. I thought it was curiosity, to see who else showed, what they were doing, and let’s be honest, how they all looked. But the moment I entered the room I knew that was wrong. I was there because I shared a history with my class. We grew up together, some of us quicker than others, but we occupied a precious space in each other’s childhood and adolescence, cheered at each other sporting events, applauded each other’s awards, and mourned the passing of those no longer with us.

We know where the tender spots are in our classmates’ personalities, and have all the basic categories down, the smart ones, the witty ones, the shy ones, the one’s brave enough to take on the nuns. But as I looked around at my wiser, more compassionate class I couldn’t get over how at home I felt just standing among them.

So, I’m here to encourage you to go to your reunion. Go whether you have bad or good memories. Take a deep breath and plunge back into the past. It’s a wonderful opportunity to make amends if you were one of the bullies. If you were one of the rejects, it’s an opportunity to forgive. It’s not so much about making friends or doing a victory dance over an old rival’s fading grace. It’s more about learning to love your past, and the part of you that may have succeeded because of it. It’s about looking around a room and feeling instantly connected, welcomed, appreciated. Go to your reunion if for no other reason than to spend some quality time with people your own age. Bring your spouse, a partner, a friend, anyone who will help you walk through the doorway, backward in time where waves of memories will keep you afloat. There’s a warm embrace, a pleasant sea of faces, and an excitement as you make your way around the room trying to recall names. You’ll feel as though you are walking through the rooms of your childhood home, admiring, enjoying, loving the treasures you come upon. Go to your reunion. I promise you won’t be sorry.

why you should attend your reunion

Remembering my mother

I hate editing. Editing for me is like cleaning a closet, parting with some sentimental phrases, bagging all those items that clutter up the story. But it is sometimes those off-story moments I like best. It is where my voice and vision have set off on their own. They have a delightful, reckless nature. They are happy, compatible drunks. They have courage. They don’t look over their shoulders wondering if the story police will take them down. They cry, whimper, and exhaust themselves complaining. And even knowing that my manuscript will come back with big blue lines drawn through it, I still can’t resist letting them have their moment. I am swept away by their free spirits. Unlike those items at the back of the closet, word clutter is of no use to anyone else. Or is it?

With Mother’s Day nearing I dug out a few paragraphs of my scrap file from MOTHER for my readers.

" …no one on earth could ever look at you the same way, recognize in an instant, that you were harboring gladness or pain or a secret pregnancy, that the boyfriend you so adamantly defended was hurting you, that you had put on weight, cut your hair too short, bought a dress that just wasn’t you. She could see it all. She was a mirror, a friend, a guaranteed companion and ally, your flesh, your blood, your skeleton, your fan, your critic, your doomsayer, your connection to all living things, and the only reason you did not crawl off in a corner and drown in your grief. For there was always that voice, in life and beyond, her voice, the remainder of her guiding spirit, the one that kept you from losing your virginity at sixteen, the one that made you collect the money you loaned a friend, the one that reminded you breaking your own heart would break hers too, twice as much, dead or alive until the end of time. You couldn’t let her watch you from the afterlife, collapsed and finished. It was your duty to show her how well she had done her job. You needed to honor her spirit. You were forced, by that voice that always inhabited you, to stand and face the day, to outlast the pain and the loss until you could do so much more than cope, until you could live your life as you were meant to, put up the Christmas ornaments without sobbing so hard it ruined the holidays for everyone else, drink coffee with a friend’s mother and not fall to pieces…"

This was the essence of my mother, strong, protective, and painfully candid.

There was a time when I had been fired from my job as a producer for a local cable show. I was twenty-five. I took a job at a convenience store, rethinking all my past, flawed decisions. I guess I didn’t do it fast enough because in a few weeks I got a phone call from my mother encouraging me to go where I was happiest, where my life seemed to work, to the place she most feared my being--New York City. I finally pulled myself out of my emotional muck one freezing day in February, and drove myself to the bus stop across the street from my parents’ home. My mother stood behind a curtain where she could see me. Worse yet I could see her. As time went by and I began to shiver, I wanted to run back to my car and make a quick getaway to an afternoon of Mary Tyler Moore reruns. But she just wouldn’t leave that window. I got on the bus. I ended up getting a temporary job at NBC, which turned permanent soon after. I somehow fit in, made friends, supported myself, and refueled my dreams.

At times when you forget who you are, your mother (here or in the hereafter) will find someway of reminding you. Your dreams are her dreams, and you dare not disappoint her.

Letting go

I currently have one dead laptop and two printers that shred paper. Though I stumbled upon the instructions for replacing the defunct inverter to my daughter’s laptop this summer, I have checked the internet forums and I can’t seem to find any hope. I know computers are supposed to be as disposable as old TVs, but I have a hard time letting them go. A computer is more than just a tool for my work. My characters breathe through them. I get attached.
I remember my first Macintosh fondly. It was situated in the attic, far enough from the sounds of my young children to allow me to write. I had a small computer station and a roller chair, a wrought iron table from my mother upon which I placed my thermos of coffee and the cordless (not cellular) telephone. This was actually before caller ID became a popular feature, and I would generally get sucked into calls even when I wasn’t looking for a distraction. If I lost a sentence because of an inconvenient telemarketer, the family heard about it over dinner.
My three children’s photos were nearby along with whatever inspirational pictures or quotes I push-pinned into the wall. I could swivel my way into a file cabinet which contained works of mine dating back to high school, lean left and pull out a box or bubble mailer to send out my work, and manage to avoid the glare of the window behind me with a Velcro hung green screen. The attic had no heat of its own, so I relied upon the laws of physics to float enough my way. I was rarely disappointed.
I wrote seven novels and two plays on that computer, and never once did it fail me. As my kids grew older and began to spend more time out of the house, it seemed silly to make the commute all the way to the third floor. I began to write scripts on a laptop, converted my files to Windows, and edited my unpublished manuscripts on the family computer. Eventually, I let the Mac go on to another family where I’m sure it is still working beautifully. At least I like to think of it that way.
My dead laptop had once been revived by a computer expert who replaced and restored my hard disk and my files. My husband was after me to upgrade then, but I resisted. I did harvest most of the files, so I haven’t suffered a major loss of material. But I feel sad just the same. My keyboard is my instrument, and I don’t like to see it lifeless.

Back to School

These last few weeks of August always seem like the end of the year to me, more so than in December. I see the hint of color in the leaves and know my children will soon be going back to school, another year older, another grade closer to college. We take pictures the first day of school, and I can still remember them walking toward the pre-school door, lunch boxes in hand. I love and hate September for exactly the same reasons, the return to routine, to work, to school.

Motherhood requires a continual letting go, trusting children to find their place in a world that isn’t always welcoming. I’ve learned to text-message, and because of this, I can hear from my children during the school day. Even with those annoying little letters I can barely see on my phone, I type my short answers: good, okay, home. Technology is on our side, allowing communication to continue throughout the day with very little effort. It takes the sting away of seeing them walk away and not look back.

That first day of school is difficult. I attempt to adjust to the quiet of the house. Eventually, I find my way back to my desk, to my world, and do what I can to put words on a page. My sister generally calls to find out how I’m doing. Her boys are older and she’s past this point of her life. She understands.

At pre-school and kindergarten doors there will be mothers crying, equally happy and sad, feeling this bittersweet New Year for the first time. As your child walks away and those first drawn pictures arrive with sunny skies and rainbows, know that you have done well, and can start a new adventure of your own. Good luck and happy New Year!

There is nothing worse than watching young people grieve. I don’t think you need to be a mother to want to wrap your arms around a child who is suffering, and extract the pain. You’d do anything to restore the innocence, wipe away the sadness, expedite the healing.
Grief is something you do battle with. It’s like being caught in a wave. There are times you breathe freely, and times when you’re tossed under. It colors your tastes and changes your concept of time. It turns you inside out. But it also sensitizes you to heartbreak, and introduces you to compassion. It directs you to accept the helping hand you’re being offered, and reminds you that you matter to more people than you thought. If there is light so faint as to come through a door crack, you must try and reach it.
I have conversations with young people who have endured the loss of a parent. I stumble over my words and never know how much or how little to say. I look into their eyes and feel their nervousness, but notice they always make eye contact as if they need it. I wish they could simply absorb love from all the people who want to give it, friends, family, and specifically other parents. There are arms to fall into, hearts wide-open, and most importantly, ears to listen. It’s not easy to recover from such a loss. They shouldn’t have to do it alone.

Motherhood and Writing

Motherhood changed my writing life. I have gone from needing church silence to being able to write in my living room where my husband and son are loudly interacting with televised sports, or my daughter is playing piano. I’ve learned to ignore even the dog when he is in rabbit-mode, ears back and running through the rooms, then freezing into a John Bellushi-Animal House stance. I think this was a gradual evolution. I used to retreat to a corner in the attic when the children were toddlers and I convinced myself my emotional distance could be increased through stairs. I wrote several books up there, and only came down to work when my laser printer gave up the ghost, and my husband bought me a laptop.

Now, I am happiest writing near a window with a coffee pot close, and passersby in view. I like watching the UPS trucks come and go, the neighborhood dogs sniffing my dandelions, the gaggle of youngsters making its way down the block to the local theater from one of our neighborhood schools. I like being reminded of the reality beyond my keyboard even as I choose to ignore it. This attentiveness I attribute to motherhood.

At college, I remember causing several food explosions when I would try to cook and write simultaneously. I would park my blue, Brother electric typewriter on our dinette table overlooking the duck pond at our off-campus apartment, and settle in to work. Neither the rhythm of the machine nor the return bell distracted the voice in my head as it spilled onto the page. Unremarkably, I managed to work up an appetite moving only my fingers. I had staples on hand, eggs, bread, hot dogs, and M&Ms. I was always low-carbing then (except for the chocolate) so I stayed away from the bread, and would boil either hot dogs or eggs. It wasn’t so bad when hot dogs exploded. They quietly burst apart leaving pink shreds pretty close to the stove, and were greasy enough to be easily washed away. But when the browned and crusty hard boiled eggs blew, they released the worst of all stinks, and my roommates would be justifiably offended. They could never understand how I could lose track of time so completely.

Boiling eggs do warn you with aural cues; they rattle against each other, against the pot. I can promise you I hear them now from a room away. In fact, now I can hear through doors and walls. I can wake up running from a dead sleep and magically appear at the bathroom doorway when one of my children is sick. Motherhood sharpens your hearing, even while it allows you to tune out the most repetitive video game. You can discern the slightest inflection in your child’s after-school voice, and know lunch didn’t go well. You can take a temperature with your lips, sniff out a bad cold cut, read dejection on a ball field from yards and yards away, and feel each second pass until your child arrives home safely. Motherhood makes your senses that acute, and won’t ever allow you to leave a stove unattended.