Recently, a relative sent my husband a picture of his high school graduation day. I’d never seen this photo before. My husband is the tall young man in the red robe—the color of the Marshall High School Owls. He graduated in 1967—more than fifty years ago. My husband probably thought of himself as grown and ready to take on the world—or at least the Naval Academy, where he would begin just weeks later. But now, decades later, I’m sure he would say he still had a lot of growing up to do. After all, he wouldn’t meet me for another decade, and he’d probably say THAT made him grow up in a hurry!
Twenty years ago this spring, my son graduated from high school. He went to Rockhurst High School, an all boys Catholic school, and the young graduates wore tuxedos rather than robes of blue, the color of the Rockhurst Hawklets. The young men looked fabulous.
It was a warm spring day, albeit windy. Graduation was held in a large downtown auditorium, with brunch beforehand in the convention center across the street from the auditorium. As we walked from venue to venue, the wind blew hair and skirts and neckties, and it was hard to maintain our finery in position.
All my son’s grandparents were there, which made it a festive occasion. My parents flew in from Washington State to stay with us for a week or so. My husband’s parents drove in from Marshall, Missouri. My son’s paternal grandfather, at age 82, could still drive and get around quite well, though by the time of my son’s college graduation four years later, Grandpa was unable to attend. So this high school graduation might have been the last celebration featuring my son that all four grandparents attended.
Brunch was mediocre, at least in my opinion. Others might have enjoyed it, but the egg casserole was some Southwestern concoction featuring green peppers, and I couldn’t eat it. Plus, there was orange juice. I think I picked at a croissant and fruit, and wished I’d eaten breakfast before our sojourn downtown.
We ate our brunch (such as it was), then made our way across the windy street. I remember very little of the ceremony itself. I know we greeted some of my son’s classmates and their families.
I know we took pictures, though my pictures of the event disappeared into my messy archives for years. I found my dad’s pictures after he died. The pictures from that day are from my dad’s camera.
After the ceremony, we had a family dinner at Pierpont’s restaurant in Union Station. The food was excellent, and I was starving after the mediocre brunch. But what I ate at Pierpont’s, I do not recall. They’re known for steak, but also make wonderful seafood dishes.
Twenty years ago seems a long time. More than half of my son’s life now. There have been ups and downs through the two decades, but more ups than downs.
Just like my husband on his high school graduation day, my son probably thought of himself as grown as he walked across the stage in his tuxedo. But he, too, would probably say now that most of his growing up has happened in the past twenty years, as he has made his own way in the world—from job to job, apartment to apartment. Now he is married and has a dog. He thinks about maintaining his health insurance. He worries about his parents during the pandemic.
Through the generations, milestones come and go, then come again. We look back over decades and recognize the changes we do not see day by day.
What milestones do you recall, and what has changed since then?
