Our fiftieth high school class reunion is on the calendar. That makes those of us sitting in the room planning the event either age 67 or 68. Glenda, preparing to preside over the dozen or so of us on the reunion planning committee, looked at her notes, then said, “Terry, Can I borrow your glasses again?”
Great start, I thought.
Then, Allison said, “Don’t forget some of us are going deaf, too, so speak loudly.”
Really great start!
Hearing aids and glasses adjusted, each person in the group introduced and said something about himself or herself. Of course, during these short speeches, folks bragged about their grandchildren. Understandable, but when one classmate said she had fourteen grandkids, she was asked if she could name them all. That cut down on the grandchild talk.
Introductions were necessary because we didn’t have a clue who these other old folks were. “Hey, How ya’ doing? So good to see you,” was merely a cover.
At least nobody said, “Were you one of our teachers?”
Finally, we got around to the business. Questions about what to eat and how much to charge and would we need a policeman for security. Security? The most dangerous thing anybody in this crowd was going to do was to fall asleep while driving home.
I was interested in the time set for the reunion. There were arguments for 6 p.m. and 7 p.m. but I was holding out for the 4:30 p.m. Early Bird Special. The menu choice was easy: mustard-based barbeque. This is South Carolina, after all.
There was some debate about saving some money by using email instead of snail mail and postage stamps, but some of our class doesn’t use email. Back and forth, one opinion, then another.
Eventually, we decided we’d better hurry up with whatever choice we make before we’re all too old to get there.