Why I Want to Attend My High School Reunion

Fairburn, Georgia circa 1950's

I recently received an invitation to my high school reunion. My high school was Campbell High, in Fairburn, Georgia. The football team was the Bears, the school colors were blue and white, the mascot was some tall, gangly, red-headed girl parading around in a moth-eaten bear suit, and the theme song was “Hail to Thee, O’ Campbell High School.”Believe it or not, but I still recall most, if not all, of the lyrics from that song; but, no, I do not intend to sing it to you.

Anyway, the funny thing is that I didn’t actually graduate from Campbell, or any high school for that matter, because I dropped out at 16 to get married, which is what girls did back then (got married) if they found themselves in the “family way,” which is what happened to me, though that’s another story for another blog. My point is that even though I failed to graduate (I did earn a GED later), I have been invited to this class reunion. Why? Well, I asked myself the same question, and I think it's simply because the reunion committee is desperate for warm bodies, given the alumni are getting rather long in the tooth and beginning to drop like flies.

The reason for my being invited notwithstanding, however, I would like to attend the reunion because I’m curious about how my classmates turned out (Yes, I know one should avoid ending a sentence with a preposition). I mean, what’re they like now? Are they successful? Where do they live? Are they retired? Are they bald (at least the guys)? Are they happily married? Divorced? Widowed? Do they have grandkids? More important, have the cheerleaders gotten fat and lost their looks?

Yes, I am curious about that. Wouldn't you be? I mean, hey, the cheerleaders were always the most popular girls in school because, well, all the boys wanted to date a cheerleader. Heck if I know why. I guess there was just something about having a pompom-twirling kewpie doll snuggling beside you on the plastic covers of the front seat in your souped-up GTO that appealed to the opposite sex and made him feel all macho like James Dean in Rebel without a Cause.

And no, I was never a cheerleader. (Isn’t that obvious?) Granted, any girl could try out for the cheerleading squad, but everyone knew you didn’t stand a chance unless your family belonged to Fairburn’s “elite,” which included the families of the town’s mayor, dentist, doctor, bank president, pharmacist, and State Farm agent, etc. (Yes, there was only one of each, but Fairburn was a small town back then), as well the owners of the shops along Main Street, aka Roosevelt Highway.

Then again, poor or not, one year I decided to try out for the squad. So did my best friend Ruth, whose family was also poor. Ruth and I spent hours after school and on the weekends practicing cartwheels and splits, as well as memorizing six zillion cheers. Not that our hard work came to anything, but for a brief, short, shining moment in time, Ruth and I dared to dream.

Come to think of it, our experience was like that song: “I learned the truth at 17—that love belongs to beauty queens.” The truth we learned, however, at 13 was that we had busted our skinny behinds in the sweltering Georgia heat doing cartwheels and handstands and splits and all for naught, because money talked, and if your family had enough of it, you got to be a cheerleader. Otherwise, forget it.

Okay, so there, I admit it. The main reason I’d like to attend this reunion of the class with which I did not graduate is to see how the cheerleaders turned out. And, yes, as catty as it sounds, I hope they all now weigh 400 pounds and have long, stiff hairs jutting out of their triple chins. I also hope their husbands ran away with bleached-blonde waitresses from the Waffle House out near the Interstate because those waitresses were bouncy and giggly and reminded them of cheerleaders. 

And on that note, I will cease my diatribe for tonight. Time for the vino. 

Celebrate All Lives, Not Just Those of the Rich and Famous

Photo by P.M. Schlenker

What I can't understand is why people who don't even know the royal couple are so excited over the birth of Kate and William's baby? Heck, there were countless other babies born today, but was the news of their births broadcast all over the Internet, television, and radio? Will their pictures be plastered on the covers of the tabloids in the checkout line at Walmart when I go grocery shopping this week? I seriously doubt it, but then, those babies weren't "royalty" nor were their parents celebrities. They were mere "commoners," some of whom may grow up to become soldiers, firefighters, doctors, police officers, teachers, nurses, social workers, emergency medical technicians, or first responders and actually make a positive contribution to life on this planet. Personally, I don't give one hoot in you-know-where that Kate and William had a baby or that it was a boy. I don't know the royal couple, and I seriously doubt I ever will. In fact, I know I never will because I'm a commoner.

The problem I have with all this hoopla over the birth of the royal couple's baby is that it just goes to show that society values some people more than others, and those that are most valued are those with wealth and power. Of course, in the case of most celebrities, looks are also a main contributing factor. We should value all people, regardless of their income and social standing--or their looks. Some of the nicest--and the best--people I have ever known have been neither rich, powerful, glamorous, or especially good-looking, but they have been decent, good, caring human beings, and they have been beautiful where it mattered--on the inside. Moreover, they have contributed something positive to this planet. They have made a difference for the better, and their lives are to be treasured.

I am reminded of a poem I read years ago and never forgot, although I long ago forgot who wrote it and have been unable to locate the writer:

Long live the lion, the leopard, the lemur, and the lamb.

Bow to the beaver, the burro, and the bear.

Hail to the hippo and the heavenly hawk.

And weep for dinosaurs and dodos lost.

What this poem means, at least in my opinion, is that all lives are to be treasured because each living being, whether human or animal, is special and unique, and when that being is gone, he or she or it can never be replaced. Granted, yes, Kate and William's baby is to be treasured, but then so are all babies, not just those who are lucky enough to be born into royalty.

And now I am going to go have a glass or two of wine and toast all the newborns in the world.

What Ever Happened to Good Manners?

Photo by Zimurg

I would like to know just when people stopped being polite and started being so downright rude. Take today for instance. I telephoned the local Walmart to inquire about a vacuum cleaner that was out of stock when I was there on Tuesday and which I was told would be ordered and delivered to the store within a day or so.

The young woman who answered the phone said she would transfer my call to Housewares. I said, “Thank you.” She didn’t say doodley squat in return. Then again, I do think maybe she grunted. I’m not sure. Anyway, the next person who came on the line was another young woman, and when I told her the purpose of my call, she related that she worked in Jewelry and needed to page someone in Housewares since she didn’t “know nothing about vacuum cleaners.” I said, “Thank you.” She at least responded, although what she said wasn’t “You’re welcome,” but “Okay.” Well, the next person who picked up the phone was supposedly a manager of some kind, and when I told her the reason for my call, she said she would need to check with yet another person since she didn’t know when the delivery truck was due. I replied, “Thank you.” She replied, “All right.”

After holding the receiver to my ear for approximately 20 minutes, which felt more like an hour, and listening to dead silence (Why doesn’t Walmart have canned music like other stores?), I decided that either the woman had gotten lost on her way to locate the other person, taken her lunch break, left for the day and gone home, or been abducted by aliens, so I hung up and redialed the number for Information. The same young women who had answered my first call answered the phone again and again redirected my call to Housewares. The person who picked up the phone this time was a guy who worked in Automotive. He said he would page someone in Housewares. I said, “Thank you.” He said, “No problem.”

Well, long story short—or at least semi-short—I finally got through to someone who could answer my question. In fact, she was very knowledgeable and helpful. She was also very polite, for when I said, “Thank you,” she actually responded, “You’re welcome.” In fact, if I didn’t think my call would be directed to someone in Infants Wear or perhaps Sporting Goods, I would call and give this nice, helpful, polite employee a commendation.

And that brings me full circle to the point of this blog. And, no, it’s not the inefficiency of Walmart; it’s whatever happened to good manners? In my opinion, “okay,” “all right,” and “no problem” are not polite responses to someone who has just thanked you for your time, effort, assistance, or anything else. Of course, perhaps such blasé responses are better than no responses at all or, heaven forbid, a grunt, but mannerly they are not. It’s a different world today, however, than when I was growing up, or even 20 years ago, so maybe it’s simply a sign of the times. In my opinion, though, today’s world is a far less pleasant place, and one of the main reasons is the lack of good manners.

My Herculean Husband Lifts Really Heavy Weights

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

You’re not going to believe this, but my darling hubby told me that felt “insulted” by my last blog. Yes, the one about how much he contributes to cleaning on our traditional housekeeping day, which is Saturday. In case, you missed that particular blog, Chet’s contribution is vacuuming. Yes, that’s right; he vacuums while I do everything else. In fact, if we lived on a farm, which we don’t and which is probably a good thing given Chet’s aversion to physical labor, I could get up at the crack of dawn, go out and plow the north 40, and when I finished—you guessed it—Chet would still be vacuuming. Now, back to why Chet was offended by my previous blog.

The reason Chet took offense isn’t what you’re probably thinking. It wasn’t because I said that he vacuums for hours on end while I clean the entire house, cook, mow our lawn, mow the neighbor’s lawn, and paint the living room (A little exaggeration perhaps, but not much). Chet, bless his heart, was upset because, when describing the black hole that’s his office, I said, and I quote, “There are weights stacked in the floor, and by weights, I mean everything from 25-pound dumbbells to 50-pound iron plates.” And just why was Chet affronted by this comment? Well, are you ready? It was because, in his opinion, the way I phrased the comment made it sound as if he lifts “baby weights,” and I should have described his weights more accurately in terms of poundage. (Roll of eyes)

Okay, so here goes: My herculean hubby, with his rippling pectorals (pecs) and gun-sized biceps lifts these really, really humongous weights. His dumbbells begin at a mere 15 pounds but go all the way up to a whopping 80 pounds, which he uses with absolutely no effort at all in order to execute curls, one-arm rows, flies, and other exercises, the names of which elude me at the moment. Oh, and the iron plates that he uses range from a lowly two-and-a-half pounds all the way up to an astounding 50 pounds, and he mixes these different weight plates (Hmm, weight and plates rhymes) to achieve maximum poundage for various exercises. For instance, he lifts 275 pounds when performing an exercise called the “dead lift,” And, by the way, he said to make sure that I tell everyone that he uses “good form” when executing movements and that no one is “spotting” him. ” In other words, it’s “all him.” (Another roll of eyes)

Also let me add that Chet has a curl bar, in addition to dumbbells, which he loads with plates of varying poundage in order to perform, well, curls obviously, and whatever other exercises one performs with a curl bar (The actual names of these exercises also elude me at the moment). He has another bar as well, though it’s straight instead of curved, which he loads with assorted plates to execute squats, and his squats aren’t “sissy” squats either but “macho” squats where his behind is “parallel” to his knees (Or something to that effect). Oh, and these are really heavy squats, too. (Don’t ask me how many pounds he uses because I haven’t the foggiest, but I know it’s a lot.)

Okay, there; I’ve clarified the matter of how much weight my darling hubby lifts. It’s now on record. He doesn’t lift “baby weights.” He lifts these really heavy, and I do mean heavy, weights and his dumbbells go all the way up to 80 pounds. Chet is so very strong, so absolutely herculean, that I’m surprised someone hasn’t nominated him for Mr. Universe. How’s that? Oh, and by the way, I not only cleaned the entire house today, cooked dinner, and did the laundry, I also vacuumed.