Serendipity
The airplane flew right along the edge of the bay and my window seat looked out on the city where I grew up at an altitude low enough to make every feature recognizable. I got oriented with UC Berkeley, saw The Claremont where I would soon be staying, observed the rebuilt burn area which remains remarkably lacking in foliage of any discernable kind, and traced along through Montclair to my old house on the crest of the ridge at the end of Shepherd Canyon, Joaquin Miller and Montera schools, and Skyline High. Up until that point the idea of returning to my origins had been abstract. This flyover plunged me into Oakland so rapidly I felt my body parts would all fly apart. I wanted to grab my husband and say, “Lookit! Lookit!” But he would not be arriving until the next day and I was alone.
The Scent of Eucalyptus
I drove the rental car up into the hills, into the crazy winding streets that stymied the firefighters during the big firestorm. Coming from Portland the greens of Oakland seem gloomy and half dead. Olive, avocado, khaki, and dust are the colors of the Oakland hills. To appreciate the native ambience requires a willingness to sit peacefully in the sun and soak in the resinous aroma that rises to meet you on thermal updrafts from the hillside below, or to stand amid the eucalyptus trees in the fog and allow yourself to believe the rest of the world that has dissolved into whiteness truly does not exist.
Doing it Old School
There is a sign on my elementary school that tells people that the unauthorized may not go there, but nobody stopped me from walking a lap around the place and even peeking in the buildings because I look like someone’s mom. That’s all part of having grown up in the Oakland/Berkeley area in the 60’s, we think nothing of walking past signs that tell us we must not pass if we determine that the sign is unreasonable. We challenge authority. Some of this authority challenging was taught us by the occasional hippy teacher employed by the school district, as a matter of fact. To this day I decide for myself if I will walk someplace or not, read something or not, watch something or not, say something or not, because I am a self determining creature of the universe, and besides, I look like someone’s mom. This way I was able to see for myself that the cafeteria tables don’t fold down from the walls anymore.
I truly wonder how many years they will keep portables in the exact same places they have always been before they break down and concede these classrooms are not a temporary adjustment to a fluctuating student population and finally expand the building.
Old Houses, Old Haunts
Just up the hill from Joaquin Miller School is a rock that someone began painting before I was born. It’s pretty big now – noticeably bigger than the last time I saw it. If someone were to cut it in half there would be all these layers of paint and a little rock inside. I drove up that way, remembering the place where Katie Wright almost died on her bike, and visited my old-old street. Things really hadn’t changed much. The houses looked fairly well cared for and a little tired, kind of like me I suppose. I saw the house where Kristen Meredith, who did die, lived. Then I continued up the hill past Susan McConnell’s, Julie Lewis’s, and Aileen Scherer’s houses, and up to Skyline Gate. This was the point where a mood change began in me that felt chemical. I’d been having a wonderful time but when I got to Redwood Regional Park where I’d spent such a lot of time it all began to feel wrong. I kept driving up the hill to my old house, now occupied by someone I never met, glanced at it, turned the car around and fled. It just felt bad, wrong: I didn’t belong there. Skipping the last point of interest on my agenda, The Hills Swim and Racquet, I headed back down the hill.
The Claremont
“Is this your first time at The Claremont?”
Oh, no. I’ve been coming to The Claremont for one reason or another since I was a baby. My parents didn’t believe in babysitters and I was taken to all sorts of dinners and functions there. There used to be “dancing waters” which were people’s idea of quality entertainment in the late 50’s. You had to wear white gloves when you went there. As the years went by the grand old hotel went into a serious decline. By the time I was in high school it was in real trouble. My wonderful friend, the late Brad King (who I will miss the rest of my life), and I used to dress up in 30’s era outfits and go on dates that would include a visit there. Unfortunately there was almost nothing worth visiting at that point, it was more the idea of the place. I remember a Muzak company had rented space in the lobby, that’s how low it had sunk. A few years later Brad was hired by a Hollywood film company to be a liaison with Dunsmuir House where he was on the Board and where they were filming a ghastly movie called Burnt Offerings, and he invited me to the wrap party which was held at The Claremont. I got to hang out with Oliver Reed, Karen Black, the director and crew. Oliver Reed kissed me. (That’s another dead guy. Sheesh.) I was glad someone dumped some capital into the place and turned it back into what it is meant to be. I stay at The Claremont whenever I go to Oakland since the family house was sold. In Oakland it’s either been The Claremont or a scaremont.
The Reunion Itself
Does it say something when the invitation says it starts at 7:00 and you show up at ten till and there are already 50 people there? And that by the end of the evening there were 50 people more than the venue actually allowed? This gathering had a synergy to it. The jungle drums of Facebook had whipped people into a frenzy.
After 35 years we were just happy to see people, and it didn’t seem to matter whether anyone was in your clique in 1974 or not. If you remembered them and they had a lot of the same experiences as you, good enough. Because there were so many of us a lot of the conversation followed the same patterns, all shouted over the din. Where do you live now? How many kids? What are you doing? You look the same! You look great! There were conversations I would have liked to have had about how being from that time and place made us who we are and how we are perhaps a little different from people who grew up in other times and places. I have seen patterns and I have theories and I would like to compare notes. But five hours was not nearly long enough. Not when you just found out the vital stats of one person when, oh my gosh! Is that? It is! He looks exactly the same!
Will there be a time when we go to reunions and reminisce? Does that start when we are 70? Or did we just need more time? People tossed out tiny word pictures of the past and moved on to who they are now, which was a lot more interesting to me. Everyone was interesting to me. I regret that I live so far away from all but one person, Anne Wilson, but I am glad that Facebook has networked so many of us together. Just as our best pals in kindergarten are not necessarily our best friends in high school I get the feeling that adulthood has changed all of us in ways that would reshuffle who our friend choices would be.
