This past weekend was my 30th high school class reunion. I can’t even begin to describe the mix of emotions and thought processes that such an unwelcome revelation elicited. They ranged from disbelief that three decades had passed since I’d last trod the hormonal halls of conscripted learning to a curiously resigned wonderment as to which of Life’s many moribundities had befallen my former classmates.

I have, of course, skipped right over the horror, revulsion and bitterly staunch announcements that not only would I “not be caught dead” at such a function, but “hell would freeze over” if ever I did. I am still among the living and, last time I checked the temperatures in Phoenix, heat was still the norm. Let it suffice to say then that, due to a cancellation at the theatre, I found myself with that rarest of occurrences: a free Saturday night! Hence I made the effort, with Donny in tow. I have to admit, it wasn’t horrible. I have to further admit that Mama Kelly’s Magic Muffins made it that much easier.

There were high points, certainly. Cindy almost setting the table on fire, while sitting directly across from me, was among those. She’s just lucky I was drinking water rather than something alcoholic, otherwise it would certainly have added fuel to the fire when I doused the fourth of her combusting napkins with it. Later, being told by the former star quarterback that, not only did he think I had the hottest date there, but that I must be “doing something right,’ rated right up there, too. Heh.

Overall, though, it was just weird being amongst those people again. Some haven’t changed much. Others were virtually unrecognizable. Kids I’d known since kindergarten and journeyed with through 12 grueling years of formative social training, have suddenly been transformed in my cheesecloth memory card into middle-aged parents and grandparents. The snippets of obligatory backstory I nodded and smiled through I found to be all too common for those who never quite escape their small hometowns all across the nation. In other words, no real surprises. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but neither does it rate a rundown.

Instead, I’ll muddle through the rest of the weekend, which gave texture and immediacy to the nostalgia like a DeLorean rocketing through time. Since I technically had a three-day weekend, owing to the fact that my next event isn’t until Wednesday and I have been putting in a lot of extra hours lately, Donny decided that it was necessary for us to take a “road trip.” I’m glad we did. Though it wasn’t anywhere nearly long enough to be considered “relaxing,” it was definitely good to get away. And we did have those muffins… We didn’t go far. Just up the hill to Ruidoso, where we rented a room at a rundown old ski lodge called the Swiss Chalet and used it as our base of operations.

Normally I don’t waste time on superfluous descriptions of boarding houses. Generally if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. The Chalet, however, was a particularly fine choice, considering. It was eccentric and quirky with a definite haunted feel, much like the Overlook Lodge in both the book and the movie, The Shining. I kept expecting to see odd little children riding tricycles or phantom bartenders doling out doleful advice. Instead, we snooped around and found neglected walkways, dried up Jacuzzis and a seemingly forgotten-by-time, and thus thankfully unlit, observation deck from which we marveled at the vastness of brilliant star-filled skies, unobscured by light or air pollution.

Never mind that the room itself had two copies of the exact same bad Bob Ross-type landscape print on the wall, or that the key card read, “Want room service? Call Dominoes!” with a phone number printed in bright yellow letters below, or the fact that the hotel bar closed at 6pm. It was still a pretty cool place to wile away a few hours of speculatory deducting, like those meddlesome kids driving around in the Mystery Machine used to do. Because, you see, we weren’t there for the room service, the art appreciation or any other amenities. We were there to explore.

Our exploration actually began Sunday morning, with a chill in the air and fog infiltrating the surrounding forest like the Hollywood backlot of yet another tedious Stephen King knock-off. Once properly fortified by a downhill dash to Starbucks, we made the drive over the mountain to the historic Old West town of Lincoln, setting for the infamous Lincoln County War. Naturally, not being a native New Mexican, Donny had never heard of the Lincoln County War, though such pivotal historical figures as Pat Garret, Billy the Kid, Lew Wallace and Kit Carson were known to him. That made the exploration all the more enjoyable.

We trolled through museums, read plaques and historical markers and wandered trails off the beaten path for hours. Then we drove back, had an early dinner and did the same with the tourist shops of Ruidoso. I found it very interesting that, with all the history permeating the area, I couldn’t find a single decent book on the subject of the Lincoln County War. I’d told Donny that, when I was young, the War was an obsession of mine, rivaling his own obsession with the Titanic. Now I feel that odd obsession returning. I think I’d forgotten how fascinating that story is to me but now, having walked those haunted streets again, the banked coals are starting to remember the flame. Oh, and now we have Amazon! That ups the ante by raising the parameters of obsession to a whole new level!

The rest is just filler. Crisp mountain air, low-scudding clouds, colorfully-turning underbrush, all the things one might expect from a lovely mountain excursion. Unsettling trips down memory lane notwithstanding, it couldn’t have been a better road trip. We made good use of our “down” time. The only critters we encountered during our brief getaway were a parking lot-wandering skunk, countless squished raccoons and three shell-shocked fawns, milling across the road after their mother was mowed down by a hit-and-run semi.

Huh. It occurs to me that this might not be the best way to end a journal entry. Or is it? Upon further reflection, I think it might be, after all. Hey, why not? That’s the cycle of life, baby. There can be no enjoyment of the bright side without occasional peeks into the darkness beyond.

And that just about sums up my entire weekend. ‘Nuff very much said.




History. In the making.