The 1997 Reunion
REUNION DAZE:
THE WAY IT WAS?
What happens when thirty-year-old experiences surge into the individual,
filtered memories of their participants as they attempt to share with one
another the recreated past? In a line from a poem, circa 1967, Peggy Creelman
notes, "Memories do funny things to lace." Funny things indeed, and to
much more than lace--to the intricate lace web of the shared yesteryears....
Portola State Park, San Mateo County, California, August 1,1997:
We come into the park, in twos and threes and carloads, from deserts
and mountaintops, green valleys and oceansides, inner cities and sprawling
suburban housing tracts, from lives filled and empty, from hopes dashed
and dreams achieved--no two alike. And we whoop and grin and hug in delight.
"You look great." "I'm so glad you came." "It's been a long long time."
And, after a while, "What's been going on for you since Pacific High School
days?" Some faces are instantly recognizable. Some are not. Some names
ring memory's bell. Some fail to evoke even a tinkle. There is exhilaration
amidst both a security and a bewilderment.
As the campground fills with more and more arrivals, we move into smaller
groups, segregated by our specific years at Pacific: the early years, the
first change in directors, the second change and the domes, the last years.
Most of our day, of our days, here are in these groups and their subgroups.
We share stories, remember together--some details intrigue us as we search
for common reconstructions of the past.
Second day, August 2: We have what can only be called "an all-school
meeting," which many choose not to attend. Here we attempt to make the
Pacific High School experience a coherent whole--what happened at Pacific,
why it happened, what we gained and lost, how it influenced our lives and
our values. An impossible task, of course, but that has never interfered
with Pacific people plunging ahead and it does not today. The divisions
so clearly illustrated in our segregated groups now become prominent, as
four former PHS directors speak for "their" school. What Pacific was under
one director, we keep hearing, was not what it was under another. A success
it was, a failed experiment it was, a flawed but essential experiment,
a place of refuge and safety, a shared community, a place of isolation,
a loving place, a predatory place, oppressive and degrading, a place of
salvation and renewal, an exciting place, a boring place, not a place at
all.
We go to dinner, a communal feast prepared by Melody and crew, and we
eat in our subgroups. Between the evening slide shows in the ampitheatre--one
show the earlier years, one show the dome years, each show of course appealing
principally to different audiences--we have the one truly communal event:
the children of Pacific people have by themselves organized a theatrical
event, children from all the groups and subgroups have naturally, spontaneously,
come together in community and produced a play for us all. That all of
us do not take advantage of being audience to this event, of being community
here, is ironic: we nonaudience exercise our individuality, our freedom,
which is our right, to be sure, at the expense of being part of community.
This is Pacific.
Third day, August 3: Some of us choose not be be at the park
today, since we know this day will be a day of clean-up. We too are Pacific
people.
Warren Howe, staff, 1965-69
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THE REUNION
Unlike Warren, after spending months finding and speaking with hundreds
of Pacific students/staff/hangers-on before the big event, I felt comfy in
lots of the little groups of reunionees. It was fun guessing who everyone
was as they arrived. Obviously, I did spend more time with the '68-'71 crowd,
but my experience was that some of the folks were hanging out with ALL the
different groups, and having a ball doing it. We have so much in common, after
all.
By the second night (Saturday) I felt like hugging everybody in sight.
The talent show was great, and the kids raised over $120 for breast-cancer
research with their little play. As usual (for Pacific) there were many talented
musicians. My sister Rouanne MC'd the talent show, and I have to say that
I was very impressed by how she handled the whole thing! Apparently, she
was part of Toastmasters all through College. Who knew? We did see some slides
from the mid 60's and early 70's Dome Time, but the video thing never came
off, unfortunately.
Bruce Brennan had a whole table of memorabilia, others had photo albums
and wallets full of pictures. We ate like kings at the Saturday night catered
dinner (Melodie Maas-Milhoan presiding) and subsequently for the next 2 days.
The raccoons never had it so good! The late night fire pit sessions were
my favorites. Lots of music, hugging, smiles, reminiscences, future plans,
flirting, etc. till the wee hours. Robin and Lester Grimm brought a truckload
of firewood. We even had one of the Park Service folks buy a shirt and hang
with us the last 2 days.
Many people came who we didn't expect, and many didn't come who were expected.
Juan Segundo didn't even know we were doing it, and ran into someone at the
school (tour) who brought him down to us. He had flown in from Mexico City
that AM and was just looking around again. That was pretty amazing.
I made a lot of new friends and renewed some earlier casual relationships
that will be much stronger now. Generally, most everyone seemed mature, self-confident
and relaxed. Big difference from the last time I saw them some 28 years ago.
On Monday Mako Haggerty, Jan Gilbrecht, Vince Mow, John and Jim Dart, Jeannine
Dresch, Melodie Maas, hubby Ron and I hiked up to the ridge, the cabins (gone)
and the lake to look around. Nothing has really changed up there at
all. It was magical. On Sunday morning we all took group photos of the hard
core remnants still staggering around. I expect a flood of photos to start
coming in to Dean and the Website.
Robin Bloomgarden, student, 1969-71
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The Reunion
Revisited
For months I had anticipated the Pacific reunion, scheduled for early August,
1997, and to include students and staff from any of the school's seventeen
years in existence. I wondered whether there would be many or any of the
people I had known during my brief tenure, in 1966. I vaguely imagined that
we would tell one another long and finely detailed stories of all that we'd
done since those bygone days. We would play music and hike into mystic groves
and grottos. Extravagant love affairs would be rekindled and life would once
again have some modicum of meaning and purpose.
All in all, I greatly enjoyed the actual reunion. It wasn't exactly what
I'd imagined but it wasn't entirely removed from that, either. My children
especially liked it; to scamper through the redwoods in the company of other
children must be one of life's great boons, and they were awarded this prize.
For me, it proved that the time was too short; instead of finely detailed
stories, I listened with interest to many many small disjunct stories, interesting
in their own right, but not forming as full a portrait as I desired; it seemed
to me that a week or two might have been sufficient to merely clear the undergrowth,
only then to obtain a clear view of Person X.
I am afraid I am not possessed of a very good memory with respect to the
events of 30 years ago. And being shy and reserved anyway it seemed better
to leave sleeping dogs lie and avoid examining many details. So my recollections
ripened slowly into a kind of focus, but by then it was time to leave, somewhat
of the mind that I was at last prepared for the reunion to begin.
I find, from a perusal of Warren Howe's missive, that by so artfully departing
on Sunday, I managed to shirk my share of the cleaning-up, on Monday. So
even to this day I remain in my original character. I also managed to miss
the forum upon what Pacific was or should or might have been, being occupied
with looking after a gang of kids while their parents visited the old campus.
Amidst all the really pleasant nostalgia of the reunion, I indulged in
a little irritation upon this or that score. A couple of the men seemed inclined
to manifest their "professionalism," and to carry the badge of their yuppiehood
held high before them. A certain woman seemed altogether too given to endless
loud har-de-har-hars. Perhaps most galling was that no one inquired closely
into my rapturous odyssey through the realms of botany, geology, the history
of the ancient Greeks and Romans, the geometry of these three dimensions
and any number of higher Euclidean spaces, the quintessentially California
history of my home town (Dutch Flat), nor even the subtle cadences and stirring
harmonies of my music. So in these missing inquiries I was disappointed,
but as may be imagined, I am used to that kind of disappointment.
It so happens that I am not much of a traveler any more, and I leave my
mountains only rarely. Thus it was that my two children, Janet and Greg, saw
San Francisco as if for the very first time, on our way down, and we stopped,
and walked around Chinatown, and contemplated its mysteries, and bought Chinese
candies. Then later, after leaving the reunion on Sunday, we wound our way
out through Pescadero to the beach, where the kids absolutely gloried in
the sand and the waves and the wind and the smells. So we stopped at beach
after beach along the way to Santa Cruz, where the Boardwalk was deemed too
rich for our wallets, and after the sun had set, we made the long drive home.
The reunion was a lot of fun and I hope to enjoy another one someday, better
sooner than later.
Russell Towle, student, 1966-66
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THE REUNION
I went to the reunion a bit reluctantly. When I left PHS it seemed to be
twisting in the wind, groveling in the dust, its energy reserves spent. It
had become overpopulated that year and it was time for at least me to move
on. Over the years I'd been in touch off and on with a few people: Calthorpe,
Kanter, Effross and Lustig, Mako, and J. But I had no idea what had happened
to the Detroit boys, or the Bloommgarden girls, Kelly or Melody, Submarine
Steve, Vince, Kip or Nan or Jan, etc.
So it remained in my memory, the very best being 1969, when it was becoming
a boarding school and we were winging it. Michael and/or Mark: "Yes, Mrs.
Biers, we are a boarding school . . . " when we had no place for anyone to
live (and no water) and the kids arriving in August and everyone sleeping
out under parachutes and in the bldgs. while we scrambled to get the domes
built before the rains, and the kids with their idealism and eagerness and
fresh spirit. Outrageous! The joys, the problems, the uncharted journey, the
Monday night meetings, the vegetarian meals and then the coming of Katona
who drew a standing ovation with his first dinner of chicken and mashed potatoes
and gravy. The crates of raw milk from Saratoga, the Thanksgiving meal at
Mark's with Gimme Shelter on the tape deck and beautiful turkey and trimmin's
along with fabulous vegetarian dishes, Rud. . .er, Rouanne pounding nails
into the floor with Wayne, J. and Kathleen in twin sun glasses piloting the
Cit, a skinny NYC Jewish kid with a predilection for mathematics turning
up in the kitchen unannounced one foggy Sunday morning eating a peanut butter
sandwich, Chris doing a beautiful window pattern in his dome, Efross rolling
his bombers, Steve working on the yellow submarine with Cindy smoking cigarettes
and looking on, Calthorpe conning his way into the Stanford computer center
at night, sunsets at the ridge - hey, I could go on . . . .
I went to the reunion with mixed feelings. AND was just astounded at the
number of people who came, WHO came, the kids I haven't seen or heard of
in 27 years and WHAT they are now doing: doctor, solar energizer, builder,
electrical contractor, mechanical engineer (way to go, Rouanne!), caterer,
fisherman, musician, boat builder, mother and father, etc. I'm proud of you
guys! It was great seeing you and I'm thrilled to see what you all are doing.
Two thumbs up!
Lloyd Kahn, staff, 1969-71
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Special acknowledgements:
The founders and directors who came:
- ALAN STRAIN, founder
- REYNOLD BEAN, director
- PETER MARIN, director
- MARK SHEEHAN, director
- TERRY REIM, director
- CHRISTOPHER RICHARD, director
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