by Tom Conger
Reunions—at this stage in our lives, almost all of us have been there: high school reunions, college reunions, church reunions, summer camp reunions, family reunions, military unit reunions, you name it. A few lucky souls have even been tapped to organize our reunions—sometimes more than once. Those born and raised in what is now the Peoples Republic of Hawaii have it even more enviably: we get to [try and] plan a reunion from long distance, spanning thousands of miles of open ocean plus attendant time zone differentials.
In planning, say, a high school quinquennial, you should first attempt to cobble together some semblance of a committee—a cadre of loyal comrades [allegedly] willing to assist in handling the myriad details. Mind you, once past your silver anniversary, most all the willing/capable classmates have either burned out, lost interest entirely, or died. Thus you begin with a ragtag roster of revelers who may not even be friendly with half the other committee members. And from those humble beginnings you attempt to produce a schedule of events attractive enough to draw your widespread constituency to the fair [distant, and very costly] isles to press flesh with residents wealthy enough to retire in one of the most expensive communities on the planet.
Having gathered your forces, now formulate an agenda. A reconnection calendar usually runs like this: kick-off gathering for drinks & dinner; some activities based on shared interests (museum tours, sunset sails, etc.); memorial service to recognize the burgeoning list of class decedents; an annual school-wide event (Alumni Luau?); a farewell picnic. This formula works pretty well up through your 50th reunion. After that major milestone, things deteriorate pretty rapidly.
By our 60th reunion in ‘17, we had exhausted all manpower resources—nobody was willing to step forth and lead—so they craftily conscripted the undersigned, exiled to the left coast in order to afford retirement. Leadership from the mainland is sketchy, but classmates went deaf whenever I pled my case. Plus, they said, the school now had staff specifically assigned full-time to reunion coordination, and “Everything’s Gonna Be All Right.”
In the end I was proven right: successful oversight simply cannot be done from three thousand miles away, and some functions delegated to volunteer “leaders” were never done properly, if at all. Thus, Doug, my on-island angel and I swore after the farewell picnic to never again be involved in reunion planning—the old Roberto Duran approach: “¡No mas!”
Comes the 65th. Now the majority of classmates are truly debilitated, disinterested, or dead. But that ol’ five-year latch-up rolled around, sure as Father Time totes an hourglass. And the school’s Alumni Relations Dept came a-calling… moi. Please bear in mind that in late 2021 the world was still beset by the Covid-19 pandemic, Hawaii was closed to outside travel, and the Guv’s office was emitting directives, almost weekly, regarding new restrictions on gatherings in the Peoples Republic. And most of our octogenarian classmates were looking more toward their celestial exit than meeting their classmates clad in full PPE.
A questionnaire, distributed to all 222 classmates, polling interest in reunion activities, garnered a whopping 16 responses—7 of them negative. But the school had already been forced to cancel two prior years’ reunions (big money raisers!), and was determined to pull one off this year—deadly contagious infections be damned. So Doug & I plowed forward. By sheer love of school we were able to rope in the former Trustee Chair plus the wife of another Chairman Emeritus, thus the “committee” was fleshed out—in skeletal fashion.
No matter your agenda, when overarching conditions are completely reliant on relaxation of quarantine edicts from a clueless State government, all planning involves fallback alternatives for each event. In sum, ya gotta plan two entire reunions—one that folks want, and another that authorities might allow. Given the scant response to our survey, we initiated planning on a downsized basis. The ritual cocktail evening was out to begin with, as too few classmates were willing or able to drive after dark. So we focused on a nice luncheon somewhere. But where? There were too few commercial venues still operating, given social distancing strictures, and the on which met most of our criteria could not accommodate us on the day we had chosen. So we ended up prevailing on a classmate’s membership at the world-renowned Outrigger Canoe Club, whose main dining room had not yet reopened for general use due to lockdown orders—our special session was a good opportunity to utilize a facility which needed the practice, and the revenue. But should a Covid-19 spike suddenly recur, we needed a fallback. We chose the private home of a classmate for a potluck affair; he could handle a crowd our size, and everybody could bring a take-out dish from whatever bistro they favored—should it still be serving in the pandemic . . .
The school staged activities throughout Alumni Week, and we included some in our overall agenda. As there were no plausible alternatives, we were unable to offer fallback events should the school be forced to cancel. One school-sponsored function was the mid-week Kupuna Lu’au (“old-folks’ feast”), for reunion classes 65th and above; obviously, ranks of alumni who had started kindergarten before/during WWII were rather thin, so the event could be held at the President’s home. Should an order come from the state Capitol demanding social-distancing, we could revert to the school cafeteria—a considerable drop in opulence/cachet, and attendance…
We put forth mailers and digital notices promoting the June reunion, and waited for classmates to register. Don’t forget: our constituency is into our 80s—with attendant aches, pains, and timorousness—75% of whom no longer live in the isles. Response was slow. So slow, in fact, that this mainland resident was ready to cancel the whole damting. But school officials were more patient, tenacious, and anticipative of a restorative shot in the contributions arm.
With a month to go, we still had only about 30 people signed up for the reconnections luncheon, the one true class event, and prospects were grim. That’s when the on-island sector of the committee formed a SWAT team to make personal calls and roust out lethargic (eccentric?) Oahu classmates who’d just not gotten around to signing up (or were simply confused).We eventually strong-armed a group of 60—alumni, spouses, widows, care-givers, special guests, and others – to convene at the foot of Mt. Leahi for a brief interlude of camaraderie, nostalgia, and good cuisine.
The roll of 137 decedents was printed and laid at each place-setting, and our very first male teacher in elementary school, now 97 years old, shared some poignant memories of our class history from the perspective of a rookie teacher coming to a distant territory soon after the end of a world war. It was lovely. We felt sorry for those who chose not to join us. And we’re giving thought to not inviting them next time . . .
Next time…? I think: ¡No Mas!
not good. They both live at the Glasgow Princess Royal Hospital. Between Margot and Lenni they have lived 100 years. Lenni is funny, precocious, and curious. Margot is feisty, fruitcake eating, and a rebel. After meeting the hospital chaplain Lenni comes up with a marketing campaign to increase usage of the chapel while Margot almost ends up in the trash cart after a letter is accidentally thrown away. Lenni manages to join the over 80 class in the art room and meets Margot. They decide to paint a picture representing each year of their 100. As well as painting, they each share the stories of their lives. The reader learns about Lenni’s life in Sweden before moving to Glasgow and her dysfunctional family. Margot shares stories of her first husband who left her, her baby son who died of a heart defect, and her second husband who got Alzheimers. The book is about friendship no matter the age, love in all forms, and the desire to leave a mark on the world. Yes, the ending is sad (having a box of tissues handy would not be remiss) but it is uplifting as well. Lenni learns that death may not be as scary as she was afraid it was.
African elephants are the largest land mammal, weighing up to 6 tons. They are 2.4 times the size of Asian Elephants and have never been domesticated to work for humans (as have Asians.) This book is an almost spiritual story of a family of seven rogue African elephants, slated to be shot.