Treason of Words

When I was young, before the idea of college, any real science, or even geography had appeared on the horizon, I wanted a job with a cool hat. In a way, I suppose, this was a symptom or manifestation of the general tenor of my early childhood. Aside from the cartoons I watched and underoos I wore, I could very well have been a 4 or 5 year old at any point in the previous 30 or so years, what with the stay-at-home mom and small town environment. In that era, it seems there were more jobs requiring hats.

Flash forward a few decades, and hats are by and large gone. I wear one when I can get away with it, but it serves no functional purpose other than keeping the sun off my shaved pate, and does noting to identify me beyond branding me as a guy who likes to wear hats. With professional hats, it seems, have gone simple job descriptions, though. A colleague of mine aspires to be a fireman firefighter; I suspect he just wants a job that’s easy to explain.

What is it that I do? You know, for a living? Everyone in my department understands. many people in the company do, too. I suspect that elsewhere in the industry there are some that get it. It’s not too hard to explain to those in related fields. My parents, I think, almost know. Other family and friends have some vague notion. My grandparents are pretty much a lost cause, though. It needs a name, though, one better than “Data Analyst,” as well as, I think, a hat. I favor Dataherd for the name. I manage database data, telling it where to go and what to do by the thousands and hundred of thousands of records. I have helpful programs, like sheepdogs, that corral troublesome bits, and take care of the details that I can’t deal with efficiently by myself.

As for a natty chapeau, I’m told my great-grandfather was a shepherd in Italy before coming to the US; I’m not sure what sort of hat was involved there, but this being Texas, I’m thinking cowboy hat.

The shindigs seem to have gone off without a hitch, or at least none that Shea let on about, excepting some guy closer to his 30-year reunion than our 10-year who decided to appropriate some hors d’oeuvres*, giving our hostess a case of l’esprit d’escalier* despite the distinct lack of escalier. Everyone looked great, and seemed to be fairing well. No doubt some of that is the result of gussying up and ego-shielding obfuscation, but on the balance we’ve done well for ourselves, with some interesting in-marriages and plenty of budding careers in the medical, financial and public sectors.

*These word choices brought to you by the Committe to Promote the Pretentious Use of French For No Apparent Reason

My favorite game of the night was guessing who was who before the name tags appeared. I think I did pretty well. Hair color and quantity varied quite a bit, as have some builds, but faces don’t change much. What has changed, though, is me, it seems. Rick(y) Wright and I were voted most changed. I’m not quite sure how to take that one, although I’m assured that it’s quite a compliment. Perhaps it means I’m now less of an insufferable know-it-all and lech, or maybe my glasses, goatee and baldness in conjunction with a spouse of a different hue brought it on. It does rather make me wonder what everyone else saw, then and now, or as bard Rabbie Burns put it:

O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion.

I learned rather a bit in the past two days. Parker and Wisan have gotten back into comics. Laura Rigelado has a veritable posse of friends within an inch or two of her height. Everyone privatey predicted that I would spend my career in front of a computer terminal. I had somehow conflated Christy Summers and Kim Swaney in my mind (sorry for the confusing question about my date with the elusive last name, Kim!). There are actualy those who deign to speak of lil’ old me when I’m not present. Geocaching is a really obscure hobby. I still suck at washers.

And now, m’haps we”ll have some pictures? Yes, methinks we shall…

In which the class confronts their past in an ongoing search for themselves (in the blowup of the senior class photo).

Callie and Chosei stand guard over our precious gravel resources

The long-awaited day is nigh. The lovable but aloof Class of ‘96 is finally drawing together to reunite. Not that we were ever terribly unified in the first place. What has a decade changed? it’s easier for us to know in advance than it was for our parents. This here series of tubes was just getting popular when we graduated. Many of us have kept tabs on each other, and the advent of social sites has allowed close friends to remain so with much greater ease than ever before. One wonders if the Clas of ‘06 will even bother with a reunion, since they’ll all already know where each one ended up, what they look like, and what they’re doing. Even my best friends from high school are a bit distant now. I fear I was never an especially good friend myself. I can count on one hand the number of them whose homes I vistied, or whose parties I attended. I hope to reconnect some old severed, forgotten, or weakened bonds, and perhaps give being a friend another chance.