The men were almost unrecognizable and attended in less numbers than the women. The women were full of energy, and although changed, the eyes, still bright and youthful, gave them away. Time erased who we were, fade what we did back then. Some memories remained as vivid as yesterday—a torn ligament in a basketball game, a case of mono, a teacher’s infectious laugh…and the rest we mercifully forgot—High School at Saratoga Springs Senior High.
Thirty five years passed by. Some years with meticulous planning and careful forethought, while others by whim and fancy, the luck of the draw or by the grace of our Lord. As one minute turned the page from day to night, from spring to fall, the journey shaped us. Cruel and harsh events carved deep canyons through the dreams and promises we held in the spring of 1972. Joys and triumphs reignited passion and hope. And without much reflection or thought the next chapter came and went as unnoticed as winter becomes after the first seven snowfalls.
We became a vessel of stories. Tales of thrills and adventure, of conquests and successes. Of miracles and redemption, of moments when we smirk and think, “Just like my mother; just like my father.” And we see who we are in our children and unbelievably in our grandchildren.
We reunited to celebrate and share our pasts. We went to school, went into the service, went to work, went to sea, went on an adventure, pursued a dream, a hope, a promise and tested life in our own way. We measured and compared, pondered and speculated. As if we sowed a quilt, our contribution a small piece to the entire project. Not yet finished, the delicate fabric of life spread before us: a divorce, a miscarriage, a death, a tumor, an accident, a disease, a rumor of witness protection. Yet, we were determined to continue to push the needle with thread through to the next patch. Heartache yielded to the chore of living, renewed by the echo of classmates' laughter in what must be known as The Spirit of Life, the symbol on our class ring.
At the end of the night, I sat with the yearbook and a list of those who are no longer with us. Classmate whose lives had been cut short. A stark reminder of my mortality. I turned the pages searching for their faces. Caught forever in the black and white photos was the sparkle of invincible youth. My memories were diluted by time. It was hard to remember them…some names I remembered, some faces looked familiar. A few I hardly knew. What could I recall? A shared English class. A study hall. A locker down the hall. A boyfriend's brother. Sadly, I didn't know their dreams. Did he want to become an actor?
The class of ‘72 vowed not to forget their classmates and established the Circle of Friends scholarship in their memory.
We became who we are. We did what every graduating class did. For better or worse, we lived. We loved. We honored those were once a part of us.
We acknowledged yesterday for its memories. When the party was over, we stepped off into the darkness with the confidence that the sun would rise in the morning, but wisely knew that the day’s promise is not a given.
It’s the New York State Boat registration number for the kayak. I had to write it down because I have been working on the kayak. During its voyage around Moreau the other day, Dad and I noticed a few leaks. The old canvas is a little brittle and frail in spots after sitting in the heat and cold of the garage for the past umpteen years. Dad thought a coating of water proof would do it, but the paint was flaking in too many places.
But the paint salesman whom I accidentally ran into at Saratoga BoatWorks, said it would last three times as long as “regular marine” paint. If it lasts as long as the Benjamin Moore paint, well won’t some heir be lucky.
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