Reunions bring out the teenagers in us all

We went to my wife's high school reunion a couple of weeks ago, joining a vast herd of veteran Baker High Buffaloes on the grounds of a lavish Louisiana plantation.

It was the third of JoAn's reunions I have attended, which is three more than I've gone to at my alma mater. I haven't given up hope, though; one of these days I will be in the right place at the right time to relive my own past.

The truth is, I probably recognized more people from JoAn's graduating class than I would from my own. I remembered several folks from the previous reunions and met a lot of new faces - although the expression "new faces" doesn't quite fit when the classmates are grandparents.

I found out later that the reunion was arranged for the classes of 1900 to 1969. 1900? I don't recall seeing any 123-year-old Buffaloes. To the contrary, the folks seemed to be none the worse for the years they had been out of school.

The same could be said for the location: a huge, three-story, square house completely surrounded by white columns. When the heat on the lawn became too great, we would wander indoors to tour the mansion, erected in 1830 and rebuilt after a massive fire. We admired the high ceilings, the elegant draperies and a four-poster bed whose posts could have supported treehouses. I didn't see any bathrooms or TV sets, but everyone was too busy for such luxuries.

Watching my wife and her friends as they caught up on one another's lives, I had no trouble imagining them as teenagers, rushing to class, playing in the band, attending football games and cruising the hamburger joints.

Under the shade of Spanish moss drooping from low branches, JoAn talked nonstop with a dear friend who was wearing false eyelashes and a wig because of recent chemotherapy. Amid the serious talk, an eyelash fell loose.

My wife, not missing a syllable, reached over, picked up the lash and stuck it above her upper lip, transforming herself into a vocal Charlie Chaplin. The two women stopped talking, giggled as though someone had just got caught for passing a note in class, then lapsed back into important conversation.

All around the manicured grounds, similar tte--ttes between old acquaintances made the reunion more than just name tags, snapshots and cheese balls. I noticed that, no matter how long the cap and gown have been put away, no one had really left high school.

Gossip was in the air - about the people who didn't attend, about those who had gotten married after graduation and divorced, and about those who, somehow, were together still. The topic of the day was still dating, nerds, games and parties.

Because it was a gathering of many graduation classes, JoAn's younger sister also was there. Ankey staked out an area for her class under a tree, where their lawn chairs, tables and snacks made it a get-together within a get-together.

JoAn preferred to roam, finding former classmates wherever they congregated - near the band, around the ice, in the food line or beside whoever happened to have a yearbook opened at the time.

Any two classmates stopping to reminisce became a porch light, attracting more graying moths who listened for a while, added their memories of the passing years, and then flitted off to join another circle of friends.

For someone attending a reunion that wasn't mine, I had a pretty good time. I also noticed something that I had long suspected: a former trombone player and majorette named JoAn is still the best-looking Buffalo that ever roamed the halls of Baker High.

Reach Glynn Moore at (706) 823-3419 or glynn.moore@augustachronicle.com.