I DON’T REALLY know why we came, as it was our 50th high school graduation anniversary two years late because of the Covid pandemic. The fact is that out of a high school of three thousand students, and a graduating class of almost a thousand, I hadn’t known a lot of people, and some classmates I had known were dead. That’s what happens as you get older. Other than a few close friends, I hadn’t stayed in touch. I wasn’t on Classmates anymore, though I was still curious. We’d moved to Oklahoma City in 1968 when my dad was hired as the cantor at the conservative Jeshurun Synagogue. For those of you who don’t know what a cantor is, it’s sort of like a singing rabbi. Whereas the rabbi’s expertise is in the interpretation of Jewish law, the cantor’s expertise is in sacred music. The majority of religious services are done in Biblical Hebrew and sung or chanted. Both Rabbis and Cantors do spiritual counselling, officiate at lifecycle events, and teach, as well as participating in community events. Here, as in River City after my Bar Mitzvah, I was involved in two Jewish youth groups: AZA fraternity (part of B’nei B’rith Youth) and United Synagogue Youth (USY). My two years at Putnam City High and a year at Oscar Rose Jr. College took place during another very pivotal time of my life and the life of the country. The Vietnam War was raging. The draft endangered many of us who were graduating and who were against the war (Though I had a classmate that lived in the neighborhood and planned to enlist as soon as he graduated. Guess he wanted to win the war against the Commies.). Anti-war protests and sit-ins were popping up across the country. It was a time of social revolution as blacks, women and those of other sexual orientation were fighting for the right to be who they were and stake out a legitimate claim in this country of democratic freedom. It was a clash between the World War II generation and those of us who’d be called the Baby Boomers. Society was in upheaval as we lurched our way to adulthood.
It’d been over fifty years since I had attended Putnam City High. As I had said some of my classmates were dead including two of my closest friends, Bob the Hobbit and Fred. I doubted Bucky, another of our group, would show up, but Jerry, my former singing partner, I knew would be here. It was a long time since our folk-rock singing days, it’d be good to see him. We had chatted and emailed and kept in touch over the years. He lived in Nashville now and had retired from working at one of the major car manufacturers. He still wrote music, painted, and was into dogs and birds—and golf. Susan and I had driven down from River City, Iowa and had booked an AIRBNB for a few days, as she indulged me in my nostalgia. I had promised her a guided tour of my misspent youth. No doubt she was overjoyed.
I had parked the car on a side street, and we walked around outside the two-story high school. In back I saw the huge football field and bleachers on either side where I had graduated. They climb up almost two stories and a wall bordered behind the ones on the north side. A running track and grass bordered the south side. And now, the parking lot on the north side was surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence with a gatehouse at the front. The school, very modern looking for its day had managed to age well. Sections had been added on where temporary classrooms (glorified trailers of sorts on supports) had littered the area in back. I wondered if they had metal detectors at the doors now. It was a warm sunny day in late June. The sky was blue. There was the swish of cars and trucks driving on 50th street. We walked along the sidewalk. I pointed to the top of the bleachers that bordered 50th. “That was where Morrie initiated his Frogs in Space Program,” I said.
Susan looked at me with a bit of in trepidation. “Frogs in space? Do I really want to know?”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m going to tell you anyway.”
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