Ah…the old Grace Gym. On this day darkened, empty, cavernous…yet it continues to churn out new memories, having not skipped a beat in its lifetime of several decades…
There was the ghost of Joey Luhan, driving toward the basket in a pick up game of basketball. Up on the north mezzanine is where Dennis Steele bounced off the trampoline and fell to the floor, rupturing his spleen. On the bleachers was where two of my homeroom classes met, and of course, was the sight of Doug Everhart’s famous cheer. Oh, and the gym floor! Scene of everything from bad mitten, intramural basketball (occasionally facing Jim Glueckert) school dances, the Harlem Globetrotters game, graduation and…and…there…there at the west end of the gym was where Gary Brogdan made his famous game winning, one-handed shot to beat…Evanston in the sectional. Boy, were they pissed!

My appearance in the gym was occasioned by the 2nd annual Arlington High School Homecoming Reunion. But allow me to explain how I got there.

It was about a year ago that a casual exchange of emails with a classmate revealed that plans were in motion for a 30th reunion. An emerging and intensifying curiosity drove a hunger to visit my roots. I was soon connected with Renee Drolet who in turn extended an invitation to participate. Very certain I was emotionally unprepared for such an event, I elected to participate, knowing I could always withdraw if it became too uncomfortable. Participation would allow me to wade into the securely buried memories of my past at my own pace, or not at all.

Then tragedy struck. Classmate Joe Luhan, whom I had met in 1st grade, died suddenly after routine surgery. Never mind the kind of impression a peer’s sudden demise has on a middle-aged psyche, I was now faced with the seemingly daunting task of being thrown into an impromptu reunion, without benefit of wading. It felt like the emotional equivalent of jumping into ice-cold water. I took the coward’s way out. I attended the wake, yes, but did so clandestinely, avoiding eye contact with any familiar face.

The reunion committee was terrific. I had no reason to believe otherwise, but fear is seldom reasonable and I had allowed fear to manipulate me. The highly collaborative effort was rewarded richly with a successful, well-received event, attended by more than even the most optimistic estimates.

During the reunion itself many (though by no means enough) wonderful conversations took place. Perhaps it mirrored the recent “speed dating” phenomena. Regretfully, the process contributed little to satiating the then burgeoning desire for recall; specific recall. Had I been mistaken about how to recover happy memories?

Along came the 2nd Annual Homecoming Reunion. I had nowhere near the level of anxiety, or expectations for this event. I had toyed with the idea of volunteering for it too, but not this year.
There were surprisingly few classmates from ’73, considering that I know for certain many more live right in town. Ed Kemper, Steve Sluka, Steve Smith, Betsy Brogan, Bill Blocki, Rick Turner, Nick Brown, Lenore Ramsaier, and of course myself were in attendance. Familiar faculty consisted of Bob Runtz, Ms. Gibson (a volunteer, and still gorgeous) and Russ Atis. It was a breezy, 68-degree day, better for raking leaves than standing around chatting, but by no means cold.

The main event was the school tour, conducted by the gorgeous…(did I mention that already?) Ms Gibson. (And yes, I had my picture taken with her!)

Beginning at the Grace gym and continuing along the west corridor on the first floor, the visitors were encouraged to walk methodically in a circle around the first floor, go up to the second floor, do likewise, and conclude the tour at the gym. That worked for the first 10 minutes.

It wasn’t until this morning that the expression “sunken gym” became a recovered memory. When I saw it again for the first time in 30 years, I was shocked. I had no memory at all of its existence. Same with the “girls” gym. The scene of the infamous boys room tragedy of ’71 was mistakenly identified as being on the 1st floor, but the boys room on the second floor remains as it did, wall reconstructed and reinforced.

There was the ghost of Pat Guilfoil seated in the corridor in off-white, hip-hugging, corduroy bellbottoms, checking hall passes outside of the Industrial Arts classroom. This was also the sight where I learned (usually the hard way) the “art” of “mans” work.
The building is remarkably the same. Could that really be the SAME gymnastic equipment we used 30 years ago?! Are those cables holding up the four sideline basketball backboards, the same cables? Could they really date back to the day the building was constructed? And in the cafeteria was the ghost of Steve Francovic, lip-synching Lee Michael’s “Do You Know What I Mean” as it rang out of the...Jukebox. “It’s been fourteen days since I don’t know when…I just saw her with my best friend. Do you know I mean? Lord, do you know I mean?”

Before I knew it, I realize what had occurred. I was neck deep in the minutiae and monumental events of distant, but nevertheless profoundly satisfying memory! I found what I was looking for. What I had feared was buried under the never-ending compilation of new memories was what I had feared was lost forever.

Now that I know where it is…I have to go and pick up my wife from work, mow the lawn, finish the drywall taping job at home, get to church, pay the bills, balance my checkbook, fold the clothes, shampoo the upholstery in the car, rent a spreader for the fertilizer, check my email…in other words…return to life as I now know it.

Ed