The Dream Lives On

I hope you’ll allow me to indulge myself for this blog entry and take a trip away from the outdoor recreation books and my other writing to instead take a trip down memory lane. 

For those of you who have read the first edition of “Living in a Banana Dream” (yes, first edition, but more on that in an upcoming blog) you know that this “fictional” tale of growing up (loosely based on faulty memories, of course) centers around a gang of friends reuniting at a quintessential New Jersey diner before heading off to their 40^th class reunion. Well, the “dream” continues.

Back in June I made my way up to old Mahwah, New Jersey for just that, the real-life 40^th reunion, the one I wrote about two years before it even happened. Every hour except those used for sleep and the 3 or so hours that I spent at the real class reunion was with the gang and I’m here to tell you, and I can only speak for myself but I think the rest of the gang felt the same, it was just like in the book, like we had never left.

I’m sure there are other groups of friends that have survived the years and are still as tight as they were all those years ago but this seemed different, like we were family not just friends. Even though 2,000 miles and forty years separated us we were, and still are, just a phone call away. Our sense of humor including non-stop bad jokes and puns, our dreams, nothing has changed. Even my family is awestruck with how close this “gang” is.

As expected we did the usual reunion type events like eating at our favorite diners and restaurants we knew all too well from our distant past. We slurped down large frosty mugs of Egg Creams and chowed down on Kinchley’s Pizza and had Reuben’s at the Mahwah Bar and Grill. The only eatery we couldn’t visit was Pal’s Diner, the central figure of “Living in a Banana Dream” which was physically moved years ago to save it from ruin and which is now a thriving diner in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

We visited the old high school which isn’t the same at all. In the book, you may remember that I described it as a campus, several separate buildings that made it a challenge getting from one class to another on those frosty, icy, bitterly cold northern winter mornings. Today it is a single building, all-in-one. A couple of the old buildings remain and are being used by the school board or for storage but otherwise, it’s not even close to what it used to be with the exception of the gold-ish statue of the school mascot, the Thunderbird, perched out front.

Even though the school was closed for the summer the new principal was gracious enough to allow a few of us to walk around and check out the newer building. We looked at the plaques, the awards, names of kids we knew from the Class of 76 who still hold records in one sport or another. Then we came upon the one place that was a must see for us - the cafeteria.

It basically looked the same but was no longer a single building. The front now had an overhang that attached it to the new building like an umbilical cord. It still had large glass windows in the front like it used to be but instead of looking out over a beautiful northern New Jersey mountain vista it now looked out into the walkway and the brickwork of the new building.

Each of us took a seat on the benches that were attached to long tables that stretched from one end of the room to the other. They were almost exact replications of the tables we used to sit at, or as far as we could remember they did. This is where the memories really began to flow. The cafeteria was the center of activity forty years ago. When we weren’t at one of our houses watching the Yankees, playing baseball, or cruising with our best girl, the cafeteria was the hub where crushes on your favorite girl or guy were either realized or dashed. It was where many notes were passed between tables and friends, sometimes being intercepted by the wrong person. It was where we made our plans.

After leaving the school we drove around town to see our old houses and haunts. Million dollar houses were springing up next to or replacing the old blue collar homes of years gone by. The town had become upper class, a far, far different feel than forty years ago when factories like the Ford Assembly Plant would chug out smoke and products to the world.

We circled around and drove up Route 17 not once but several times. The traffic there was still mean to borrow a phrase from TV show host Uncle Floyd.  My face pressed up against the glass of the car I was riding in, straining to see any vestiges of my old house, but there was nothing, not a trace of the old house that sat on the side of Houvenkopf Mountain, blown away by tons of dynamite years before so that a new multi-lane highway could merge in with Route 17.

For the first time during the trip my eyes began to tear as I remembered my Mom and Dad, long since passed, my sister who passed a year ago, and the too many to mention remarkable times the gang had in that house.

On the very last day, the day of the actual reunion, the class had set aside the morning to have a hike that I was to lead. It was a hike to McMillan Reservoir. Forty years ago, before we ever attempted our first backpacking trip we would take day hikes to the top of Houvenkopf Mountain, the nearby cliffs of Ramapo Torne, and McMillan Reservoir. The reservoir was one of our favorite destinations especially in the fall when the autumn leaves are bright and reflect in the still water. 

It’s hard to believe that those hikes so long ago, those little jaunts with the gang would end up leading me to the hills, canyons, rivers, and beaches of Alabama and an amazing side-career writing about one of my favorite activities.

I worried about the reunion. I worried about how everyone might have changed. I worried about how I have changed. I should have known better.