Category: Plattsburgh

Forever’s Gone Away

I don’t recall much from my high school graduation. I imagine that one of my pretty classmates spoke of cherished memories, another book-smart classmate predictably mentioned hard work and determination, and the winner of the popularity contest (read: class president elections) probably paraphrased the Army’s “Be All You Can Be” campaign while Boys II Men’s “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” played over the speakers like the hidden song on the soundtrack of our lives. One thing I do remember, though, is the sight of many of my classmates shedding tears as they mourned the closing of the latest chapter of their lives and, while most passed it off as a sadness for the inevitable loss of their trivial friendships, I suspect their tears had more to do with the fear of the unknown. For most of my classmates who were conditioned to follow the pack in a desperate attempt to maintain an appearance of normality, high school graduation brought with it a terrifying world where those who thought for themselves and embraced individuality advanced, and those who didn’t stayed behind to reminisce about the “Glory Days.”

As for myself, when my high school principal stood up in the unforgiving, sweltering school gymnasium heat that June day and announced to my class that we had finally graduated high school and were now officially free to do as we pleased, I followed his advice and left, looking back only once to get one last glimpse of the school I hated and the sheepish classmates I never knew. Maybe I was ahead of my time, maybe my older sisters had given me insight into my future, and maybe my experience in those four years was just that miserable; all I know is when I left high school, I knew that the best years of my life would be found ahead of me on a path I had yet to create, rather than on the paved road of high school I was leaving behind. What I never realized was how quickly those years would pass by me.

One of my high school classmates emailed me the other day to notify me of our impending rite of passage into a quarter-life crisis: the 10 year high school reunion; that stressful evening spent with the people you hardly knew, pretending that you want to know them now, and while silently hoping they care more about your life than you do about theirs. I haven’t officially decided whether or not I’m going to attend this once-in-a-lifetime event but I won’t lie, I probably won’t. Considering I’m in touch with all of the people from high school with whom I wish to have meaningful friendships, I just can’t find all that much to be gained from my attendance. Regardless, however, the invitation has left me amazed at how helpless the passage of time makes me feel.

This past weekend, I mourned the loss of another year of my life as I celebrated my 28th birthday. Freckles treated me to dinner Friday night and, though she’ll tell you otherwise, she cooked a delicious meal. She then joined me Saturday on a hike up Vermont’s second tallest mountain, Camel’s Hump, whose peak ranks in my top five all-time favorite spots in the state. Though our stay at the top of the mountain was cut short in order to make our dinner date on time, the feelings of accomplishment inspired by the magnificent views, made it well worth the climb. The hike down the mountain in the lightening storm made me second-guess our trip, however. On the other hand, Freckles, author of the constant barrage of reminders sent my way at how important it is to live in the present rather than dwell on the future and the “what ifs?”, was impressively calm as we descended in the rain, serenaded by thunder.

Saturday night, Freckles and I met up for dinner with The Benchlys, Sister #1, her husband, Niece #1, and Niece #2. The night, which appeared to be capping off a perfect birthday, nearly turned tragic when Mama Benchly began to struggle for air, her face flushed from fear and pain. While I was paralyzed by an anxious shock, my brother in law, a volunteer fireman, stepped in to take charge of the situation and quickly determined that her airway was blocked, not by food, but by the swelling from an allergic reaction caused by the mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat my mother had mistakenly consumed moments earlier. When a handful of hits from her inhaler provided little to no relief, my brother in law ran to the store next-door and returned soon after with Benadryl, an antihistamine often used to combat allergic reactions. Mama Benchly downed the Benadryl while an imaginary crowd of fraternity brothers cheered her on and shortly thereafter, her breathing began to improve.

While Mama Benchly’s breathing, though still somewhat pained, returned to normal, the evening’s lessons learned of the fragility of the mortal life put me in a thoughtful mood from which I have yet to emerge. Stated simply, my mother’s allergic reaction was the scariest sight I had ever witnessed in my short life, and, on a day spent celebrating the latest year of my life, it served to remind me of how quickly life can be taken from us and, as Freckles always says, that our lives are too short for us to spend much time worrying about the hundred different potential consequences of our actions.

And so here I sit 10 years after my high school graduation and four days into my 28th year, awaiting word from the representatives from another Vermont publishing company with whom I interviewed this morning. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be offered this editing job, which will point my career in the right direction while allowing me more time to write. But if, for whatever reason, I failed to properly sell myself and my skills to the interviewers, I’ll be able to sleep at night because I’ll know that my life was too short for me not to have tried at all.

A Five Dollar Shake

While driving up Church St. at 5:15 am this morning with an old friend from high school sitting next to me (for reasons obvious to me [and soon to you], from here on out, I’m going to call her Mia Wallace), Mia turned to me and said, “well, this night has been interesting.” I commented on the fact that people usually say that after they’ve been mugged or left for dead in Mexico. She laughed as I turned onto Main Street and headed up the hill toward South Burlington. Now, how did we arrive at this moment?

Mia Wallace and I met my senior year in high school during study hall. I don’t know how it came about that we sat next to each other but we did and so for the rest of the year, I enjoyed her company and conversation, which were both unlike anything I had ever experienced in life. She got her tongue pierced, she talked about the great love between the Pulp Fiction characters played by John Travolta and Uma Thurman, and together, through the miracles of the McDonald’s Monopoly game, we briefly believed we had won a million dollars. She told me she would be famous one day and I agreed with her. The crush I developed on her was inevitable.

As is often the case, Mia and I lost touch with each other shortly after my graduation. And by “shortly,” I mean as soon as I walked out the high school gymnasium door with my back to my classmates in black gowns. I went to college, she went to a private school her senior year and by the time we graduated college, so many years had passed, I assumed I would never talk to her again. And then, through the miracles of the Internet and specifically an alumni website, we got back in touch, then lost touch, then got back in touch again. Soon, we began making plans for a reunion.

Last year, Sarah the L and I traveled to New York City and spent the weekend of February 14 with Mia. Together, the three of us celebrated our own anti-Valentine’s Day. I had an incredible time (to this day, the trip remains my all-time favorite NYC trip) and was thankful for reconnecting with Mia. Unfortunately, after the trip, we fell slightly out of touch again save the time in June when she remembered a bitter comment I made in February (“I’d rather get flowers on a random Tuesday in June than on Valentine’s Day) and sent me flowers. Since then, we’ve remained in touch, though not enough. Over a year passed by before I returned the favor and sent her flowers last month with the note: “Flowers on a random Tuesday in October are just as nice.”

Mia and I recently began discussing another reunion; this time while she visited her parents back in our hometown. Arrangements were made and so last night, I found myself in a booth in a bar situated on Plattsburgh’s only alley, sitting directly across from Mia. We talked about her recent New York City Marathon adventure, my stalker, and the many different levels of friendship:

1. The best friend.
2. The close friends you keep in touch with.
3. The close friends you lose touch with occasionally but always think about.
4. The friends you hang out with consistently that you would like to be closer with.
5. The friends you hang out with consistently that you’ll never be close with.
6. The friends you’ve outgrown (aka, the Throw Away Friends).

After a few hours, she told me she was returning to NYC via bus Sunday morning. I asked “why not fly?” to which she responded that the only flight she could take left Burlington at 6:15 am. I said “we could stay up late and I’ll drive you to the airport.” She thought about it, called the airline and decided to go for it. We went to her family’s home and spent an hour there to hang out with her family (at 11 pm).

At 12:30 am, Mia and I drove to Burlington, played Boggle on the ferry, ate an early morning meal at Denny’s, and went to my place where we tried to stay awake. At 4 am, we decided to sleep for an hour (Mia in the unoccupied Virgin Mary’s bed and me in my own). Around 4:30 am, I heard the front door open and quickly realized that the Virgin Mary, contrary to my earlier assumption, was not spending the night at her boyfriend’s place. I ran to the living room, told her that Mia was asleep in her bed and then woke up Mia to have her move to the couch. At 5:15 am, we left my apartment and headed for the airport.

The entire ride to the airport, I wanted to tell her that I hoped she didn’t think I considered her a “Level 6 Friend” or a “Level 5 Friend.” I wanted to tell her that I wished she and I were closer and that in the next year, I was going to try to make that come to fruition. But every which way I formed the thought in my head seemed overly cliche and in need of some serious editing, which, at 5:15 am, was definitely impossible. We reached the airport, hugged goodbye, and went our separate ways. She left me a voicemail an hour ago to tell me she made it home safely and to thank me for driving her to the airport and the crazy night we had. She ended the call by saying “see you soon.” And I hope that she’s right.