Can't iron my birthday suit

Two dozen Harlem High, Class of ’63 grads, arrived at the Great Northern Lodge for our 55th Class Reunion. Hugs, jabber, huge smiles: We provide instant love, just add self.

I blurted, “We can no longer say, ‘My, you have not changed a bit.’” I am not sure anybody appreciated my comment. Truth is, undeniably, we have changed. Life has its way with us. But we are still us. Maybe more us. Pretense and posturing fell away over the years. Better usses. We still say, “You look wonderful.” We tell the truth.

Because we, at an all-school reunion in 2005, committed to meeting annually, our depth of knowledge of each other, our feelings for one another, our acceptance of every wrinkle and wart has increased. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Undoubtedly the highlight of this trip has been the Red Bus Tour through the park. Jesse arranged for us to have our own bus. The day could not have been more perfect. Or was the highlight Jesse and Jim banterring with one another in the way of two (older) men, better than vaudeville.

Driving from the mountains onto the high semi-arid plateau of north-eastern Montana is like entering an alternate universe. I do love the Big Empty. Especially in the fall when the very air reflects golden, when the grains are harvested, when antelope dot the stubble fields.

Ah, Havre, I see changes. You are a vital community, an anchor for a wide, wide area. I hope the seemingly negative changes, with three important stores closing, will be metamorphosed into new life, Phoenix out of the ashes, so to speak.

My good friend Jane and I started our morning with breakfast at the 4B’s, for memory’s sake. I ordered tomato soup and grilled cheese for breakfast. Used to be, when my dad picked me up at the train station, that is what we did.

Popped in for hand shakes and hugs with Tim and Pam at the news office. Walked over to talk with Rick at the Grateful Bread and pick up a couple loaves of the staff of life to take on to my cousin Shirley in Harlem.

Some years the leaves turn from green to brown, seemingly overnight, no in-between. This year autumn is ablaze with color, the greens turning to shades of red and gold. Harlem, barely a blip on the map, is beautiful.

I went with Shirley to play pinochle at Kennedy’s where laughter outweighed skill. I had my newly revised “last will” notarized at the library. Small towns do have advantages. One never knows where one might find an essential service.

Lady Luck was by my side. The homecoming parade rolled and marched and pranced down Main Street while I stood waiting to cross, triggering memories of past parades. My cousins, second cousins, once removed, Truth and Titan, marched in the band. Go Wildcats.

Next week I will be in Glendive with my daughter and her family.

Next year Harlem hosts an all-school reunion celebrating the 100 year anniversary of the school. That is the rumor I hear. Our class is making plans. This year our class celebrated our 55th. We all celebrated, if that is the appropriate word, our 73rd birthday.

Karen said, “Not me. I turn the numbers around and celebrate my 37th.”

Lola said, “Well, for 37, you sure didn’t hold up well.”

So much for fooling mother nature.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].