It’s an idyllic thought.
The other night, when a childhood friend and I were messaging, retirement entered the conversation. We laughed about a fleeting thought, then when I went to bed, I expanded on their idea.
Because wouldn’t it be awesome if the entire Class of 1994 returned to our small Manitoba town to retire? Back to the Town of Arborg?
So, I propose, when we’re all cool, badass 60-year olds we converge home. To the town we knew as the Village of Arborg.
Class of 1994 – we’ll go for coffee at Chicken Chef. Just the 38 of us. Every day at three o’clock. Like the countless coffee crews before us.
Only our coffee will be spiked. With Baileys, Peppermint Schnapps. Or Grenadine. Because we’re rebels. Rebels who know who the designated drivers are – the same ones from high school. Rebels who own awesome mid-life crisis Corvettes and motorcycles. Rebels who are gluten intolerant with too many allergies to fit on our medic alert bracelets.
We’d attend to socials for kids who – at the time of this blog – are in elementary school. And we’d freak them out with a flash mob of the Macarena. No music. Just show up and dance. Then sashay, bathroom right.
We’d go to Three Mile, Beer Alley, and the Maze, and make a fire in a CSA approved pit. Drink Shiraz and eat gluten-free protein bars while listening to Dance Mix ’92 and ’93, but not ’94. It wasn’t that great. We’ll spin The Tragically Hip, Bryan Adams, and Nirvana on a duct-taped CD player – and convince someone to leave the hatch of their Nissan Crossover open.
Instead of talking about crushes or having drunk fights, we’d whip out photos of our grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and we’d argue about politics. Actually, we did the latter in high school.
On Halloween, we’d meet in town and go trick or treating. Dressed as two cardboard feet, Jason Voorhees, Catwoman, Scarlett O’Hara – and to throw people off – a payphone. And we’d trade candy. Swap my sugar-free, lactose-free chocolate bar for your soy-free licorice.
At Christmas, we’d gift exchanges. The days of the “10 nail polishes for $10” are over. Forget grown up gifts though. We’d exchange gifts we never received from Santa. The Snoopy Sno Cone Maker, Easy Bake Oven, and the Hot Wheels Garage. Or those CDs Santa deemed lyrically explicit.
The anniversary of our grad would be a massive celebration. With fireworks, and gluten-free, vegan cake. We’d have an annual montage, documenting our shenanigans. From the age of five to 60, and beyond.
Because we’re aging together – and still looking awesome. After all, we survived the decade when hairspray held up skyscrapers and makeup was applied with a spatula.
Eventually, we’d take over the personal care home. Imagine. The entire class of 1994. In the personal care home.
Racing wheelchairs. Blowing spitballs. Shaving off people’s eyebrows when they’ve fallen asleep. Plugging bathtub drains with towels – and getting a six of Pepto Bismol and watching water cascade into the hallway.
We’d huddle in the common room with our sleeping bags, high school yearbooks, and class photos and reminisce. Parties, air band contests, dances. Car accidents, skiing accidents. That protest, that gas leak, that near miss.
But, one morning we’d wake up and learn someone didn’t. Then it’d hit us. We couldn’t stay an idyllic group of 38 forever.
But we’d have 37 people to lean on, who remembers when the class of 1994 mattered more than anything. And the only fight at the memorial would be who’d do the eulogy. We’d go to the Arborg Hotel after their service, because as a member of the class of 1994, they’d want us to tip back a beverage so we’d feel a little less empty.
Despite the fact we know 37 becomes 36, and as times ticks, three becomes two. A rock, paper, scissors contest no one wants to win.
We’d know in the end, though, it was idyllic.
Because we had 1994.
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Originally published on March 8th, 2016 at 29then40.wordpress.com
Tammy W. Karatchuk 