by Dave Balcom
I couldn’t keep my laugh out of my words, “Guilty on every count.”
She arched an eyebrow at me, “Tidy whities under it all, too, I’ll wager – Cabela’s, Penney’s and Wal-Mart for you; I’m guessing Land’s End or LL Bean for the sweater.”
Now I was impressed. “No contest.”
She chuckled and with a wave of dismissal, “I’m just showing off. I design expensive casual clothes for young women to wear while they’re hunting a husband. I have to know what real people choose to wear so I can make sure my stuff that’s for make-believe isn’t confusing.”
Jan and Fran came up just then, and I saw a wide smile on Jan’s face as she read the name tag on Mary’s jacket. “My God! I’m so glad to see you again, Mary!”
Franklin put her can down on the table and held her arms out for a hug, “Jan!” It wasn’t one of those imitation hugs I’d seen women give each other with little pecks at or about the cheek, either. These two old friends embraced as if it meant something.
When they parted they searched each other’s face with their eyes.
“I always knew you were going to be beautiful someday,” Mary said.
“Well, thank you, but that secret was kept from me for decades, then one day I woke up and looked in the mirror and thought, ‘not bad; better than I had dared hope,’ and then went right back to work on my life.”
“Well, it was good enough to attract this adorable man who works magic with ice, gin, and a shaker.”
“Taught him that little trick when I first met him,” Jan said dismissively to loud laughter all around.
The three women moved away chatting as if they’d been saving it up for years. “I guess they have,” I thought to myself.
When the parking lot lights flickered, the crowd started moving toward the stadium, led by a student pep band. I started putting things away, but Greg came up and stopped me, “We’ll leave it out here. A couple of policemen will be on patrol to keep minors out of the hooch, but everything else is here for the taking. I hope we go home without even a drink of pop left.”
High school football had lost its hold on me the day after the last game I played. All sports attract my attention to some extent, but I’m much more interested in participating than watching, and that goes for everything in my life.
At half time the pep band played and fans milled around, many heading for the portable bathrooms that lined the parking lot, others looking to put a head back on the buzz they’d built in the pre-game hours.
I sat in the bleachers by myself.
“Not much of a contest, is it?”
A man of about my age sat down. He was small but looked very trim and athletic. “You don’t know me, Mr. Stanton,” he said with a smile. “I’m Colin Curry; I graduated with Jan.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. “My wife, Jenny, and our daughter, Christine, are with Jan out in the lot. I heard you were around, so I came looking for you. These events can be lonely for spouses.”
“Not really, but I appreciate meeting you. I just don’t want to deprive you of time with your old friends.”
“Stoney was a totally different place in the ’70s,” he said with a wistful tone in his voice. “It was probably dying then, but I don’t think it was common knowledge. It certainly wasn’t to a bunch of high school kids who’d never known anything else.
“The school maintained very high standards. We had a solid enough economic base to attract new people from time to time, and those people brought expectations that kept the town growing on a variety of levels.
“We didn’t have much in the way of crime. It was considered a safe place for children to grow up, and so people – officials, parents, schools – they all gave us room, you know?”
“It wasn’t all that different where I went to school.”
“Oh, Riverton is a much different place than this today, and it was back then, too. More kids, more people in general; some ethnic diversity, and lots of diversity within a half hour drive.
“You were a big time high school athlete who never played in college; many of the people you competed with and beat in high school had their college educations paid for because of their athletic talents...”
“I pursued the GI Bill scholarship.”
“Yeah, so I heard. I was recruiting a kid in Riverton twenty years ago; a quarterback for the Raiders. This kid and a receiver were making lots of news, so I went up to see what the ruckus was about.”
“Where from?”
“MSU. I was an assistant football coach for the Spartans for 22 years, retired last spring. Anyway, I went up to Riverton and all anyone up there could say about these two kids was they were the best athletes that town had produced since you and Wally Thompson had graduated. Think about it, they still remembered you, what, thirty years after you’d graduated?”
“Memories in small towns are long and legends grow with each telling,” I said.
“What do you think of these kids?”
“I hope they aren’t injured playing against teams like Boyne; they don’t match up in any way I can fathom.”
“It’s always been that way up here. Wiry little punks who’d as soon knock your block off as look at you, loyal to a fault for the team. Their games don’t travel to the bigger scene, but they play hard, and you can count on them.”
“I read where Tony Ralph was the stud in your class.”
“That he was. He and Mark Decker were the Jim Stanton and Wally Thompson of our time. Tony was the QB, pitcher, point guard and Prom King; Mark was smarter, tougher, better in every department, and nobody ever knew it except Tony.”
“I met them just yesterday at Tony’s parents’ home on Torch Lake. They seem to be great friends still.”
“As they should. They’re partners. Tony’s the rainmaker lawyer who gets all the publicity, handles all the splashy courtroom stuff while Mark’s the CPA in the back office who turns all that publicity and notoriety into hard cash and securities.
“That’s just like it was for them in high school, and they both went off to the University of Michigan together. Tony in pre-law; Mark in finance. Tony’s dad paid for both of them.”
“That’s generous,” I said with a slow whistle.
“It was the old man making an investment, that’s what that was.”
“Were you friendly with them in high school?”
“Idolized them, more like it. They were like gods to me. I was too small to compete even at this level, but I was the student manager for every sport they played. They treated me like a mascot, but both of them were raised to be respectful and polite. I never felt belittled, you know?”
We went silent and listened to the pep band wind up.
“I think it was his dad’s problems with the law that set the course for Tony and then Mark.”
“Mr. Ralph had legal issues?”
“Not that way. I never heard it from Tony or the family, but I did hear that Mr. Ralph had been a lawyer in Detroit for years, and then gave it up and moved to Stoney when Tony was 11.
“That Tony, he was a stud the first day he showed up here. Had a passion for sports and a body to go with it. And he was a natural born leader. All the kids just fell in line wherever he wanted them to go. Amazing guy.”
The teams re-entered the field and fans started filing back into their seats. “Oh, I’m gettin’ the high sign from my bride. Hope to see you again this weekend, Jim.”
I assured him I was looking forward to it. When the teams lined up for the kickoff, none of my party had returned to their seats, and I figured they had a reunion going out in the parking lot.
I watched as Boyne took the second half kickoff and scored three plays later to make the score 35-0. With the crowd standing to await Stoney’s chance on offense, I eased myself down from the bleachers and strolled to my Suburban.
There were about a dozen people sitting around the back of our vehicle in chairs, on top of coolers and on cushions on the ground.
I pulled up a ch
air from a nearby vehicle and sat on the outside of the ring watching and listening, wondering what it would be like to reunite with my high school class after all these years...
CHAPTER 23
Saturday dawned in a steady drizzle, and once again I appreciated the term that is very rarely used in Eastern Oregon when special outings are being planned: Weather permitting.
But unlike the Midwesterners who dread these slowly moving, relentlessly wet weekends, they’re such a rarity in my part of the country that I can’t help but relish them.
Judy and I were both soaked when, more than an hour later, we were back on the front porch eager for breakfast.
I toweled her off before insisting she curl up on her travel bed and stay before I brought her a biscuit and her weekly bacon-flavored, “dental-cleansing” chew stick that made every Saturday her best day of the week.
When I came out of the shower Jan still hadn’t stirred, so, being the considerate spouse I am, I shared my shower-chilled state with her, crawling into her sleep-warmed space under the covers.
“Damn, Stanton,” she mumbled, “you’re like ice.”
“You’re just luscious warmth; what a combination.”
“Fire and ice only works for poets and the ice; sheeesh, man! Brrrrr!”
I can take a hint, so I retreated to the relative warmth of the kitchen with its coffee pot.
Just as I was pouring my second cup, I heard the shower running and minutes later Jan came into the kitchen with her head in a turban of bath towel and she was wearing my robe. Barefooted and frumpy like that, she knew, was a real turn-on for me. I poured her coffee without a word, and she upped the ante by stepping in between my knees as I sat, putting her arms around my neck and pulling my face into the folds of the over-sized robe.
“You’re a sweetie, Stanton. Whatever can we do in the rain and all to pass the time until lunch?”
I had no answer. I just tried to breathe naturally as I stood up, lifting her with me, and carrying her into the bedroom. An all-day rain is no reason to mope around the house.
CHAPTER 24
The “Class of ’80 Lunch” at Annie’s had gone from a casual idea to rock solid plan between halves of last night’s football game. It had taken Angela Ritter less than a minute on the phone to reserve the dining room at Annie’s from 11:30 to 1 p.m. and less than a minute more to decide on a menu limited to one meat and one veggie option. “Lactose or gluten tolerance issues we’ll accommodate one at a time,” she announced before the second half kickoff – “Pass the word.”
The first people we saw upon entering the rear door of the restaurant were the Ralphs and Deckers who had just walked in ahead of us and were shedding rain gear.
The six of us entered the dining room and found another twenty or so people all sitting at four-top tables that had been pushed together.
We dragged two more tables into the line and sat. I saw a coffee urn on a table in the corner. “Coffee, anyone?”
“I’ll help serve,” Tony said as he held the chair for Anita. I walked over to the urn and found cups and a tray. I started filling cups as Tony came up, “Just five, Jim; Alex doesn’t touch caffeine. And all are black except yours, I believe.”
I filled the cups, then picked mine off the tray so he could serve the others. I added my dash of cream out of the non-dairy supplies basket. I never use the entire little creamer, but I carried it back to the table for use later.
At 11:30 Annie came out of the kitchen and I could see she had been hard at work; her apron was stained and there looked to be flour in her hair. She cleared her throat and gained everyone’s attention.
“Welcome all of you. I’m Annie. These four young ladies are your servers. If you wish anything from the bar, I’d ask you to go fetch it yourself as these youngsters cannot serve alcohol. They’re seniors of the final graduating class from Stoney High School, and they volunteered to wait on you folks today. She paused and looked from face to face down the long table. “Yes, gratuities for the wait staff are more than appreciated.”
That drew a hearty chuckle from the group. “We’ll start serving in about 15 minutes. Thank you all for thinking of this. Rain or no rain, this is going to be a fun day for all of you. Now, Jan?”
I looked a question at my bride and heard Angela gasp “Oh, no!” I looked up to see her hand covering her mouth and her eyes wide open in alarm.
“Something you forgot to mention, Angie?” Jan asked politely.
Annie was beaming, but didn’t say anything.
Finally, Angela composed herself with a deep breath, “I forgot to ask you if you’d play for a little while today...”
Annie jumped on that, “Angie?”
“And maybe again later tonight?”
“Slipped your mind?” Jan asked, barely concealing her amusement.
“I’m so sorry...”
Jan stood and turned to Annie, “How long?”
“’Til we serve the soup course...”
“And tonight?”
“’Til the cows?”
“This was a condition, Annie?”
In a voice that was almost a whine, the old lady was wringing her apron as she said, “I let Angie think it was...”
At that the whole group exploded in laughter and calls for “music, music” broke out. Jan made her way to the piano and started playing one of those Bach things that I like so much.
“I don’t remember Johann Sebastian being a jazz artist,” Mary Franklin said to the group at large.
“That’s probably for tonight,” I said for anyone who might be listening.
After the lunch the group went to the high school for a tour which Angela had arranged, and then we toured her museum, and she signed up several more patrons during the walk-about.
By four we were back at the cottage.
“That was just great,” Jan said as we watched Judy sniffing about in the rain. “It’s sad that this will not happen again next year or ever again, but it sure is much more fun than I had ever dared hope it would be.”
I had thoughts about that, too. “I think one of the things I never considered when I was skipping all those reunions in the past was that the people I’d see at those events would be the doers and positive people from the class.
“I’m sure your entire class wasn’t made up only of people who turned out to be upwardly mobile, well-educated, civil adults. Time separates the wheat from the chaff, I’ll bet.”
“So, you’re thinking that next spring we’ll be in Riverton celebrating your fiftieth?”
“And miss June in the Blues? Not likely... well, we’ll see.”
Jan took special care getting ready to go to dinner. She came out of the bedroom in heels wearing the blue dress that featured a flared skirt in some light material that made a soft whispering sound as she moved. Her exposed skin above the top of the dress was a beautiful chestnut brown as far as the low cut outfit allowed a look. She had a white sweater over her arm to fend off the autumn chill.
“You look terrific, Mrs. Stanton.”
“You do too, Mr. Stanton. You look authorish; only the leather patches on your tweed elbows are missing. You do clean up well.”
“Thank you; I’ll look into the patches thing soon as we are home.”
“Sure you will...”
When we arrived at the high school just before six, we were met at the door by the class officers for that year’s graduates. Each of the women was given a corsage and each man was offered a boutonnière if he was wearing a jacket. We also received official nametags. Jan’s read, “Janice Coldwell Stanton ’80.” I was “Jim Coldwell Stanton.”
“Welcome to Stoney High School class reunion,” a tall young man greeted us. “I’m Ronnie Phelps, and on behalf of the Class of ’15 I thank you for showing us how to do this in style thirty-five years from now.”
“You think that will happen, Ronnie?” Jan asked politely.
“Well, there won’t be a game, and there won’t be a school building
, but there’ll still be a Stoney, and after seeing how much all this means to you folks... I’m sure gonna try to make it happen. That’s a fact.”
“Then it will,” Jan said. “It only takes one person with a dream to change your world or keep it alive for everyone.”
I could tell Jan’s words had evoked an emotion in the young man, but all he said was a careful, “Thank you, Mrs. Stanton.”
The cafeteria had been decorated as if for the annual prom and no crepe paper had been spared as far as I could tell. “Oldies” from the 70s and 80s were playing softly as background music.
The tables had been arranged in front of a “head table” complete with a dais and microphone. At the opposite end of the room, a slide show of photos from the past was playing on continuous loop across a screen that had been set up for the purpose. We were shown to our seats at one of the tables bearing a placard which read simply “1980” but no one was seated, they had all migrated to the projected slideshow.
As we walked into the relatively dimmer end of the room, I noticed a bar had been set up and was doing a brisk business. “Wine?” I whispered to Jan.
“Sure.”
When I came back with her glass of something red that I couldn’t identify, she barely glanced at me as she watched images from the past flicker across the screen. While most of those images meant nothing to me, the parade of pictures was interrupted from time to time with a white card announcing another graduating class. When the card read “Class of 1980,” I saw images of Jan as a youngster and again seconds later as a young woman. There were more images than I could follow, and most of them meant little to me. I did see a young Paul and Betty Ralph at a ball game and then later at their store. I could see where the young Ralph girls had gotten their good looks, but those images I could identify were far outnumbered by those that meant nothing to me.
