Some of you have been there. For others, it awaits. A class reunion. A rite of passage of later life.
Frankly, I never thought of myself as a “reunion” sort of guy. More of a that-was-then, this-is-not sort.
Until, that is, I received this letter from somebody I didn’t recognize informing me that a bunch of nostalgic multi-taskers had organized a 50th reunion of the 8th grade graduating class of my old Catholic grammar school, St. Timothy’s, in the Mayfair section of Northeast Philadelphia. It was an emotional blind-siding. Forget Medicare, Tampa’s next mayor’s race and the afterlife. Back to the future beckoned.
This meant a whole half century had passed since “Advise and Consent” was written, “La Dolce Vita” was filmed and “Mack The Knife” was recorded. Back when the Philadelphia Flyers were still a decade away from inception.
Fast forward to a recent fall Friday night reception at the Sheraton Four Points Hotel and following Saturday at the Rosewood Caterers in Northeast Philly. Who will I know? Who that I would know would I even recognize? Who will remember me?
As it turned out, there were plenty of us who remembered enough of us.
Hey, isn’t that Jim Williams? I mean “Brother Jim.” I mean “Toothpick.” Oops. Is it a sacrilege or something to refer to an Oblate (religious order) Brother as “Toothpick”? Same lanky build. Same warm, friendly manner. Probably the same jump shot too from his days as a sharp-shooting St. Tim’s forward and a former teammate. He asks about my brother Terry, who has known tough times. I appreciate it more than he knows.
“Joe, I had to come over and say ‘hi.’” It was Veronica “Ronnie” Stewart. Didn’t need to check her name tag. Still blond and cute. Still petite and sweet. Last time I saw her she was making out with Bobby Cirillo at a party.
Speaking of, Bobby C wasn’t here. Too bad. Every 8th grade should have its own Leo Gorcey.
Yo, “Ski.” As in Kozakowski. As in a major buddy. Great, Butch Wax crew cut. Had somehow morphed from Howie Long to Phil Donohue. Instant flashback. Ski and I were part of the Gang of Four that took the occasion of a St. Joseph Feast Day holiday to go to Bandstand under the high school radar. Along with George Shissler, who won the school spelling bee that year, and the late Jimmy “Flash” Gordon, the only guy I knew to make a truly seamless transition from Jitterbug to Mashed Potatoes to the Twist.
And, sure enough, that was Maureen Nulty. Still looks good in bangs. And, boy, could she throw a party. And what a singular venue. She was the daughter of an undertaker. The guys, to be sure, thought that was decidedly cool.
And could it be? The exotic-looking blonde was Eleanor Verdi. “What have you been up to the last half-century?” she deadpanned. Still quick with a quip, although that wasn’t her most notable trait back in the day. St. Tim’s most sultry Italian, if memory serves.
More increasingly familiar names to affix to evolved personas and 60-something bodies. The flamboyant Dan McCutcheon and brainiac Albert McGlynn. Mary Johnson, who was practically a girlfriend in the 5th grade. And Skip Weinacht, who perfected the not-nearly-as-salacious-as-it-sounds “Dirty Dig,” only to see a parish priest ban it at St. Tim’s dance.
Nice to see Dan Courtney, who didn’t seem to remember that fight we had in the schoolyard in 7th grade. The one he lost. The one within a collapsing circle surrounded by loud, blood-sport weenies. The one where we both kept looking for someone to break it up. Mayfair machismo.
A handful of St. Tim’s football teammates are on hand. Quarterback Bob Hojnacki still looks like the go-to guy on third down. And the sui generis Eddie McHugh at end. Eddie was always too cool for school. And still looked – hauntingly – the same. Like a Lord of Flatbush.
And sitting across from me at the reunion table was Dewey Tate, who is still quiet, polite and pleasant and now goes by the name “Bud.’ I would too.
And there are always those who you didn’t know – or didn’t know well enough. But after a reunion, you wished the intervening years had brought you in touch. Amazing how much Nancy O’Donnell now looked like her mom, the iconic crossing guard at the intersection of Levick and Hawthorne Streets.
But, no, the years have not been equally kind to the members of the class of 1959, and some, sadly, are no longer with us. But those of us who did gather to recall and to reflect and to cherry-pick Sister Mary Immaculate war stories were transported to another time.
To be barely adolescent again.
To experience that first crush. And that first spin of the bottle at a Maureen Nulty party. To practice dance moves in front of the TV when Bandstand was on. To grow out of the May Procession’s lockstep pageantry. To admit incredulity about “limbo.” To be less accepting of tuna on Fridays. To be called a “bold article” by any number of St. Joseph (religious order) nuns. To have no recourse about corporal punishment, because your parents approved. Rods, they reckoned, were not for sparing. To have somehow learned what needed to be learned despite outlandish teacher-to-student ratios.
And regardless of the divergent paths we have all taken since the last years of the Eisenhower Administration, we are reminded that we have this uniquely formative St. Tim’s experience in common. Maybe the “welfare to Mayfair” adage, however unfair but self-deprecatingly funny, provided — upon reflection — less-than-subtle motivation at home. To post-war parents, who typically came in pairs, accountability-work ethic-respect for elders was the 11th Commandment.
It was a time when trying hard and avoiding excuses was not an option; it was a mandate. When self-esteem wasn’t a curriculum; it was a byproduct — of actually accomplishing something. When no-nonsense nuns, hands-on discipline, rote memorization, burdensome homework, work-detail detention and uncool uniforms and school ties were seen as the norm — not a crucible.
And now here we were five decades later – celebrating a bond that was fashioned the year Hawaii became a state.
But lest I wax too serious for a fun event, I also recognize how applicable are the words of Prof. Irwin Cory: “Wherever you go, there you are.”
And there we were. Old school was back in session. Only this one had an open bar.