Sardines in the Back Bar: My High School Reunion
I graduated from high school in 1965, right in the middle of that turbulent, unforgettable decade. Last month, I made the cross-country trek from Eugene, Oregon to Rice Lake, Wisconsin for my 60-year reunion.
Traveling to rural northern Wisconsin isn’t easy. These days, I take two days just to get there. This time I flew to Minneapolis via Seattle, rented a car, and drove to a nearby hotel in the dark. Car rentals, of course, come with their own set of challenges. I drive a 2020 Subaru Crosstrek at home, so when I found myself behind the wheel of a 2025 Nissan Rogue, I had to pause in the airport lot, dig out the 600-page manual, and acquaint myself with the vehicle’s basics. Eventually, I made it to the airport Holiday Inn Express, tired but in one piece.
Day two was the drive to Rice Lake. I stopped in Menomonie to see my friend “BA,” a classmate I’ve known since I was 12. We’ve been in steady contact — often over Zoom during and since the pandemic — so our conversation flowed easily, even if it wasn’t about anything in particular. Politics and religion are off-limits between us, so our chatter resembled a Seinfeld-style “conversation about nothing.” Still, it was grounding to reconnect before the busy weekend ahead.
On day three, I had breakfast with another classmate, “CJ.” We first reconnected at our 40th reunion and in recent times have grown a bit closer through regular Zoom calls. Our conversations are different from most — personal, probing, unafraid of difficult topics like family dynamics, belonging, and the choices that shaped our lives. Sitting across from her in person gave those exchanges a richness I rarely find elsewhere.
That evening was the first group gathering at a local pizza place. I had gone in with low expectations, and still, the chaotic setup surprised me: thirty or so people crammed into the back corner of a bar with no clear plan for how to mingle or sit together. Consequently, BA and I retreated to a booth for dinner before cautiously rejoining the group once the crowd thinned. To my relief, I found a few familiar faces and even received a warm hug from a female classmate who had been reading my writings over the years. Those small moments of recognition helped balance out the initial frustration.
The next morning, BA and I met again for breakfast, this time joined by “WJ.” Our conversation took a surprising turn when, at one point, he asked, “Do you believe in vaccines?” The question startled me, but to my relief, all three of us agreed. Still, it was a reminder of the cultural divide I often feel when I return to Rice Lake — a blue-leaning visitor navigating a visit to a deeply red part of the country.
Saturday night was the main event at Lehman’s Supper Club, the classic Rice Lake venue for special occasions. Drinks started at five, but I stuck with ginger ale while classmates sipped their cocktails. I chatted briefly with a few people, but the connections felt fleeting. Dinner was buffet-style, serviceable but unremarkable, and I found myself at a table where conversation was scarce. By 7:30, much of the room had emptied out.
There was no program to speak of, aside from WJ’s attempt to spark discussion about future reunions. He floated the idea of meeting every year at Lehman’s. To me, that seemed unrealistic, for how many of us in our late seventies are going to make an annual pilgrimage back to Rice Lake? Still, he made an effort to keep something alive.
The highlight of the night was another chance to talk with CJ, this time in the middle of the busy dining room. While classmates milled about, we found ourselves absorbed in yet another meaningful exchange, the kind that lingers long after the event ends.
Looking back, I left the weekend with mixed feelings. Unlike past reunions where unexpected conversations left me energized, this one felt quieter, thinner, as if the spark had dimmed. Most classmates seemed eager to head home early, and true reconnections were rare. Was it me? Or was it simply the reality of our age, our numbers dwindling, and our capacity for long evenings fading? I honestly don’t know.
One regret lingers: I could have picked up my phone and taken photos. As an old event photographer, I had the skills and opportunity to document the gathering and share it on our class Facebook page. Instead, I sat passively, missing a chance to contribute. That realization stings.
And yet, in the end, the reunion gave me what I’ve come to value most in these years — small moments of closeness with a few old friends. A booth dinner with BA. A searching breakfast with CJ. Even an awkward question from WJ that revealed common ground. Perhaps that’s what reunions are really about: not the big group photos, or the banquet meals, but the quiet exchanges that tend to remind us who we were, and who we’ve now become.
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I have written three previous descriptions about my class reunions and you can find them here:
40th reunion: The Class of 65
45th reunion: Social Media & Whatever Happened to the Class of 65
50th reunion: Not As Young As I Once Was
The Eyes Have It
I was diagnosed with “dry eye disease” a number of years ago after I complained to my ophthalmologist about my chronic itchy, scratchy eyes. I was informed that this condition exists when there are not enough natural tears around to provide adequate lubrication for the eyes. This is why the eye drops you see advertised, or that you find on the shelves at the pharmacy, are referred to as “artificial tears.” For the last several years, I have been using prescription Restasis eye drops to ameliorate my condition.
For me, among the consequences of having chronic dry eyes was that I found myself reading less; plus I was writing a lot less. Also, I was aware that the closed captioning on my (Ultra HD) TV screen was slightly blurry. All this really worried me. I could still mostly function in the world, but my experience out there was definitely more limited.
Then, one morning in June 2022, I awoke in distress upon realizing that I had very little functional vision in my left eye; everything was totally blurry. I tried not to panic while I waited to place a phone call to my eye doc. When I got his office on the phone, I was informed that my ophthalmologist was in surgery that day, hence unavailable, so I took an appointment with one of his partners. I did not know this person and the appointment did not go well; I thought the diagnosis and the advice I was given was garbage. He seemed mostly mystified by my condition although he did give me additional eye drops and suggested that I continue on with the routine of warm compresses that I had been doing for years.
Exactly one week later, I awoke with the same problem in the other eye. FUCK! Again I called. Again my regular ophthalmologist was in surgery. Once more, I foolishly consented to see the substitute which was pretty insane given the previous week’s encounter. I did finally gather enough information from him to embark on a knowledge search myself, however.
What I discovered is that I have a rather common condition called meibomian gland dysfunction (MGD). One of the most succinct descriptions I found online is as follows:
The meibomian glands are oil producing glands in both your upper and lower eyelids. The oil produced by these glands forms the outermost layer of your tear film. This oil layer protects your tears from rapidly evaporating. When these oils are reduced or eliminated, your tears evaporate from the surface of your eyes quickly and your eyes become much drier. This is especially true when you are engaged in visually intense tasks such as reading (books, magazines, newspapers), staring at a computer, cell phone, or tablet screen, watching television, driving, etc.
Once I had a label for my condition (which was not provided by the substitute eye doc), it opened up a wealth of information available online. I learned lots from watching YouTube videos, for example.
Then, finally, the time came for my annual eye exam. My ophthalmologist was well-aware of MGD and knew what to do. Among the recommendations was a referral to a dry-eye specialist (who knew there even was such a person!). Treatments are available, I was told, although expensive and not covered my insurance. I said I really didn’t care about the cost because I needed some relief. I wanted my eyes back!
Now, a year and a half later, I can happily report that these treatments have been successful. The whole process involved some minor lifestyle changes (e.g., no more aftershave) plus in-office radio-frequency (RF) and intense-pulsed-light (IPL) treatments. I am back to reading (and writing) more. And the TV-screen captions are no longer blurry!
So, this is just to say to all of my fellow septuagenarians (and everybody else) who have bodies that are changing and eyes that are like deserts: help is available!
Soundtrack Suggestion
Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?
(“Doctor My Eyes” - Jackson Browne)
On Loneliness
“Loneliness is far more than just a bad feeling… It is associated with a greater risk of cardiovascular disease, dementia, stroke, depression, anxiety, and premature death. The mortality impact of being socially disconnected is similar to that caused by smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day, and even greater than that associated with obesity and physical inactivity.” – Dr. Vivek Murthy (U.S. Surgeon General)
I retired from full-time employment in 2014, at age 67. It wasn’t that I thought it was really my time to move on – rather my employer believed it was. I was working as an academic dean, at a community college in the Bay Area, and the administration that had hired me, well, those folks were long gone. The new president didn’t take any time to get to know me and was more interested in putting in his own administrative team. Therefore, I was toast.
So, after receiving official notice that my contract was not being renewed, hastily evaluating my financial situation, and determining that retirement was at least theoretically possible, I packed up and moved back here to Oregon. After all, I had spent a considerable portion of my life in Corvallis and Eugene and my thinking was that there were folks here that would constitute some kind of community for me: that I wouldn’t be totally devoid of a support system.
Flash forward to present day: I’m now 76, and while it’s true that I’m not entirely without a support network, it’s turned out to be a pretty meager one. I have lunch once a month with an old friend from my photography days and about once a year with former Oregon University System colleagues. I made new friends when I spent three years as a part-time faculty member here recently (2019-2022), but now that that position has ended, I now rarely see those folks. I have kept in contact with Katrina (mentioned previously in my writings here; she is the person named in my Advance Directive), but she has her own very busy life and we communicate primarily, and fairly infrequently, by text. I have a Zoom session with an old high-school friend from Wisconsin once every couple months or so. And finally, I admit I had high hopes for real and sustained human connection when I was in a relationship for about three years, but that ended last year and left me alone and grieving.
Given that the pandemic is largely in our rearview mirror, I have once again started spending time here at my neighborhood Starbucks. It’s not really community, per se, but as I sit here writing this, there are the sounds of work, conversation and occasional laughter. There are college students at the next table studying for, what I assume, their final exams. It’s true that I don’t actually meet people here, but it provides some sense of comfort: probably for the same reason that, when at home, I keep the TV or radio on most of the time; the NPR hosts and the news anchors at MSNBC keep me company. Fortunately, right now I have part-time work, in a tech-support role, at the college, that physically puts me in the classroom and in contact with instructors and students, for a few hours a week. That tends to keep me going.
I fear that I am one of the individuals that the Surgeon General speaks of in terms of the “loneliness epidemic.” I am more socially isolated than is really healthy. I know for sure that I am touch-starved. I’m pretty sure that, at this rate, I’m destined to be alone at the end.
For now, I guess I'll just keep breathing, walking, writing – and remain open to whatever comes next.
(Apologies for my prolonged absence here.)
Soundtrack Suggestion
When I was young
I never needed anyone
And making love was just for fun
Those days are gone
Livin' alone
I think of all the friends I've known
But when I dial the telephone
Nobody's home
All by myself
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore
("All By Myself" - Eric Carmen)
Birthday Blackmail
So, here I am, age 70. My birthday was two days ago. As some of you may recall, in my 20s I was skeptical that I would ever live past 30. Ah, well, I have never been so wrong!
This essay is simply a little record about the 24-hour-run-up to my birthday. I really do love it when being alive is so darn fun. (And, yes, we live in very interesting times, but this report has nothing to do with a rich, orange-colored bigot who is bent on destroying our democracy.)
On the morning of August 16, I awoke to a rather unusual junk email. It was addressed to one of my legitimate, widely-known email addresses (in fact, the one associated with this blog). The author purported to be writing from Germany and was issuing a blackmail threat. He (I suppose it’s a “he”) said I had 24 hours to come up with $290 in bitcoin and deposit it in his account (a bitcoin wallet address was given). He claimed that a keystroke-logging program had been deposited on my machine, and that he knew a lot about me. So, if I did not forward the funds, the consequences would be an email message to everyone in my contacts (and everyone I was connected to via social media) containing embarrassing video of me recorded with my MacBook Pro camera. So, two things you should know: (1) my computer’s camera has been completely covered up for at least the last couple years; and (2) if you see a suspicious email from/about me, you might think twice about clicking on whatever link is provided. On the other hand, who knows how interesting it may be! (Yes, you guessed it: I have not paid him.)
Then, later in the day, while on my daily walk, on a beautiful sunny afternoon along the bikepath between the Willamette River and the Owen Rose Garden, I was approached by a woman approximately half my age, working in the world’s oldest profession. She hesitated, stopped, smiled, and asked if I “wanted a date.” All I could think of to say was “no thanks.”
Anyway, that’s a day in my life. Happy birthday to me.
As the World Turns
I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. I think they’re silly, and always have. After all, who needs a change of calendar to change their life? Not me.
That said, I did set a couple of goals for myself at the beginning of 2016. I didn’t make them public, and I knew the world would not end if I simply decided to abandon one or both.
Goal #1 was creative in nature: publish one iPhone photo per day to Instagram (and simultaneously to Facebook and Twitter). It became pretty obvious within the first month that this was going to be quite a challenge, but I was inspired to this quest by Facebook friend (Pulitzer Prize winning photographer; former Chief White House Photographer; Oregon native) David Kennerly, who published a book after he accomplished this task. He made and posted one iPhone 5s photo a day for the entirety of 2013 and then publishedDavid Hume Kennerly On the iPhone. It’s quite a great book. You should check it out.
This goal actually evolved over time. I wanted to take at least one publishable photo per day and then upload it. I quickly modified that to simply posting one photo per day, whether or not it was taken on the same day. Then, I decided one image per day was allowable, regardless of camera used or its content (screenshots became permitted). I kept on giving myself more and more flexibility or I might never have reached the goal. But now, on January 1, 2017, I am able to report that I did indeed post one image a day for each of the 366 days (yes, it was a leap year) of 2016. Whew. For those of you who follow or friend me, I hope you enjoyed at least some of the work I produced. (I highly doubt a book will follow.)
