A Three Paragraph Autobiography

Exactly three years ago today I was attending my 50th high school class reunion in Minot.  The Ryan High Class of '65 had eighty-nine members.  We have the distinction of being the only class in the school's history not to have received a yearbook.  The two word explanation from the administration at the time was "no money."  It's a sore subject which raises its frowning head every time we get together.

Through the years we have had five reunions.  The same three or four women classmates end up doing 90+% of the work because they still live in the area.  So, by default, the job is theirs to accept or decline.  Thankfully, they have always stepped to the plate.  The reunions have been some of the best weekends of my social life.  We have class members throughout the country, yet many come back for every reunion.  Hardly any classmates have family left in the Magic City.  The attraction is simply the chance to be with folks we only get to see every decade or so and with whom we shared many good times and bad.  As a class we have a pretty high opinion of each other.  I definitely don't have a problem with that; in fact, I think our group's self-assessment is well deserved.

When we were students in the sixties, we were segregated into three tracks.  With rare exceptions, each student attended class only with students in her own track.  Consequently, the opportunities to develop friendships with those outside of our own track were limited, at least during the school day.  For kids like me and the incoming transfers from Minot Air Force Base, that could be problematic.  I believe that's a key reason why our reunions, even though held in a relatively remote part of the country, are well attended.  The reunions have been a vehicle for getting better acquainted with people who, ironically, share a history yet with whom we're not all that acquainted.   A case in point was Ken Korgel.

The most somber part of any reunion is learning who among our classmates has passed away.  As of three years ago, that number was up to fifteen, nine more than was the sad statistic at our 40th reunion. Ken Korgel died as a result of an automobile accident shortly after our 40th.  In the years following his retirement as a water plant operator for the city of Minot, Kenny had taken up ranching on the nearby prairies.  We were not in each other's track at Ryan, and for some reason never connected at a reunion until our 40th in 2005.  (He had transferred out of Ryan before graduation, yet was invited to the reunions.)  After speaking with him for the first time at length, I found him to be a very cordial and humorous guy, attributes common among most in my circle of friends at Ryan.  I regretted that it took forty-some years to get to know him, and was looking forward to seeing him again at the 50th.  Were it not for the reunion we would not have met.

As is common for many schools' reunions, the class members have been asked by the reunion committee to write a little bio each of the few times we've gathered.  For the first reunion in 1975, the classmates were succinct to a fault, writing only a few sentences describing their families and occupations.  But as we got older those bios started to expand.  This ritual was extremely interesting especially with regard to the submissions from classmates who were unable to make the trek to Minot.

For our 40th reunion the committee really went overboard, putting together a booklet with a page set aside for each classmate to submit a longer piece, in some cases accompanied by a picture or two.  The idea was that these would be the yearbooks we never had.  Those self-published nouveau yearbooks proved to be such a hit that the practice was repeated for our 50th reunion.  My submission for the 50th was three paragraphs, much longer than anything I'd sent to the committee before, but generally with a word count similar to what my friends wrote, i.e., those who bothered to write anything.

I've decided to post that 2015 epistle on this blog for two reasons.  First, I tried to insert a little humor, so it's within the realm of possibility, albeit slim, that some of what you read might generate a modest smile.  Who couldn't use a smile?  The second gets back to one of the reasons I've chosen to continue The Quentin Chronicle for now.  One or more of my grandchildren might some day come across the blog and read a post or two.  The subject matter of several of the posts I've written are autobiographical snippets which might fill in some of the blanks if and when they wonder what old Papa Johnny was like.  I wish I had more info on my four grandparents, two of whom died before I was born.  Oral history is hardly comprehensive; it can only take you so far.

Keep in mind that the following was written three years ago.  Some things have changed since then, most notably the arrival of granddaughters Louisa and June.  If I make it to my 60th class reunion, maybe I'll furnish an update.

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I retired in 2007 after exactly twenty-four years and two days as a commercial attorney at Wells Fargo.  My wife, Mary, and I just celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary in June. We have three kids, ages 37-31, all of whom are married and live here in the Twin Cities.  Gina is a food manager for a suburban school district, while Michael and Jillian teach high school English and kindergarten, respectively. Our greatest joy is being with our beautiful granddaughters, Rosie (age 2) and Winnie (1).  Mary and I can attest that all the wonderful things our friends told us about grandparenting are true; lots of fun with few of the responsibilities of parenthood.

To avoid being a total couch potato, I enjoy hiking, biking, writing, traveling, attending movies and plays, and checking out the restaurant scene.  For live music entertainment we are groupies of a bluegrass band called Luke Warm & The Cool Hands, mostly because they put on a great show, but also because our son and son-in-law are bandmates.  Mary and I are both big sports fans, especially following the Twins with hopes that they can avoid their fifth consecutive season of ninety-plus losses. We snowshoe once a year so that we can claim to be hardy outdoor enthusiasts.  For a change of scenery in the non-winter months we go to our cabin in the Wisconsin North Woods, where the main activities are boating, reading, canoeing, eating, napping and, naturally, beer drinking (those last two usually occurring in inverse order).  I like to fish, but only for two hours at a time in the middle of a sunny July afternoon. I wonder why I never even get a nibble.

Even though we’ve been in it for almost sixteen years, I am reluctant to join the twenty-first century.  I am not on Facebook, don’t own a Kindle, and still subscribe to the print edition of the daily newspaper.  Snapchat and Instagram are foreign to me. I signed up for Twitter three years ago; my next tweet will be my first.  I do know how to use e-mail, however, so if your time permits, please let me hear from you at periolat47@gmail.com.