Ain't It A Wonder?

At some point this year, a 50th high school reunion will be held for the Class of 1972 for Northshore High School in Houston, Texas. I’m part of this class, but have never attended a class reunion ... partially because I’ve lived little of my life in Houston ... partially because my memories of high school until our senior year were unhappy ones ... partially because so much time has passed since those high school years. The last time I saw most of my classmates, we were 18 years old. When I see the names from the past, the faces I remember are frozen in our youthful state.

Pondering whether to attend this milestone event inspired a jumble of thoughts and feelings which landed on the memories of proms, events I considered desperately important when I was 16-18 years old. I wanted to be popular, but always felt an outsider. The kids I knew who were popular didn’t worry about it. They just were ...

I attended my first prom as a junior, invited by a senior, Connie Vandenberg; I attended my senior prom with a sophomore, Vicki Buckelew. The truth is I have little memory of either prom other than choosing tuxes and picking out corsages for my dates. Both of these young women were in high school band with me. I often wonder if a traumatic event following my first prom is the reason I don’t remember much about either prom.


Connie and Me - 1971. I was 16.

Connie was killed three weeks after the prom we attended together. She was a pretty girl with long dark hair and large expressive eyes, her beauty an understated kind. She was kind and shy; we were good friends, both in band with a shared love of music.

Connie came from modest means. She was beyond proud of her prom dress, a pink satin gown hand sewn by her mother. She told me it was the first nice dress she’d ever had. Looking at the one remaining photo I have of us together from that evening, she looks timeless, lovely.

Connie and a friend were riding a motorcycle and were run off an Interstate 10 overpass by a drunk driver resulting in both of their deaths. There wasn’t much left of Connie’s face; her uber-religious parents insisted on an open casket funeral. Even after 50 years, as I write this, I feel sick to my stomach and tears are near the surface.

I remember the shock of walking up to Connie laying there ... a plaster mask for a face, really an approximation of her features, only to discover she was dressed in her satin prom gown, the nicest clothing she would ever own. My parents wouldn’t let me look at pictures from the prom for six months.

I was changed by Connie’s death; it was my first experience with losing someone for whom I cared. To this day, I remember few details about that prom or the second one a year later. Perhaps, the absence of memories was a way I was protected from dwelling on the trauma of Connie’s violent death.

I share this story as an example of why I’m unsure about attending my 50th high school reunion this Fall. It appears it will be held just prior to my long-delayed return trip to Italy. I’m back in contact with classmates from Northshore High School through Facebook. I wonder if any of them feel like I do, wondering what is in store for me when I grow up. The majority of my classmates have spouses, children and grandchildren, their lives so very different from my own. I have a lifetime of theater families ... a divergent philosophy of how life works ... a lifetime of bachelorhood. What would I add by being there? As I once wrote in a song, “I guess I’ll never know who I really am ... lost in Never, Neverland, a faded Peter Pan ...”

And yet, this faded Peter Pan is happy with the path I took ... I’ve earned every one of my smile lines ... I’ve had a rollercoaster life of amazing experiences ... many people who have loved and love me ... and dear, dear friends who support me ... fill me with hope and joy. I truly understand the expression, Love is Love. Ain’t it a wonder?