By Sidney B. Kurtz
I'm not a class reunion type of person. It's not that I'm a snob or
still owe a classmate money, but when I see how much everybody has
changed - slim bodies gone, once-smooth faces now weather maps with
lines going in all directions - I shudder to think that I, too, now
possibly look like that.
It's amazing, and more than a little frightening, to see the erosive
effects of time. So with the arrival of each invitation, I rush to the
mirror, recoil at the reflection, and send a polite refusal stating
that, unfortunately, they picked the weekend when I'd be on a group
tour of Mount St. Helens.
But there come times when you just can't say no. One of those
occasions was when Dolores called. She and I grew up in North
Philadelphia. Up from Florida, she was arranging a get-together of what
was left of the "old" gang. Although I've lived in South Jersey since
1956, I still have strong memories of my years growing up.
"There will be a dozen of us," Dolores said. I had played all sorts
of street games with this group: hand-ball, tire-ball, awning-ball,
half-ball, buck-buck, and baseball in the Fairmount Park League. We
went to the Saturday movie serials to see how the hero escaped from
sure-death situations. We struggled through the shyness of our teen
years together. We even cut school together. We spent more time with
one another than with our parents, so how could I refuse?
As I drove to our meeting place on Roosevelt Boulevard, that old
fear grabbed me. What if nobody recognized me? My self-esteem would
sink still further, well beyond any hope of recovery. I'd be doomed to
a life of anonymity, living in my apartment with the shades drawn and
mirrors trashed.
After parking, I apprehensively approached a group standing near the
entrance. Could it be them? I drew closer. Still no sign of recognition.
Suddenly, one of the women called out, "Rusty!" (My nickname from
years ago when I had a mop of red hair.) She turned out to be Selma,
with whom Dolores was staying while visiting from Florida.
We hadn't seen each other for 50 years! I hugged her out of sheer
gratitude. (I assumed she recognized my face rather than my left-leg
limp. After all, everybody my age limps in one direction or another. I
decided to quit while I was ahead and not ask her.)
Of the four men, three were from the old gang. I recognized all of
them. Despite my misgivings, it was a great night. We replayed our
street games and laughed about our crushes and clumsy attempts at
making out. Uppermost in our minds were the baseball games in the
Fairmount Park League, and our subsequent return to Bloom's Candy
Store. There we quenched our thirst with a thick milkshake accompanied
by a pack of cupcakes.
Unfortunately, there were losses to talk about, too. And there was
the unspoken thought that all of us were closer to the end than the
beginning. But we weren't sad. We were caught up in our bonding and the
experiences we shared at a time when the street was our playground,
when the term green acres had yet to be coined, and when
trolley cars, horse-drawn milk wagons and ice wagons were forced to
share the limited open space with us.
We hadn't yet learned to read when Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic,
and we watched in amazement as King Kong climbed the Empire State
Building with a terror-stricken Fay Wray in one of his huge hands.
We grew up during the Great Depression and fought in World War II,
but there was little war talk. Growing up together was the subject of
the moment, and although none of us were blood relatives, the closeness
we felt was no less powerful. It was an era that will not be seen again.
Sidney B. Kurtz writes from Pennsauken.
