GICC 50th High School Reunion

First row, sitting from left: Dianne Davis Ziller, Barb Venhaus Beck, Dan Slattery, Susie Vogel
Schutt, Barb Kosinski Bosak. Middle row from left: Tony Wassinger, Karen Pfeifer Robison,
Terry Paustian Buck, Jean Fitzpatrick. Last row from left: Tom Moore, Willy Mohr, Greg Walz,
Patty Buhrman McBride, Cathy Brown Howard, Geri Koziol Zaruba, Lenny Sorahan.

Grand Island Central Catholic Class of 1973

I was hoping to lose 20 pounds before my high school reunion. 

But it turns out I'm tired.

So now, having given up all hope of a leaner, meaner version of my 68-year-old self, I sit in the lobby of Grand Island Central Catholic. Not only was I a student in this old school, but I've also been a teacher for 47 years. In truth I've never lived anywhere in my life as long as I've lived at GICC. On this warm September afternoon I'm waiting for my visiting classmates to arrive for a tour of their alma mater.

It occurs to me that not once in this last half century have I ever sat by myself in the lobby all alone - never. Not a single soul but me inhabits the building right now, and it's very peaceful. Occasionally during the school day as I walk through the empty old gym, I've laughed aloud at a flash back of my classmate Ron Ziller. The kid could push a mop across the gym floor in perfect imitation of Harry, our old janitor. It killed us every time.

But this is different. Much has changed in 50 years. The once dark lobby is now bright and welcoming. At one end of the hall is the magnificent new gym and a just-renovated cafteria. At the other are the newer library and offices. Beyond that is the construction site of our brand spanking new grade school scheduled to open next fall. But the original floor is still here. I study the scuffed old tile thinking of all the times my classmates and I ambled across it on our way to class talking and laughing and joking. 

GICC is home to me.

At last I see a car pull up and sit up straight. It's Jeanie Fitzpatrick, one of my best friends from high school. I have not seen her in many decades -  not since her wonderful mother and father moved away from Grand Island. Delighted, I hold the door open to greet my tiny friend, and as she waves and smiles, I feel the sting of foolish tears. Until that moment I don't realize how much I've missed this special friend from my youth. The warm, welcoming Fitzpatrick home on 18th Street was one of my favorite places in high school.

"Jeanie!" We laugh and hug. She is still Jeanie - gracious, funny, pleasant and much like her wonderful mother. We do nothing but beam at each other for a full five minutes.

Next comes Dianna Borowski who still boasts her beautiful, chiseled jawline and the ornery grin I always remember. Geri Koziol and her nice husband Sam come, too. Geri and her brothers and sisters lived right across the street from school, and her brother still owns the house and the family upholstery business.

"My parents always told me," Geri remembers now, "that I was a year old when Central Catholic first broke ground." Her parents had a front row seat and remember the ground breaking and the original main structure rise up before them. We stare at the old brick and mortar in a kind of reverence. GICC has been here as long as we have.

Dianna recalls that her oldest brother George was a member of the first graduating class. He's 84 years old now and in ill health. In fact, Dianna will leave first thing in the morning to visit her ailing brother.

As we tour the building, I see the familiar school through the eyes of my classmates who have been away a long time. Jeanie pauses in Pat Kayl's old science room.

"I spent many hours in this old room," she recalls. 

We could rehash those many memories forever, but it's time to join the rest of our classmates. My husband John and I meet good friend Barb Venhaus and her husband Dave in the parking lot of the Saddle Club. John and Dave are obedient husbands accompanying us to an event that will bore them to tears. It's no surprise that they will eventually abandon us to watch football at the bar. It doesn't matter. By then, Barb and I are knee deep into conversation with our classmates. 

Three wonderful friends - Karen Pfeifer, Susie Vogel and Barb Kosinski - have planned and organized this event to a gnat's nub. All summer they've met at Carlos O'Kelly's to prepare, call old classmates, and make reservations for our 50th. Karen and Susie are a tiny bit more practical than Barb.

"Susie wouldn't let me have anything I wanted," Barb pretends to pout. "I wanted to play games and do fun things," she frowns.

Susie only laughs. "Barb, we don't need games. That's what margaritas are for."

Barb leads us in grace. Thoughtfully, she remembers those of us who couldn't attend and the eight of us who are now in Heaven. We miss them all. I glance over at the memorial table and feel especially nostalgic for our Donny Leifeld and Johnny Lechner. What good boys they were!

The prime rib is tender, and the drinks flow. It's not long before we're scattering from table to table catching up on each other's lives. Lenny Sorahan, GICC's star athlete, is still the life of the party. He's working the crowd and making us laugh. My old classmate has endured a heart attack and cancer, but you'd never know it. In fact, I am astonished by all these remarkable people. They've suffered unimaginable loss and sickness. Greg Walz spent the better part of a year tenderly nursing his wife Pam through stem cell treatment. Susie lost her husband many years ago, and lively Barb Kosinski lost a sweet daughter, her husband, and all her siblings. Then she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Dianne Davis agonizes about her eight-year-old grandson who is undergoing chemo for leukemia. Most of us are doing battle with the ravages of age: cancer, heart issues, knee and hip replacements and even dementia.

Danny Slattery, a talented musician and the lead in our long ago high school musical, has been forced to drop out of his band and abandon the guitar because of his ailments.

"Danny," I say, "you move even slower than I do. We just get slower and slower, and then we die," I joke.

He shrugs his shoulders and smiles philosophically. "That's the way it works!" he says. 

But there is no death in this room. Tonight, we look at each other only to see the sweet 18-year-olds we were 50 years ago. I'm amazed by Patty Buhrman's still beautiful hair and Tom Moore's child-like grin. "Billy Jack" is what we always called Joe Whyte. Nobody under 50 will even know who that is. Tony Wassinger looks exactly like the actor Robert Mitchum, and Willie Mohr's eyes are still ocean blue. Terry Paustian giggles and is easily surprised - just the way she was in high school. Tonight she has brought her new companion who seems like a nice man.

"Are you good enough for her?" I ask him point blank. 

He looks surprised. "Probably not. Is there a quiz?"

Barb Kosinski dashes around taking pictures and then places a video call to all of us - including the 50 people who have not been able to attend.

"This way all of us can see each other and say hello!" she shouts gleefully.

At once all our phones are chirping.

"What the..." Greg Walz holds up his phone and stares at the screen in bewilderment. "What do I do?"

We are a room full of 68-year-olds who don't know how to answer a group video chat.

"Someone go to the restaurant and find a child," I advise.

What a great comfort, I discover, to be surrounded by people who are as old as I am - people who aren't sure how to transition to retirement or use Venmo or know what FOMO means. 

At Central Catholic where the students and almost all of my colleagues are young, it's easy to forget that nearly 70 years of parents and kids and nuns and priests and teachers came before. When I finally retire, I will be the last person at GICC to remember Harry the Janitor or Sister Ellen Patrick. Nobody else will have any idea who 93-year-old Sister Nicholas was or why we called her "Speedy". They won't know about pep clubs or drill teams or how the nuns lined us up in the Little Theater to measure our skirts. They won't remember that we used to learn Latin or that the second floor art room was a big, lofty space with concrete and rafters. They'll have no idea what "jugs" are or remember that every Christmas Eve we sang The Messiah at Midnight Mass or that the junior and senior girls duked it out on the grid iron for the annual Powder Puff football game. 

But the class of '73 remembers. Those memories feel like part of our genetic make-up. They've molded us into the fine, upstanding senior citizens we are today, by God.

Thank you for an evening to remember, Karen and Barb and Susie. Thank you, too, dear classmates and friends. Can we do it again in five years? That should give us plenty of time to practice.

By then we should know how to open a group chat.