Bobbing Along

We recently attended an event: Dear Dave’s 50th high school reunion. We had primped and powdered and felt reasonably comfortable in our old skin and not-new clothes. We were a tad anxious, but otherwise ready to participate in the inevitable task of matching old yearbook photos, long-unthought-of names, and the faces which might complete a connection. That task, ultimately, was his. I tagged along as “SPOUSE”.

True, I had met some of his friends way back during our dating days. And some of them I was looking forward to seeing after so many years. I will confess, however, that as we arrived at the venue and made our way toward the doors—passing long glass walls through which we could see a throng of people—I quietly said to my dear husband,

That can’t be the reunion. Those people look far too old. Let’s check at the front desk to see where your group is meeting.

Yes. I said that. Yes, indeed. And yes, the concierge confirmed what deep down inside we both knew: those “old people”—the ones that looked JUST LIKE US—were the rest of the reunion attendees. Busted.

Honestly, we had a wonderful time. As a spouse, it was great fun to watch and listen, to observe the delight in faces when that recognition hit and to hear the glee that accompanied it. Still, I was looking for one face. That one person whom I knew would be in attendance. That one person for whom I have such fond memories.

My only photograph of her was taken when we visited her and her husband (both classmates of Dear Dave), spending the night in their tiny rented house while en route to other cities in the New England area. It was with these friends that I first drank Ouzo and Retsina and the fact that I can remember anything about that evening (There was dancing. Something with an handkerchief?) given the amounts of Greek wine that were consumed, is nothing short of a miracle. This is the person I was seeking, and yes, ’tis I tucked in the corner on the left…

And, as a bit of a side note, the reason I have been able to locate said photo is due to my early days of creating scrapbooks which in this case has never been completed.

Reunions are among those occasions where using one’s eyes is not necessarily the best approach. Looks are very deceptive after fifty years. I know this because the image I see in the mirror each day doesn’t resemble me at all. Nope. Not one bit.

So how did I locate my friend? By sound. We were standing right next to each other. I heard her speak. That the sound of someone’s voice can transcend years and distances is amazing to me. Yet it did. And it absolutely made my evening. Let’s not wait another fifty, dear friend, ok?