So Friday night when we got in, we went to our lodge that we had rented with four other friends, Scott, Brad, Andi and David, a guy that I didn't know, but who was friends with Scott.

Scott was in the same class as Robert and I, he lives in Boston and I have seen him many times since graduation. Brad and Andi were my two best friends my sophomore, their junior year, we were tight as ticks. Brad lives in New York, and some months ago I ran into him in the post office and we talked and talked and traded email addresses. I never used it, but I kept it in my wallet and gave it to Robert when I was in Boston earlier this year, and he talked him into coming to the reunion, and Brad was still in touch with Andi, and so she decided to come, too.

I was thrilled as a biscuit, because I hadn't seen Andi since we were fifteen, and just the thought of the three of us together again was so thrilling that JournalCon held no allure.

And she was so beautiful! She hadn't grown into her looks in high school, though she certainly wasn't as unattractive as she remembers being, but she was absolutely lovely and I said that I wouldn't have ever known it was her, but later I realized that she has the same expressions and gestures, and she was still herself.

Then David came into the room.

"Hi, I'm Kymm Zuckert."
"Kymm! We know each other!"
"We do?"
"Yes! You don't remember? You must remember!"
"Um..."
"We did a show together when you were a freshman, where I was double-cast with Danny Neusom and we were a frog and you were a witch who turned us into a prince!"
"I did what?"
"I can't believe that you don't remember me, you sent me a graduation announcement for crying out loud!"

But I did not. He looked vaguely familiar, but I had no actual memories involving him in any way, and had no picture in my head of him at 17. None. Not a clue. He kept looking at me and crying:

"But you sent me a graduation announcement!"

Actually, most of the entire weekend was like that, I kept peering with confusion into the face of a person that I could have sworn I had never ever seen before who had just bellowed "Kymm! How wonderful to see you again!"

Robert, on the other hand, kept turning to people and saying things like, "It was November 15, 1981, a Sunday, at 3.37p, it was 43° and cloudy with some light precipitation in the early morning hours, you were wearing a yellow turtleneck under your uniform shirt and a blue jacket and you said, "My nose itches, have you got a Kleenex?"

And I would say, "She had a nose? I don't remember that..."

It's like the song "I Remember it Well" from Gigi, but with Robert playing the Hermione Gingold role.

The first thing that I did when we got there was bathe luxuriously, then put on my jammies and join the others in front of the fire in the living room.

Later, the people from the cabin next door, Paul and John and Laura and George (and probably some other people that my completely un-steel-trap-like memory is forgetting) came over and we sat up for hours talking about what we had been up to in the last twenty years or so.

It was funny how everyone looked exactly the same or entirely different. I realize that sounds as though I'm being cute, but nobody had changed a little, either they looked completely the same, barring a lack of big late 70's-early 80's hair and not really being able to pass for 17, or they could have tackled me on the street and I wouldn't have had a clue as to who they were.

At around 2.30a or so, everyone either staggered off home or staggered to their rooms, depending on whether they were staying in our lodge or elsewhere (clever, eh?).

Andi and I were sharing a room, which was great, and very slumber-party-esque. In fact, we were so bad at being quiet that Brad had to shout through the wall for us to shut up.

It was a cool night, cold outside but perfectly warm inside, but Andi was scrounging for blankets and shaking like an aspen leaf. I, on the other hand, was practically kicking the blankets off, I was so warm. I felt very proud of myself, it only took me eighteen years to become enough of an Easterner to feel superior to a Californian complaining about the cold.

Or at least, until winter starts and I become the most delicate flower in all of the land, shivering and weeping when the temperature falls below 45°.

The next morning, Saturday, we got up at 8a, for some unknown reason. Okay, not really an unknown reason, we wanted breakfast and we didn't want to miss a minute of the reunion, so we drove to what was formally the Flapjack Shack, and is now Grandma's Kitchen.

The food was great, though I couldn't get me a hard-boiled egg to save my life, and cheap as hell. I always forget that the prices that we pay in New York for a plate of pancakes reflect the fact that they use gold dust in the batter or something, and in the midwest you are just paying for eggs and flour and milk.

Afterwards, we rushed back to campus to go on the tour of the new buildings. When I was back last time, I found any new buildings and changes to be a horror and a betrayal and an offense unto the Lord, but this time the concept that things sometimes change when I am not around had entered my head, and I wasn't shocked at the sight of a leaf having moved a couple of inches to the left.

The new music building, which doesn't affect my life, is nice, though Andi whispered in my ear "They just can't let go of the concept of building everything with cinderblocks, can they?" to which I replied that it was traditional, and we saw Byron, who was the conductor in my time and is now the head of the music department, and looks much the same, except that he seems to have turned into Mister Rogers, with grey hair and wearing a sweater with patches on the elbows.

We then saw the chapel, which was there my senior year, but was new to the older grads. Andi left us for a bit, because she wanted to find her viola teacher, Mr. Holland in order to tell him how much she appreciated the love of music that he had instilled in her. She caught up with us at the new theatre, having been unable to find him.

There are two new theatres, which was why most of my friends were on the tour in the first place. The Harvey, which is a larger sized theatre, and the Phoenix, a smaller black-box theatre. The Harvey is larger than any theatre that I've ever played in in New York, I practically fell over. A student later explained to me that it wasn't really a very good theatre, detailing problems that I hadn't noticed, but all I remember is my jaw dropping at the sight of it.

We checked out the classrooms in the building, and found a bunch of students in one of them about to do an improv class. And they came over and talked to us! No, they did, and not out of a sense of politeness, but with real interest! I don't remember ever speaking to an alumnus when I was in school, it wouldn't have occurred to me.

In fact, when I was in Boston last, Robert and Scott and I were discussing this fact, that the kids were all born the year of our graduation or later, and I realized that us descending on the school was like the class of 1958 coming in my freshman year, and exactly how dull and irrelevant would have considered the Class of '58.

"Guys, we are now the Class of '58!"

But these students didn't treat us that way, they seemed to be genuinely interested in what we had to say. I told them they were spoiled because they had bathrooms right in the classroom, and this one little student told me that we were spoiled because there had been dressing rooms in our theatre, while they had to squeeze 15 girls into the bathroom! It's all a matter of perception.

Then we went to the Phoenix, and had the privilege of watching a movement class. The kids were all so beautiful and focussed and the teacher was great, very much a part of the class. Someone took a picture, and I took the opportunity to take a shnillion pictures once someone else broke that ice. These kids had the greatest faces, all I wanted to do was photograph them.

Afterwards, Brad and I went to Grunow.

That was my theatre, our theatre. It still stands, but it is condemned. It's not locked, though, so we were able to see the place. Robert was already there, and had gone all over it already. The inside was pretty gutted--the stage was still there, but the seats are all gone. I went everywhere, the dressing rooms, the basement, and when I was down in what used to be our costume shop, the corniest thing happened.

I was over in the side of the room, and I thought that if I turned around that I would see myself when I was a kid. So I turned, and there I was, at the big cutting table with Barb, the wardrobe mistress, making my costume for Godspell. It was terribly moving, but on the other hand I thought "Geez, what am I, in a Movie-of-the-Week about a woman haunted by the ghost of her younger self?"

The next time I come back, though, it will all be gone.

I went back upstairs, and Robert and Brad left, but I stayed, taking pictures and feeling the place. It's in my bones, you see. This is the theatre where I had classes and performed and was in the audience and was on crew, this is the theatre where I learned how to be who I am. I started talking out loud.

"I am in these walls. Everyone who has performed in this theatre is part of this theatre. And no matter whether they tear it down or not, this spot will always remember who I used to be."

I go back to my high school, and in less than 24 hours I have turned into a bad Proust imitator.

Today's horoscope:
Do something active with your family or loved ones--hiking, camping, a walk around the block, bicycling, jogging, etc.

One year ago today:
"I got off the train at Chambers Street and couldn't find Chambers Street anywhere!"
"Ah, you must have been at the front of the train"

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