Class of 1982

November is a popular month for high school reunions. One reason, I believe, is that people "go home" for Thanksgiving. Thus, by going home, they are usually in the vicinity of "the old neighborhood". Therefore locals and out of towners usually can spare six to eight hours from the Thanksgiving weekend to spend time with people they have not seen in 10, 20 or 30 years.

When I received notices about the OPHS Class of '82 - TWENTY year reunion, I was in shock. I could not fathom that it was almost 20 years that I sauntered across the stage at Pontiac Standium and received my diploma. I wanted to go yet I did not want to go. I mentioned my dilemma to an older woman and she said, "People mature after twenty years. Maybe not ten years but twenty years for sure." Ok, so that was a plus. Alisa, my dear friend and sidekick especially during the "high school days", tried every convincing line to get me to commit to attend the reunion.

I had a list of excuses: "I cannot go - I need to lose weight!" "Perhaps it will be canceled because not enough people will purhcase the tickets." I wanted my other friends, Collette and Sheri to join us - make this a team effort. No, they could not make it. Finally, I decided. I called Alisa and said, "Fine. I will go". I smiled as I said it. Since Alisa was willing to drive in from Chicago - then I was willing to attend this affair.

A week before the reunion , I was testing out different color coordinations of make-up. I already had the outfit. Of course, one wants to look good and why not? Saturday arrived and I was ansty. Had the butterflies in my tummy just like I did on the first day of kindergarten. Why was I so nervous? I am sure I was not the only person feeling this way but that was no consulation at the moment.

I picked Alisa up (just like I did in high school but I was not late this time!) at her cousin's house.
Since I was planning to drive to the location, I had my Journey CD ready to play WHOSE CRYING NOW as soon as the car started. However, Alisa wanted to drive. Ok, I could deal without listening to Steve Perry belt out lyrics. I sat down in her car and I heard a ripppp. The slit in my skirt tore. Now the slit was very high. We had to go back inside and sew the skirt. Great way to begin the evening.

When we arrived at the function, all of my worries just melted away. The once 18 year old students transformed into grown ups!! Pretty women adorned in dressy outfits and dresses, handsome men with "distinguished looking" grey hair at the temples, shouts of "Oh my gosh, is that so and so?", lots of hugs, smiles and thoughout the evening, I would hear people delivering sincere compliments to each other.

Alisa and I split up for a while, (just like we used to do when we went out shopping or played video games at the Space Station) and spoke to different people. I shared a very long conversation with someone I never even talked during the years at Oak Park High. All in all, it was a great time. In fact, we stayed until the end - !

Moral of the story - Live for the day and listen to your friend - you're bound to have fun!

PROUD

I am simply remembering the tragedy that occured seven years ago today on September 11, 2001. The sights and scenes of destruction and carnage are branded in my mind. I cannot forget the evil, almost devil-like eyes of one of the terrorist leaders that was on the plane that struck one of the towers.

Most of all, I remember how the people of America, regardless of race, religion or beliefs, bonded together, as one nation, one RESILIENT group of people.

Enough said.

Never Gonna Let It Go

I was the tender age of four when I was presented with my first set of wheels. Forest green, metal seat, little plastic streamers dancing from the inside of the handle bars. Oh, did I mention the three wheels! My little tricycle transported me up and down the sidewalk. Once in a while, Collette would stand on the step and jubilantly shout, "Home James!" and I would whisk her away, to the corner of our street.

Once I learned to maneuver a two wheeler without training wheels, I had another bike. I only remember that it was very basic and it was blue. When I was 8 years old, I received a beautiful Huffy dragster. The banana shaped seat was white and trimmed with a black racing stripe. The frame was a fiery metallic magenta that glistened in the sunshine as I rode through the neighborhood. Attached to the dipped handle bars was a basket in case I needed to carry an item on my many journeys.

Then, it was spring. 1977. The big day arrived - it was a Friday, my dad's day off from work. I was 13 years old and I was now mature enough to have a 10 speed. Wow, ten gears!!! My dad bought me a bicycle that day. The popular and reliable brand was Schwinn. But NOOO, I wanted to be different. My choice was a FUJI brand. Since my cousin was a bicycle salesman, he assisted us in the decision. I loved that bike. I traveled all over on that bike, even to my girlfriend Maria's house. She lived about one and a half miles away - that was a big trek for a young girl, usually riding solo. The times were different then(seems like those words are used quite often) - it wasn't unsafe to ride alone but one had to be cautious. That bike was my salvation. My mom adored the bike too. My 5'10" stature required the seat to be at a higher setting therefore, my mom found it difficult to get on the bike without lowering the seat. She did not use the bike very often. That was fine with me because that bike was mine! I utilized my FUJI for many years after that summer of '77. The design was great for me, it rarely needed any type of repairs and it was such a pretty shade of turquoise....

Over the past eight years or so, I have received verbal eviction threats. My FUJI hangs in the corner, out of the way from other numerous items that fill the garage. Alas!, I always seem to convince the repo man that it is my little antique - part of my teenage years, an integral source of transportation when my mom could not provide me with personal taxi service (she did 98% of the time!).

Thirty one years later and I continue to have custody of this precious possession. The tires need to be replaced, the frame has a slight dent in it but one day soon, I will travel with her just like the good ol' days and we will ride off into the sunset...

New Orleans on my Mind

March was always an exciting month when I was growing up. Every year, my siblings and I would receive a package filled with beaded necklaces that shimmered violet, chartreuse and burgundy. Some of these baubbles had large gold coins (also refered to as "doubloons" in the French language, which describe the "Krew's emblem, name and founding date on one side and theme and year of the parade on the other).

My great-grandfather immigrated to the Big Easy from Russia before WWI. A few years later his family followed him which is one reason why Mardi Gras was a very familiar event in our family.

The stories that were told to me about Jackson Square , the Cabilldo and the French Quarter enhanced visions into my young mind. I attempted to imagine what a po’boy sandwich tasted like. I almost felt the vibration from the trumpets belting out the sound of jazz throughout the French Quarter. My visions were transformed to reality when I visited New Orleans with my mother and sister in 1996.

The tour guide was my great uncle Izzy, a native of the city. Uncle Izzy showed us sights that were off the beaten path and informed us of trivia that I have yet to see in any book. New Orleans – quite an eclectic blend of people, history, culture, food and antiques. The Spring Jazz Festival, the mysteries hidden inside the voodoo stores (which I did explore), rides along the Bayou , the famed landmark restaurants than have existed for over 100 years such as The Court of Two Sisters, Antoines, and the more recent establishments such as as Emeril’s. Dining on crawdads and ‘taters, gumbo, shrimp creole and pralines added zest (and calories) to this wonderful experience.

When I say, “My family is from New Orleans ” a smile graces across my face and I will always hold a special place in my heart for this City of Saints .

Wrist Candy

Bracelet. brace?let ?? (brslt) KEY ?NOUN:
An ornamental band or chain encircling the wrist or arm.
Something, such as a handcuff, that resembles a wrist ornament.
ETYMOLOGY: Middle English, from Old French, diminutive of bracel, armlet, from Latin brcchile, from brcchium, arm ; see brace



Me and my bracelets. Usually silver, "once in a blue moon" I wear gold. Chunky. Funky. Marquisite. Little gems. Cuffs. A message in the Inuit language. Costume. Woven threads entwined with glass beads. Dangling charms. Turquoise. I look at these bands that adorn my wrist. The clinking song that sounds when they slide up and down my arm is soothing to me.



When I was 7 years old, I wanted a P.O.W. bracelet. My older cousin had one and I wanted one too. The silver cuff bracelet was engraved with a solider's name on it. A soldier who was a prisioner in Vietnam. If he was Missing In Action, a little blue? sticker was placed on the bracelet. When OR if the soldier came home, the bracelet was sent to him. Quite touching. Many people wore a P.O.W. bracelet. It seemed like everyone had one....everyone but me,,...I was too young. However, I wasn't too young to have compassion for those brave service people.

Funny, I do not feel the need to wear a watch. I ceased wearing a watch during the summer of '87. On the other hand, my wrists feel naked if I do not have at least one bracelet on. Unfortunetly, I lost two treasured bracelets. One just slipped off my wrist. Whenever I purchase a new bracelet, I have a special clasp put on by my favorite jeweler, Joel. He owns Mount N Repair in Birmingham and performs excellent work.

A few of my friends enjoy wearing bracelets too. Sometimes I will purchase a bracelet for them for their birthday or holiday celebration. It is soooo tempting to"treat" mysef to a pretty bracelet at the same time BUT I do have willpower! Whew!!!

Motor City

Summertime in the Motor City. Every week ,in various towns, in cities vast and small, a car show is usually taking place. Now, this is not just a gathering for any vehicle. These machines with wheels are the crème de la crème, at least through the eyes of an antique car fan or owner.

I must admit, I am not very knowledgeable about these treasures. However, when I attend a show, my quest is to gain at least one piece of information. So far, through my "self taught mechanic class", I can proudly state that I know that when an 396 is stamped on the engine, it indicates the size of the engine!

The owners are more than happy to discuss car facts, stories about “the good ol' days”, engine size, paint color, when they purchased it and how much money was drained from their savings account. Basically, they will talk about anything and everything about their prized possession.

I gaze in awe at the 'Cadillac with the large rear fins, the creamy mint green Fairlane with it large body, a 1977 Mark IV, a souped up Chevy Nova (my mom had a very conservative 1977 Nova) and one of my favorites, a '69 Chevelle. Canary yellow, metallic blue, the color is irrelevant - I really wish I could say I owned a Chevelle. Heck, I wouldn't mind just driving one for a few minutes.

I wander a bit more, peeking inside the cars and wondering what the little box is above the glove box. I asked one of the gentleman nearby and he replied that it was a record player!! Yes, it actually held '45's and played the music - operates in a fashion similar to a cd, cassette or 8 track tape player !!

Ok, there she is...the pretty Mustang!!! 1967, green with white leather interior. The steering wheel is soo thin, the back seat incredibly small. Oh, but it is a beauty...and indeed one of my favorite all time cars.

The sound of laughter echoes in the background, somebody shouting, "look at this" and the music from the 1950's blares from the speakers. The lavender and rose horizon transforms to an almost evening sky on this memorable summer night in Michigan, home to the Motor City.

Transformation

The establishments that I frequented when I was a teen and young adult no longer exist. They have been bought out, renovated, merged and everything else in between.

Recently, Anheuser- Busch in Missouri was purchased by a Belgian-Brazilian Company.

My girlfriend resides in a suburb of St. Louis. Last week she informed me that she took her children for one final visit of the Clydesdale Horses at Grant's Farm. I do not know too much about Grant's Farm. However, I do know that my friend visits that farm often. Hopefully, it will not close. Following is an excerpt from the Grant's Farm website:

There are many exciting animal encounters possible at Grant's Farm, the 281-acre ancestral home of the Busch family, located just south of the city of St. Louis. The Farm is home to more than 1,000 animals representing more than 100 different species from six continents. Grant's Farm, operated by Anheuser-Busch, Inc., has been a St. Louis tradition for over five decades.

As I said, hopefully this ancestral home will remain.

I realize seasons change, cities get renovated, landmarks get transformed. With the blink of an eye, da-da!! The ribbon cutting for the new ......? It just seems like this is occuring to many venues, all at once. Baseball stadiums no longer have names such as "Tiger Stadium" (which was demolished last week ). Corporate Corporate Corporate! Now, baseball fans in Detroit go to Comerica (as in Comerica Bank) Park.

The names of the stores have been altered. Many stores do not exist. Here are a few examples of the stores (some in the metro Detroit area) that have changed names or are just a part of the archives because they no longer exist:

Arbor Drugs is now CVS

J.L. Hudsons is now Macys

Pine Knob is now DTE

Henry Ford Musuem is now THE HENRY FORD

Farmer Jack grocery does not exist

Harmony House records does not exist (maybe one classical store in R.O.)?

The good "old fashioned" movie theatres that DO NOT have stadium seating are starting to close down too.

Can't we just slow down a bit? I know the past is not the present but we can at least preserve some of it.