Despite our advanced age, I hope that we’re still Jenkins Warriors inside.
By Susan Frampton
I remember vividly when my parents were headed to their 50th High School reunion. In my mind, I imagined a bunch of really old people drinking Metamucil-spiked cocktails and spinning their wheelchairs around on the dance floor. My parents didn’t seem old enough to have graduated that long ago. In fact, at the time they were religiously walking six miles a day. But the numbers didn’t lie, and off they went. I crossed my fingers that there would be no calls to EMS or the funeral home from the site of the Savannah High School Class of 1948 reunion.
So, imagine my surprise when I opened the email inviting me to attend the 50th reunion of the H.V. Jenkins High School Class of 1975. Wait a minute. Once again, the numbers don’t lie, and I distinctly remembered the unofficial motto of my graduating class saying something along the lines of, “We raised some hell, man alive! We’re the Class of ’75!” Fifty years! Dear God. How could this have happened so suddenly? I still had Levi’s in my closet I wore my senior year. No, they didn’t fit, but they were my very own “Impossible Dream.” Suddenly, my mind calls up the paper I wrote about Don Quixote for my Spanish III final. And just like that, I fell down the rabbit hole of remembrance. It was a hell of a year.
The United Nations deemed it the International Year of the Woman. Saigon fell, and the Vietnam War ended. Our new President, Gerald Ford, accidently hit cars with golf balls, and two attempts were made on his life (not related to his poor golfing skills.) Jaws scared us senseless. I fell in love with The Eagles’ Glenn Frey. We turned up our sunburned noses at sunscreen and slathered ourselves in Hawaiian Tropic Tanning Oil. I can still smell the coconut.
The world was changing fast. An outrageous show called Saturday Night Live debuted, Bruce Springsteen hoarsely shouted about tramps like us being born to run, and scientists cloned a frog. Ali and Frazier duked it out at “The Thrilla in Manila,” Freddie Mercury wailed out Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, Rubik got cubed, and People Magazine published its first issue. VCRs demanded memberships at Blockbuster, and a geek named Bill Gates stepped out of his garage with something called “Microsoft” tucked under his arm.
I stand in front of the mirror
searching for a glimpse of the girl
who sprinted with such joy
through the days of my senior year…
Fast forward to my realization a half-century has passed since I slipped into those worn Levis. I speed-dial my lifelong best friend, Cathy. We console each other once we’ve chronicled all our ailments. Even if we didn’t see confirmation in the mirror every day, our aches and pains prove that we have indeed aged 50 years since those halcyon days of high school. She’s on the fence about attending the reunion. I’m the Captain of Team No-Chance-In-Hell. We agree to give it some thought and revisit the idea.
I do give it some thought. I’ve been gone from Savannah for over 40 years, but a part of my heart still calls it home. I miss it. I miss James Edward Oglethorpe whose statue in Chippewa Square photobombed our family photo every Easter. I miss the causeway leading to Tybee Island, the hairpin curves on the way to Isle of Hope, and the ankle-twisting cobblestones of River Street. I miss the dirt parking lot of Jenkins High School where we all gathered in the mornings before the bell rang. But I realized that what I missed the most were the people I knew in the 25 years I called Savannah home. I pick up the phone and dial my best friend. “I’m in,” I tell her. We’re exactly two weeks out from this event five decades in the making.
I stand in front of the mirror searching for a glimpse of the girl who sprinted with such joy through the days of my senior year, and wonder if I will see traces of my friends’ young faces in those who once walked the halls with me. Will they remember me? Will I know them? So much to do, and so little time. There are trips to be made to Target for new, industrial-strength Spanx, and Ulta for some kind of miracle spackling to camouflage the toll time and gravity have taken on the woman in the mirror. Vanity, thy name is Susan. If I’m doing this danged thing, you can bet I want to put my best face forward. That face will definitely be spackled and painted with anti-aging products. I’ll be standing at the door to greet the Fed Ex driver delivering flattering wardrobe choices for everything from a casual picnic lunch to a dressy cocktail party. My daughter will curate my choices to ensure that I’ll look like I have “aged with grace,” and not so much like an ancient hootchie mama.
I’m actually starting to look forward to the weekend. We had some good times, and I had some great friends. Despite our advanced age, I imagine we’ll have fun. Whoever said you can’t go home again never met the rambunctious seniors we once were. After all, we’re still Jenkins Warriors inside, and hopefully, we haven’t forgotten:
“We raised some hell, man alive! We’re the Class of ’75.”
