High School Reunion Part 2: Redwoods and Reunion

From Smith River, a few miles south of the Oregon border, I headed through the redwoods on Highway 101. I traveled a little way on the Avenue of Giants, a dark, curving two-lane road under the trees which was still the main highway when my family traveled there back in the 1950s.

There is something about the redwood trees that calms you. You drive through their shade, gawping at the size of the trunks, smelling the rising aroma of forest floor on a hot day, and it seems like there is no history, no future, only the eternal now of these trees. It was good to revisit them, inhale those forest scents, and feel the deep peace in their shadows.

Made it to Santa Rosa that night. Stopped at a modest looking older motel, where they charged me $215 for the night. “There’s two beds, and it’s the weekend,” explained the nice young man at the desk. The room was nothing special, but it did smell bad. Hear ye: DO NOT stay at the North Bay Inn in Santa Rosa. If you want to spend that much for a night’s sleep, find a nicer place to do it.

The next day I made it to Watsonville, checked into my motel, put on the specified business casual wear for the reunion, and waited for my friend Shane to pick me up. Shane showed up soon, we stopped to pick up friend Merri Lou and her husband Barry, and off we went to the reunion.

Why go to a reunion? I was not particularly close to most of those people fifty years ago. I didn’t really want to go but made myself do it, to shake myself up, get out of my stay-at-home rut, and perhaps see some new angles on life.

The thing is, we at the reunion are the ones who live on. It is something still to be alive fifty years later, to have survived everything life has thrown at us and still to be wondering what life has in store for us. We are the privileged ones, still here to play the game.

Or, as Kurt Vonnegut said, “We are here on earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you different.” I don’t have many arguments against that thesis, although personally I like to feel like I’m doing some good while farting around. That’s my cross to bear, and as we all know, it’s better to bear a cross than to cross a bear.

Sorry. Just farting around.

The reunion was okay. The people I most enjoyed seeing were the kids with whom I went to elementary school. Some of my girlfriends from high school whom I remember fondly were there.

I got to talk to Mas Hashimoto. He lived in Camp Poston during World War II, a Japanese internee along with his family. He graduated from Watsonville High in 1953, then came back there to teach. After three decades of teaching he retired to devote his life to being an advocate for civil liberties. He has many speaking engagements, and like survivors of the Holocaust in Europe he strives to keep the memory of the internment of Japanese American citizens during World War II alive.

This is a good thing. I grew up in Watsonville, had many Japanese American fellow students, and never heard of the internment until I was in my twenties. Memories can be buried as well as forgotten.*

As we were leaving, I turned to Shane and said, “I have a sore throat from shouting to be heard all evening.” Hah. The next morning I awoke and realized that no, what I had was a cold. Bummer.

Ran a couple of errands. Went out to the ranch where I grew up and discovered that the house had been bulldozed and a nice new house built in its place. My brother and I were amazed the old house lasted as long as it did. It was termite-infested back in the fifties.

Then went and bought some flowers (yellow roses) and a vase and went to the Pioneer Cemetery to visit my parents’ graves. There they lie, side by side. I arranged the roses in the vase and set it between them.

Went back to the motel to be sick the rest of that day, then got up the next morning and headed for I-5.

Did stop for a brief meet-up with cousin Charlotte in Williams. She lives in Hidden Valley Lake, a community which was in the path of the Valley Fire. The fire stopped at her back fence, where firefighters had bulldozed a fire line. So many people were not as fortunate as she was, including some of her neighbors.

Now I’m home. Autumn is moving in and the dog and cat seem as happy to have me back as I am to be back. Nothing like leaving for a while to realize how much you love home, especially after you’ve shaken yourself up, gotten out of your rut, and acquired some new angles on life.

*Fact: Canada interned Japanese Canadian citizens during World War II. Their internment did not end until 1949.