I've recently been seeing oldy mouldy yearbook pages from the 70's being posted on a FB group I'm in that's all about my small, Prairie hometown. Now I know exactly what the word bittersweet really means.
Looking through those pages of students from my age group, I am overwhelmed with nostalgia, and a desire to never look in a mirror again. Those were 'one chin and a discernable waistline' days of happy, clueless innocence.
Time has not only been cruel, it's been a jackass. I mean really...was it necessary to have me develop a keen interest in literature a decade AFTER graduation?Ah well.
I see so many faces that have strong, almost visceral feelings attached to them, both good and bad. But I'll focus on the good, mainly because I assume some classmates did well enough over the years to be able to afford really good lawyers. Its been almost 50 years but despite not recalling their names completely, I know them instantly. Like a vague recurring dream you recognize, but not clearly.
Back in the day when you could discipline students with corporal punishment, Mr. Belinsky was The Ultimate Ruler. I have distinct memories of body-shaped cracks in the walls, like Wile E. Coyote used to make on The Road Runner Bugs Bunny Show, that were a direct result of boys getting punished for some serious mouthing off. I was in Grade 7, new to the Mackenzie Jr High and in awe of absolutely everything I saw. A true Bambi-esque, deer-caught-in-the-headlights kid. I was both mesmerized by the horrific strength and intensity of the man ruling our Social Studies Kingdom, and the strange admiration and ...bear with me...attraction to that kind of power. My first crush: a 50 year old man with anger management issues. Go figure. I truly liked and feared him in equal measures. I was so scared and impressed that I ended up a confused mass of cognitive jelly. I remained so up until about an hour ago.
Body Image Angst is not a modern phenomenon for girls. I invented it. Probably. I have no patent.
I could see that I was Chairman of the Social Committee. I have no recollection of such an honor but there are pictures so I can't say it's a lie. I can only assume my Vice Chairman did all the work and sent daily messages to me at the Kings Hotel restaurant where I was having a much needed smoke and coffee. I quit smoking almost 30 years ago...but I've quite romanticized it in my head, much like the Sock Hops we had at noon in the gym. In my mind they were breathy and wonderfully exciting but in reality, we were just nervous teens sweating through our clothes, falling madly in love for a whole week with someone who'd been brave enough to walk across the 'Boys Over Here/Girls Over There' room to ask us to dance to Seasons In The Sun or Crimson and Clover. Smelly socks be damned!
Social Economics class was hell (that's what it was called, right? Or Home Ec?). I wanted to take woodworking so badly but I was missing a penis so could not enroll. However, my lack of said organ allowed me a free pass into the culinary hell I called Burnt Muffinland. My memories of this class are an Andy Warhol melting visage of white ovens, white counters, striped green aprons and blackened mini-mounds of stiff, once proud batter. To this day, the kitchen is deemed forbidden territory and my husband is the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer. Being from Germany, where men cook as much as women do and just as good, I was banned over 27 years ago and have loved every minute of it, as has my so-said thickened waist and chinny chin chins.
There were so many wonderful teachers but there certainly were a few oddballs too: one who would 'discreetly' rub himself on the table corners while talking and sometimes the boys in class would chalk-up the corner so he'd walk around talking with a white powdered crotch. Then there was the teacher who'd put round-ended scissors in his mouth and open an close them...making his mouth stretch weirdly, as he taught. And I'll never forget the one who put pennies in his mouth, swished them around then took them out to calmly clean with a hanky.
Does anyone else remember them too or did I actually live on Planet Zurgon after being abducted by aliens like I'd dreamed?
I've written previously about Field Days and Sport Days so I wont repeat them, but man, were those days BRILLIANT!! I wasn't very sporty, much to the shame of my athletic family (see Bob Buchy here) but I loved trying and I loved the atmosphere and camaraderie. I also loved the view: yes, I mean boys. No heavy duty relationships yet...that came in Grades 10 and up...but I do recall one particular boy who's identity and grade shall remain unnamed, who I thought was James Dean reincarnated and almost too gorgeous. I was thrilled beyond reason. Why date someone prettier than you? Well, I was young. That's it. I blame Youth. I wanted to be seen with a hunk from the other side of the tracks. That was a catch! Oh...and that isn't just a catch phrase...there was literally a train that cut through town. One side 'rich' and the other side 'poor'. I was happy he was slumming it.
But as is the way of life, our first few dates were our only dates. His outrageous beauty won me over at first and he could do NO wrong...but soon, I had to say 'pass' and walk away. It may be shallow and judgmental, but simply said, he kissed like a fish and honey...I don't fish.
My loss for sure. But I am perfectly certain he found a nice carp to marry one day.
All in all though, seeing the fresh, cherubic faces that personify a life left swirling in the dusts of Time has been both lovely and sad. Lovely to see them and remember kinder, more simple times... sad to acknowledge the vast amount of time between then and now.
In closing let me say this: having so many wildly differing memories has been a trip, but there aren't all that many and the gaps have me concerned. Is aging the culprit or is there a nefarious, frightening medical reason why I cannot recall the most developmentally important days of my life? Health-wise, I am no better or worse off than the average Boomer so I must conclude that it is likely my memories are seared into place strictly and most decidedly by pure chance and the magnitude of their importance AT THE TIME. I emphasize 'at the time' because I assure you, my sunken-treasure flat-chestedness resolved itself admirably and I breastfed 5 children easily, and can now boast an ability to match, visually, any front-cover magazine photo of any bare-chested woman...in National Geographic.
And for certain, the photo of the bespectacled and semi-bald Mr. Belinsky in the staff section of the yearbook has absolutely no affect on the flutterings of my heart.
But I admit... my husband could pass as his brother.
