Pieces of a Reunion: A reflection on the 10-year reunion of the class of 1985

by Edward Tanguay

Dedicated to Jenny Sisung and Kristin Jacobson

Who organized the whole thing

July 1995

Basically the 1995 ten-year reunion for the Lewis Palmer High School class of '85 consisted of a get-together on Friday night July 28, 1995 at the Cactus Rose near Monument, later that night dancing and playing pool at Crocodile Rocks in the Springs, the next morning a tour of the high school by Ken Emry, that day a picnic at Dirty Woman park, in the afternoon a dinner together at the Mug, at night a camping trip on Mount Herman, and the next morning a breakfast at The Coffee Cup in Monument. The attendance must have been between 60 and 70 at the get- togethers at the Cactus Rose and Dirty Woman Park. About 25 went dancing at Crocodile Rocks, 13 ate together at the Mug, 7 of us went camping, and 5 were left to eat breakfast together the next morning at the Coffee Cup.

The text below is composed of a string of memories from the weekend loosely connected by association, not chronology. It should read like the process of reminiscing: one memory leading loosely to another instead of each memory connecting a chronological story. Each paragraph is one memory and there is usually a shift in location and time between paragraphs; sometimes the shifts go forward in time and sometimes they go backward in time. Almost all memories come from one of the events that occurred during the reunion weekend.

All of it is true, I think.

* * *

"Pass me a non-glug," said Mike. Tonya was closer to the beer than I was and reached a can over to me which I passed on to Mike. The darkness had already encapsulated us in the pine trees leaving only the couple meters brought to light by the lantern hanging on a tree. This became our world for the evening. I was thinking about how fun it is partying with Mike and the others on a camping trip up in the mountains. One of the nicer things in life for me, in fact, is to smoke a double- holed, wood-tipped Swisher Sweet cigar while camping in the mountains with Mike Sturm.

Lisa Atkins's face popped into my view "Where's Mike Sturm?" The Cactus Rose bar had swiftly become a widely assorted sea of about seventy familiar faces from my Lewis Palmer past all swimming around me producing periodic overloads on my memory capacity. The difficulty was coupled with the fact that some of the women were married now and had new last names, whereas I was even having trouble with some of the first names, especially Fred's, I mean Rusty's. Kathy Reedy made her appearance late in the evening, her pretty, still-freckled face setting itself gently into to the sea of `85 graduates, smiling and greeting everyone.

"We're teaching overseas, in St. Petersburg" Carey Gardner said to me standing next to her husband and rocking a stroller back and forth with her handsome baby boy sitting in it smiling. Her little boy was looking at the strange grown ups in front of him leafing through the large, clacking black frames displaying the pictures of all graduating classes back into the 1940s. It was strange standing in Lewis Palmer high school again. I felt like I should be getting to class, or at least hopping in the Blazer and going to 7-11 with Kev. Scott Ormond, who was looking at our class pictures as I was thinking this, turned around to me with a Scotty grin on his face and said in his best Little Rock accent, "Wes Dawson, W-E-S---D-A-W-S-O-N!" Scott kept grinning at me after he said this, chewing his gum. You have to smile when he does that.

It was getting late and dark, a comfortable night, the Swisher Sweets had already been passed out, lit up, and were taking effect, calming and soothing. It was time for a couple Scotty Ormond stories told by the master himself, Ky Fox. I asked him to tell the one where Scott was up on a ladder changing a light bulb. "Oh, yeah, that one," said Ky, shifting himself a little in his seat. I leaned back and took a gulp of Coors Lite (or was it one of Tonya's Bud Lites?) and listened. Ky started: "Well, our band was going to play that night at the high school and Scott was standing on a ladder wanting to redirect one of the stage lights so that it would be pointing on him while he was singing. Mr. Kettles saw him and told him to get down or he would end up breaking one of the lights. Scott said not to worry about it. Kettles told him again that he should just leave the light alone or he would drop it. As Scott assured Mr. Kettles that he would not break the light bulb, the light bulb slipped out of the socket, fell straight down through the air, and smashed to pieces on the floor. After all of the bits of the shattered stage light had come to a stop, Scotty looked at Mr. Kettles and gave him a big grin. Mr. Kettles just shook his head and walked off." We all laughed. I particularly enjoy Ky's Steven-Wright sense of story-telling.

Story telling is an art. Mike Sturm is a master at this and entertained us while we were enjoying the best breakfast in town at the Monument Coffee Cup. He told us about the time he was at the Elvis-Is-Still-Alive museum near St. Louis, Missouri. His attention for detail (the curled up side burns glued to the sides of the plastic head in the coffin), his impersonation of a friendly Southern man (better than I can do after having lived in Arkansas for five years), and his cultural notes (the mother who said to her son: "If you don't behave, we're going to send you to school!") all combine to create a little world that you feel like you have visited.

"Did you have a chance to visit much of Europe while you were in Berlin, Tracy?" Tracy Socha had attached herself a long time ago to a world-traveling iron man and since then has lived in Berlin, biked across France, given birth to a beautiful baby in Hawaii and now lives in Indiana. And they haven't stopped yet. She was now sitting across from me in the Mug in Monument. Talking to Tracy, I have to admit, I wanted to go back in time, go back to 8th grade again . . . The feeling lasted about three seconds as it was evaporated by the ringing of the Mug telephone. It was Rusty. He wanted to know who was going down to the Clucky Chicken, or the Fluffy Chicken, or that something Chicken place in the Springs. I forgot the name. It didn't matter. I was going camping that night.

"Damn them!" Will's voice shook the trees surrounding the second reservoir. Will and Kat stood in the middle of the dirt road that they had just hiked up looking around for a sign of any `85 graduates camping. "They said they would be here! Where the hell are they?"

"This isn't the Monument we grew up in." said Kristin. We campers had regrouped in front of the Estimere house in Palmer Lake. The words on the gate leading up to the second reservoir basically read "No motor vehicles - no camping - no fun anymore." We would have to think of another place to camp. "How about Rock 71 on Mt. Herman?" someone suggested. "Isn't that where we had our senior party?" "Yeah!" "That's a great place!" "Let's go!" Everyone hopped into their respective vehicles. Everyone left a lot of dust. But no one thought of leaving a note. Sorry Will! Sorry Kat!

"Where did Troy sleep on the night of that senior camp out?" I asked looking around at the Rock 71 camping area. It was time for Ky to tell another story. Ky pointed up to the top of the embankment. "You see that area up there? We all had some tents there. Troy had one, too. He sat in front of his tent sitting on a cooler. We all thought it was cool that he had come, so someone asked him if he would like a beer. Troy said no thanks. We let it go and kept talking. All of a sudden, Troy stands up, turns around, opens his cooler and pulls out a 12-pack! The top of the embankment went wild! Everyone wanted to toast Troy, and they did!"

"Shhhhhh! Everyone be quiet! I'm going to read some of the letters sent in by people who couldn't be here," said Jenny Sisung standing on a chair in the Cactus Rose. The sun was setting, shooting its rays onto us through the window. Letters and cards had been sent in from Amy Thorngren, David Andrus, and Troy Smith who all would have liked to, but unfortunately couldn't make it to the reunion. Jenny was reading Troy's letter out loud to the group: ". . . so in everyday English, I'm getting a Ph.D. studying the effects of hormones on animals' sex drives." I had to smile at Troy's words. They reminded me of his stories back in 6th grade. It seems that in 6th grade, before any of us knew what hormones were (let alone have any in our bodies), Troy was already writing his steamy versions of that evening soap opera "Soap" and reading these self-made scripts during story hour in Mr. Jensen's class. (For comparison purposes here, Mark Temple would read his stories about giant black widows eating up cities.) But we could never hear the end of Troy's stories as they would always progressively become too dirty for our 6th grade ears, reaching their pinnacle when Mr. Jensen would have to abruptly interrupt Troy saying, "O.K. Troy, thank you, thank you! You can sit down now!" I would still like to hear the endings to those stories!

When I opened my eyes, I could see tips of pine trees pointing toward a light blue, morning sky. I was in my sleeping bag lying on my back which had been lying on three damn pine cones for the last five hours of Coors-aided sleep. I turned my heavy head over to my left. There, Kristen was curled up to Buddy and Buddy was curled up to Sue. Sue is their dog, you know. It was a cute threesome and a Kodak moment. But I didn't have the energy or coordination to find and operate my camera. I maneuvered my now pounding head back over to my right. Chrissy and Mike were still in their tent. Ky was still in his tent. I looked over at Tonya's sleeping bag. It was empty. She was gone. But then, Tonya was still on Florida time where it was now noon and she had apparently gone for a morning hike. I looked up at the place where Troy had once sat on his renowned cooler. I could see Tonya sitting in the sun up there. I got up, tied my shoes, and started up the embankment. The gravel crunched beneath my fluorescently striped Nikes as I walked up the hill between the scrub oak and numerous pine trees finally reaching the point where I could see Tonya again leaning up against a pine tree, eyes closed, the sun brightening her face. She looked natural--very Colorado. I sat down beside her. We talked until the sun became almost unbearably hot and then cooled off again behind the clouds. Both of us had lived awhile in the South, so we exchanged our stories about us Colorado Yankees in the Confederate Court. She told me about the time in a Mississippi bar when she was not allowed to play pool because she was a woman! I told her about the time a neighbor of mine in Arkansas came running out of his house towards a realtor who was showing a black couple the house next to his--the neighbor was red-faced shouting "I won't have any n------ living in my neighborhood!" Tonya and I shook our heads in disbelief. We also talked about the good side of the South: it's hospitality and laid-back life.

"I heard you spent some time in the South, Angela." Angela Carter was in front of me as I leaned on a stand-up table at the Crocodile Rocks bar in the Springs, 1985 graduates all around us dancing, mingling and playing pool (Tonya was not only allowed to play here but was beating all the guys). Angela and I had the following conversation:

Angela: Yeah, I was in the South.

Ed: Cool. Where?

Mexico actually.

Oh . . . neat!

I was dating a Mexican down there.

Oh really?

I sneaked him across the border and married him.

(I took a drink.) Gosh!

He never worked, so I divorced him.

Gee! (I took another drink, listening intently now.)

So, I married another guy.

Really?

But I'm going to divorce him, too. (She gave me a grin)

(I took a another drink, looking at her.)

I work at an Indian reservation now up by Canada.

Oh yeah?

They needed employment, so I asked for a five million dollar grant to start a reservation entertainment center.

Wow.

I got it. And now I manage the whole operation.

(I took a another drink.) Gee, Angela, that's great!

So what are you doing, Ed?

Um. (I took another drink and reflected a bit in comparison.) Not much, Angela. Not much.

Scott and I were speeding along in his yellow VW bug headed to the reunion picnic at Dirty Woman park. "Can I get some film at 7-11, Scott?" "Sure, Eddie!" We pulled into the parking lot and got out of the bug. We walked in. We bought our stuff. Scott walked out. As I was walking out, I happened to look at a man buying something behind me. He looked familiar. I stopped and stared at him trying to figure out if I knew him. He stared at me, too. He looked mean. I thought it looked like Rodney Weissenburger. We just stood staring at each other and neither of us said anything. I decided that if I stared any longer, he might want to fight, so I turned around and walked quickly out of the door. "Scott, was that Rodney?" I asked as I got in the door of the bug. "Where?" Rodney walked out the door of 7-11. Scott leaned out of the window and shouted, "Hey, are you Rodney?" The man looked at Scott's smiling head sticking out of the bug. "Yeah! Who are you?" Scott got out of the bug, extended his hand and gave Rodney a big Scotty smile, "Scott Ormond!" "Wow." said Rodney. I quickly grabbed my camera, got out of the bug and came around the car. I felt like I was about to photograph a rare bird. "Hi Rodney!" I said, walking up to him. "Who are you?" "Eddie Tanguay" "Oh, hi." Scott asked: "What are you doing nowadays, Rodney?" "In the army." We looked at him. I whipped up my camera and snapped a shot of him. He blocked it with both hands. There was a pause so I jumped in "You still snatching pennies off your elbow like we used to, Rodney?" Rodney looked at me: "No." He ironically dropped some change. I watched him pick it up. There was another pause. Scott cut in this time: "You going to the reunion down at Dirty Woman Park now?" Rodney looked at him: "Nah." The pause after this one was pretty long, so Scott put out his friendly and cordial hand and said "Well, take care, Rodney!" Rodney said "Take care, guys." He shook my hand, too. We watched him walk off. He still had that same old Rodney walk.

Some say that Scott has changed. And he has, there is no doubt about that. But I have a deeper theory about Scott. As I told him at the reunion, I feel that Scott has bloomed. There has always been a Las Vegas, wheeling-and-dealing Scotty inside that man. There was always a man in there who got his energy from living down next to the ground. I remember Scott leaning over to me a couple days before we graduated, "Eddie, we're probably going to meet each other someday in a New York sewer system, brush each other's matted hair back and say, `Hey, didn't you graduate from Lewis Palmer!'" (Could still happen.) The characteristic that Scott has now that he didn't have then is that he's solid. He's 100% Scott now. His carbon has formed a diamond.

Mark Temple was standing in his yard in the Springs wondering how he's going to arrange his new railroad ties that he's putting in his lawn. "I should put this one over there," he thought to himself and in the same moment moved toward the railroad tie. When he got to the tie, he lifted up one end and pulled it over a bit to a new position. It was a hot day.

It was a cool day in the shade of the trees at Dirty Woman Park that Saturday. "Where's Mark?" "Don't know. Don't think he's coming." "Where's Kevin?" "He said he might be down for the picnic today." "You seen him lately?" "Yeah, he just got back from two years working at a bank up in Alaska. He's got a cool girlfriend now, named Nancy." "What's she like?" "Well, they just fit together. I mean, I was riding around with them in the Springs the other day. I was in the back of the Blazer and they were in the front. Nancy says to Kevin, `Kevin. We need to get some patio furniture.' and Kev says `What would we want with Patty's furniture?' Now most women that I have known Kevin to be with would have, at this point, told Kevin to shut up. But to my surprise, for the next ten minutes, Kevin and Nancy talked about Patty's furniture. I figure they must like each other."

Joe Redner and his wife Fiona stood holding hands at the picnic. Being from Scotland, Fiona is definitely the spouse that comes from furthest away. They met each other over in Germany when Joe was in the army. I love the story of their marriage--driving up to Denmark, in three days establishing residence, and leaving the next day, married.

The only intra-Lewis-Palmer marriage in our class is Laura Durfee (still a beauty goddess with a vibrant personality) and Todd Wheeler. Most married people from our class linked up with people from the area, though. Tracy married locally, then went international. Will married Kathy from the Springs, then went to Wyoming. But the thing that surprised me the most about our class is the heavy percentage who are still not married. Catherine, Tonya, Sabrina, Kristin, Jenny, Tim, Ty, Ky, Randy, Kevin, and more are all still holding off on tying the knot. Brian Martin reports he will be jumping into the marriage kettle this September.

The most solid, married man, the one of us who has matured the most is definitely Eddie Longfield. A vice-principal of an elementary school in Delta, Colorado now, he came walking in the Cactus Rose with a solid, gleaming look. I would have loved to have had a school principal like Eddie! By the way, somewhere between the time we saw Eddie at the Cactus Rose on Friday night and the writing of this story, Eddie's wife gave birth, adding to their growing family. Congratulations to both of you!

Although Eddie gets the award for the most matured, the award for the most changed goes to another: Duane Larson! My senior year, I had Duane and Dave Taylor in Mr. Crock's art class. They kept the class interesting with all of their party- and concert-related stories. As I remember, it was not uncommon for these stories to include one or both of them confronting law officials in one form or another. And today, Duane works in northern Colorado as a state trooper!

Fourth hour. Art with Mr. Crock. Spring 1985. I had been meditatively making thousands of blue dots on huge poster board for the last 20 minutes, the relaxingly intoxicating smell of rubber cement permeating the air. As I made blue dots, the voices of Dave Taylor and Duane Larson crisscrossed as background conversation. Everyone in the class (if they were listening) could learn that White Snake was coming to town in three weeks and that tickets were going on sale at Independent Records that Monday. Those paying attention also learned that Dave was going to camp out there on Sunday night, to get front row tickets. I made more blue dots. Denise Tapprich's voice chimed in on my left, "Tell me about him!" I continued making blue dots. Libby Younger's voice came in, "Well, he's six foot one, has short, dark hair, and is really clean cut!" She was describing a new cadet boyfriend of hers. I wanted to say, "Libby, you just described about 85% of the Air Force Academy graduating class! Be a bit more specific!" But I remained quiet and continued to make dots. Kirsten Distelzweig asked, "Where did you meet him, Libby?" "At the Odyssey!" Libby returned, glowing, in love. I made more blue dots. Libby continued, "And you know what? I was in his apartment and told him that it looked wonderful. And you know what he said? He said, `Well, it's just missing one thing--you!'" When I heard this, I stopped making blue dots. I thought about that cadet's remark. I mean, was that a stock line, or what? This clean cut, six foot one guy was up to something, I thought. I was kind of worried about Libby at that point. I was worried about a number of women in our grade who wanted to hop on the marriage wagon right out of high school. I changed pens to a darker shade of blue and started making dots of a little darker hue now. As I began tapping the paper with the end of that dark blue pen, I thought to myself, "Man. Be careful, Libby. Be careful."

"So what are you doing now, Libby?" The thick, green trees of Dirty Woman Park swayed behind the straw colored, natural looking hair of a modern Libby. She said proudly and full of confidence, "I have a nice little family up in northern Colorado and I'm working on a Ph.D. in family planning. Soon I'll be professor at CU in Boulder." My face showed my natural surprise. I congratulated her, then snapped a quick picture of her and Angela Carter together. We said good-bye and as I watched them walk off, I thought, "Man. Good job, Libby. Good job."

Laughter. I could hear laughter. Laughter was coming from across the room as Joe Antosiak's pony-tailed, smiling head filled my field of vision as we both pushed our bellies against the Cactus Rose bar and tried to catch up on the eight years that separated our last encounter. "I'm employing half my family now and work 18-hour days. Business is just booming, Ed!" Joe has a huge smile. It's the smile of an energetic, successful entrepreneur and I don't think anybody saw him that night without it. He's running a local catering service that serves the whole Front Range. "You going to be at the picnic, tomorrow, Joe?" I asked him, taking a drink out of my Coors bottle (who WAS that laughing in the background across the room?). "No, we have a wedding to cater. Huge job. Gotta be there." Another outburst of laughter from across the room. Just then I realized it was Will O'Hearn laughing. He was watching the Batman video, our senior project video that was playing on a TV and VCR we had brought to the Cactus Rose. "Hey, Ed," yelled Will, "come look at your car!"

"I better check the dictaphone!" said Mike with a grin, sitting in the front of my car, throwing a glance into the back seat. Brent Sustaita was in the back seat filming. Mike blurts out, "O.K. Robin, slowly press the accelerator." I jammed the accelerator right into the floor. The massive V-8 engine roared. The dictaphone started to rattle as my 2-ton 1960 Oldsmobile began its horizontal launch towards Mark's cattle guard. "Jesus Christ, Robin, slow down!" (Mike's phrase wrote itself into the annals of Monument lingo forever.) "Gotham City, 14 miles!" said Will with his shaggy hair.

Will with his short hair was on the floor of the Cactus Rose, laughing uncontrollably. I was on my knees in front of the TV, watching Mike and me drive up in my enormous, turquoise 1960 Olds as it crunched the gravel crawling up to Mark's rock house. "Where's the commissioner . . . I think he's out to a ball game today. . ." and so went the video, the same as the last twenty times I'd seen it. A crowd of twelve `85 graduates had been attracted by the laughing and had brought themselves and their drinks over to see the Batman video.

"That's the game where they plowed the snow off half the field and we played to the 50 yard line and back," commented Brian Martin as we were watching some old videos of football games on the TV now. Mark Carrico and Rhett Valentine moved up in the crowd to see the TV a bit better. Then came Rusty Schellman's interviews on the video. We watched Rusty interview Rod Ross in the mens' locker room showers; all the women let out a sigh. We watched Rusty interview Valerie Wiley in the womens' locker room; all the men let out a sigh. Then we watched Rusty interview Lewis Palmer lovers. He asked the pointed question: "Where will you be in five years?" Some said "married" and some said "still together." All were wrong. One thing was for certain. The interviews were pulling on a few heart strings that evening.

"I thought I saw Steve Hood here!" "Yeah, he was here. He just kind of popped in and popped out. What's he doing now?" "Just got an awesome promotion in the Ford Corporation; had to move to Houston." "Bummer, that's in Texas, isn't it?" "They love it down there, though. Janice says they are all moved in and love it." "It won't be the same not having Steve in the area when I come back to Monument." "No, it won't be the same."

"Oh my god! It's Jimmy Moore!" Jimmy Moore came strutting over through the tables and chairs. It's amazing how you can not see someone for ten years and then recognize him in a split second. Jimmy looks the same, maybe one year older than when we graduated. He's still riding horses, still trying to get into the Olympics. Good luck, Jimmy! Hope to see you on TV someday.

"You're working for whom now?" "Warner Brothers." "Where?" "In downtown Philadelphia." I was talking to Catherine Mathews at Dirty Woman Park. I said, "Wow! I used to work in downtown Philly!" It turns out Catherine works a block away from where I used to work in Philadelphia! Catherine was simply glowing with happiness. It was good to see. Someone walked up behind me: "CATHERINE!" "TRACY!" They gave each other a huge hug. "How are you doing! . . . You look so good! . . . So do you!. . ." They formed a world of their own. I turned around and slowly looked out over the picnic. It hadn't let up. On a picnic blanket spread out under the tree, there was some hefty reminiscing, catching up, and regular conversation going on. Beverely Pitts, Scott Ormond, Adrianne Behning, Paula Ducommun, Rusty Schellman, Jon Squire (who supplied the micro brews), Julie Barnes (with her darling, talking, and very polite and mature 2- year-old daughter), and Joel LeClerc & wife Celine who came in from Boston for the event. Pam Phillips even brought her parents (I talked to them. THREE MORE YEARS was the phrase I most remember from my conversation with them!) If you looked further, you could see the families of Sean Hartling and Lia Leyba. I looked even further. I squinted. Up in the sky. Was it a bird? Was it a plane? Was it Randy Brenneman? Could have been. He said he might have to fly on Saturday and if so, wouldn't be able to make it to the picnic. Bummer. I pretended it was Randy flying up there. I even saw him dip a wing to us as he flew over.

"So what's Randy doing now?" Mr. O'Connor asked me as he sat on a Dirty Woman park bench, legs crossed, O'Connor style. "He's flying planes up in Denver." O'Connor's dark face glowed, too. "Wow. Randy's flying?" O'Connor could remember most of our names. Amazing. I mean, an average of 200 students multiplied by 20 years or so. We're talking 4000 swimming names and faces that he has to remember. And you think I could have at least remembered the first ten amendments for his class back then.

"When did I have you in my class?" Mr. Connally, my former eighth grade science teacher, asked me, sitting at a table in the Cactus Rose. "Well, I remember we did a unit on the first Space Shuttle that was going off at the time. When was that?" I started thinking.

I couldn't think anymore. My mind was getting tired. The weekend was so full of the past. I felt like I was on another planet. I sat back with my almost empty bottle of Coors and closed my eyes. All the people I had seen that weekend started swirling kaleidoscope-like before my mind . . . Shawna Rooney's cute smile . . . Joale McKesson's face that I think I remember from the second grade . . . Bret Morrison's friendly face and smile. . . there was Kim Wade . . . zoom . . . the weekend had been so full . . . Tim Miller and Ty Tantum spending the night at my house . . . zoom . . . sharing a large Enzo's Pizza with Charlotte Silver and Misty Anderson on the sidewalk of the Crocodile Rocks in the Springs . . . it was all too much . . .

* * *

The trees were blowing their large leaves. The air was cool. Mt. Herman was looking down majestically. It was late in the afternoon. The green grass under the trees had emptied itself of `85 graduates . . . almost! There were still two women working hard cleaning up: Kristin Jacobson and Jenny Sisung. Two months ago, this reunion was not going to happen. Then these two women decided that they wanted one, so they created one. They picked a weekend on which they were both free, cranked up their computers, got on the phones, and started contacting, organizing, and planning. They were able to contact ninety of us. They organized a full-blown picnic including an enormous cooked turkey and six huge, Sams-size tubs of potato salad, noodle salad, and cole slaw. They made the reservations at the Cactus Rose and organized the video cassette of high school videos. They went through last-minute changes without batting an eye. In short, they thought of it, they created it, and they put it on for us. One word describes their organizing ability and ingenuity on this project: AWESOME! Thanks for your work, Jenny and Kristin--you've created some lasting memories!

 


Go to Edward's Home Page Write Edward