{Sigh. Here we go again: another room in my Lenten series of essays, mostly just personal ramblings posted publicly about “room(s).” Let’s go back to high school.}
When I was in high school, the fortress-like building held three grades. Ninth grade had been lodged in something called “junior high school,” and the actual “high” school was grades 10-12. Today, I write of my senior year at Union-Endicott High. And my homeroom.
Frankly, it’s the only homeroom I can remember in high school. I have only a vary vague memory of of the previous homerooms where I found myself earlier. Maybe I remember the last one because I took photos of it. Mr. Gallagher (Bill was his never-spoken first name) was only in his second year at U-E as a speech/drama teacher when he anchored our homeroom. Most of us in room 212 had been together in previous homerooms since the school liked to keep us organized by last names; thus, I was in with the H-M crowd. (Only guessing the actual alphabet here; maybe it was J through L? It was a very long time ago.)
I never had Mr. Gallagher for class, just as our homeroom teacher. So, absolutely no drama day by day. I remember him as being a fairly serious guy, with rare smiles, yet friendly enough. I think my most personal interaction with him was in the senior play, a theatrical production that the senior class starred in, a comedy entitled “Are Teachers Human?” Mr. Gallagher was the director, and I played “against type,” a football coach! I remember my “costume,” a heavy black U-E letter sweater that had long since lost its letters. But it made me look bulkier than I was back then.
The room itself was not nearly as important as the students who gathered there each morning and regathered by day’s end. I still remember some of their names. Recent 50 and 60 year reunions helped re-connect a few of us. Many, of course, are gone, and their permanent records more permanent than ever. Viet Nam took a couple of guys, I suspect. But I’m still in touch with a handful. That comes from retiring back close to where my life started, near my hometown. Plus, Facebook helps. I had two terrific cousins in my senior class, John and Linda. But the alphabet kept us from being in the same homeroom. John’s no longer with us, but Linda and I feel a real loving kinship (as we should as cousins) though miles apart.
I should note that the sweater had originally belonged to either my Dad or his older sister Vivian! Never did get the story straight. But the main thing is that I was attending the same school my parents and their siblings had attended a generation earlier. In fact, some of their teachers were still on the faculty.
I needn’t go into much detail about a homeroom and its ambiance since you probably have your own stories about that time in your life. The desks still had inkwells; the crackly PA speaker produced the morning announcements made by both the principal Mr. Bortnick and a student named Neal Hale, and bells rung to send us off to class after class. An ancient black Bakelite telephone intercom provided a communication link to the school office. Bakelite? You may know it by its more popular name: polyoxybenzylmethyleneglycolanhydride.
Here’s the main thing that I think about when reminiscing about Room 212: of those who remain in this earthy life, what’s life like for them? Did they live up to their yearbook prognostications or scribbled notes over their senior pictures? Are some still good friends? I know many in our class married. How many moved away and never came back? What vocations did they pursue? How’d that work out for them? One, Richie Karl, was on the U-E golf team and became a pro, winning a PGA tour event, the B.C. Open, …in his hometown! And then he taught golf. So, that story I know, because it was public. But most stories of my classmates were more personal and private.
When I moved back here near my hometown, I had hoped to reconnect with Harry Komar, Mike D’Aloisio (the car salesman, not the noted Elmira coach by the same name), and Jack Mastro. But they died before I got around to contacting them. They had been some of my closer friends, and it was very sad that I took it for granted that we’d have plenty of time…
Girl friends? I know you are wondering. Look, I had a job. I didn’t have much of a personality, and I didn’t fill out that letter sweater with muscles. And I was introverted. And insecure. Get the picture? I did date for the bigger events, and took a couple of girls to movies. Even parked up on Round Top, the hilltop overlooking the village. You know, submarine races on the Susquehanna. My main girlfriend wasn’t a classmate, however. She was in our church youth group and attended the rival high school just across the river. So, she came to my prom and I went to hers. Plus lots of dates. We were still a couple well into college years, though on two separate vocational tracks in two different states. Then, I met Joan. I majored in her in college, married her in seminary, and she is currently making me dinner.
I had lots of friends in high school, though I wasn’t close to many of them. I wasn’t an athlete, nor a musican, and I didn’t make it into Key Club. But my friends came from many of those circles, quite a well-rounded cadre of pals and gals. (That sounds quaint, doesn’t it?) I was primarily known as the class photographer, so being on the athletic fields with players who liked seeing their pictures in the weekly U-E newspaper got me some good buddies on the teams. And being in the band color guard (back when real men carried those rifles and flags!) got me into the good graces of band members, plus good seats at football games. My grades were only adequate. Plus there was that personality thing. That kept me out of Key Club. (When I half-kiddingly whined about that at our 50th class reunion, the one time Key Club official Peter Pazzaglini proclaimed me an honorary member of Key Club. But there was no jacket.)
I wonder now and then how I am remembered by my classmates? Nice guy? Geek? Maybe not at all? And I think about how I made far more of myself in the years that led into and well past adulthood than even I would have thought. Did anyone catch me on TV last Sunday and think, “Gee, his name sounds familiar.” Or…
Time now for the question of the day for you. How well do you remember those years of high school drama and comedy? How were you shaped by the experiences of those late adolescent years? What do you still celebrate? Or, regret. When I was producing “Celebration Rock,” I paired two popular songs about teenage angst, and helped listeners reflect on their feelings long beyond high school days. One was Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen.” The other, Rod Stewart’s “I Was Only Joking.” I guess we could add Stewart’s cover of Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” to the mix. You can find your way to them on the ‘net to refresh your memory. Or, just think back. And thank God you survived it all, maybe with a smile.
Peace, Grace, and Jazz! 