At the Intersection of Memory and Old Haunts
by Larry Tuch

And so I came to the place that I had dreamed of coming to; that I had known I would come to. For thirty-seven years it had existed in my mind's eye. And now it was real again.

xxxxAt the far end of the dimly-lit hall, the tall arched window glowed with the white intensity of afternoon light. It raised a soft shine on the lockers and broad expanses of reflection down the center of the polished floor. Outside, an occasional whisper of passing traffic drifted up from McCadden and Sixth Street. Quiet and unchanged, the hall seemed like a vault of time - one where moments of memory were held in suspension. All it would take to animate one of these moments would be the recollection of someone who had lived it before - and had returned to live it again.

xxxxAs I fixed my gaze on the window, it drifted into a soft focus. Everything around me seemed completely still - still enough to blur the line that separated "now" from "then."

xxxx"Remarkable" I thought, "It looks exactly as I remember it. Exactly as it looked during our senior year."

xxxxMaybe those words had the power of an incantation. Maybe they only confirmed that the conjuring had already begun. In any case, memory tugged and I tumbled. When I found my footing again, I was in a waking dream

xxxxIn the world beyond the arched window, JFK was, once again, our President, Maynard G. Krebs was still Dobie's best buddy, and the Beach Boys had just released their first single.

xxxxI heard a locker door slam shut - heard the deep thrum of vibrating steel echo in a distant hallway, and before it had faded, laughter and voices percolating up the stairwells. And then I saw them. No, not "them" actually - - us. You and me. Our fresh-faced, fourteen-year-old selves cresting the stair landings and pouring out of the classrooms. I saw flashes of white Levis, tapered pant legs, loafers and pointy-toed boots. One of us pivoted to the side, stuck his notebook between his knees and swept a comb through hair that would make "Kookie" proud. Three girls approached sporting "bubble" hair-dos and hooded sweaters worn loose and thrown back from their shoulders. Even as they walked, their heads bobbed toward an imaginary microphone and as they passed I heard them sing "doo lang, doo lang, doo lannng."

xxxxSomeone else heard it too: A boy fumbling with the books in his locker. Having spotted his heart throb in the trio, he surreptitiously gauged the progress of her approach until - in a precisely-timed maneuver - he shut the locker and, with an expression of feigned surprise, turned and stepped into her path.

xxxxThere were other fleeting glances in that hallway. Some returned, some unnoticed - each a small step on the path toward romance, rejection, or unrequited longing. You saw them too, didn't you? You see them now. Look at us! Look at the shine of youth on our faces. What hope, what innocence, what great expectations of what could and would be. And what a bumpy road lay ahead of us: A teen-age version of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride fueled by a volatile mixture of brashness, insecurity, private fears, hidden hurts and - - hormones.

xxxxA hearty peel of adult laughter drifted up from the hall below. Some of my other classmates were making the memory trek as well. But soon, the laughter and voices died down. I heard the scrape of feet echo in the foyer and someone jiggling the handle of a locked classroom door.

xxxxAnd then it occurred to me.

xxxxWhile we had come to see each other, there were others that we longed to be reunited with as well. They waited for us in the shadow of a stair well, or in a quiet corner of the library, or an empty classroom whose tall windows framed the tree tops and houses along Sixth Street. And when we finally encountered them, it was with a bracing shock of recognition, for we had come face to face - - with our younger selves.

xxxxAt such a moment, the power of suggestion is supreme. And we are willing accomplices. Under the spell of old haunts, our memory plays its home movies of the mind. Into the flickering light we come - sweet ghosts from the past - reliving and reenacting the moments that colored our experience and shaped our sense of who we were.

xxxxSeen through the glass of time, we are eager. We are curious. We are in a hurry to grow up and desperate to be taken seriously. At the same time, we are clue-less, confused and ready to lose all confidence at the merest social misstep or the appearance of a single zit. We are vulnerable. We are resilient. We are open to and hungry for life's possibilities - - and ready to fall in love at the drop of a hat.

xxxxNo matter how it occurred or what fragment of memory gave rise to it, this encounter, this connection, was an experience beyond nostalgia. It was a dead-center landing on an emotional ground zero. And it allowed us to reclaim a precious part of ourselves: the spirit of our youth and the time and place that saw it flower. These are the ties that bind us together. For we are joint custodians of each other's past. It was always so but the reunion confirmed the truth of it. On that weekend, we resurrected a valued part of our past and connected it to the present.

xxxxIn the days and months that followed, we tapped a wellspring of thoughts and feelings. Youthful sensibilities, pains and pleasures bubbled up to the surface. Adult sensibilities examined them, made sense of them, and turned them into shared moments. Peter Rashkin opened the door for us by building the JB Reunion website. Gary Gach was the first one through, bringing us the poet's gift of second sight and celebrating the timeless and enduring qualities of our experience - the qualities that have pulled us together after thirty-seven years.

xxxxOne by one, familiar names began to appear in he site's electronic guest book. They hailed from the old neighborhoods, and points across the nation. In their messages, one can see that the afterglow of the reunion is very much with them. Andrea Graham signs in and writes "It's amazing how many of you I genuinely missed." Herb Steiner checks in from San Antonio writing "I realized that loved ones had left my life and returned." The pull of this electronic gathering is a strong one. Our class mates who missed the reunion send us greetings, entreat us to write, and share their innermost thoughts and apprehensions. Barbara Sayble, a therapist for adolescents, sends a message from Minnesota asking "Does anyone remember me?" Yes we do Barbara. Come closer and warm yourself by our fire.

xxxxAfter his delightfully misspent youth, Larry Tuch became a writer working in the areas of traditional, interactive, and location-based entertainment. He is currently under contract as a head writer for Paramount Digital Entertainment. He lives in Woodland Hills with his wife Clare, and his children Danny and Lauren.

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