My Graduation Party–1977

It was almost one o’ clock in the afternoon on a Sunday thirty years ago about now.

I was supposed to go pick up my little sister from a birthday party. I backed the Oldsmobile out of the garage and was shocked to hear a crashing sound. I remember my mother coming out of the back door of our house, screaming “ WHAT was that?”

I remember walking in slow motion around to the back of the idling car to look at the panel of wood that used to divide the garage doors, lying half on the back of the car, half on the driveway. I remember thinking “oh my god.” I remember calling my boyfriend Jack and asking if he could hurry over. I don’t remember how my sister got home from her birthday party. I think my mom had a lot to say, a torrential series of sentences about disaster and inconvenience and emergency.

My dad was on the radio. He did a Sunday afternoon show on WIVS in Crystal Lake, Illinois. The theme of his music and talk show that afternoon had been “graduation.” And because I was a highschool senior he was playing all the music I loved, and quoting Shakespeare and Aldo Leopold and Emily Dickinson, weaving together a sentimental afternoon of goodbyes and affirmations to his oldest daughter:

“When you walk through a storm
Keep your chin up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark…”

Mom called Dad at the radio station to let him know that I had “torn the garage down with the car.” He would be returning home in an hour to a yard full of people who were arriving for my graduation party. We still had the radio on, but Dad had nothing more to say. He played continuous music: Sousa, Mancini, John Denver, Rogers and Hammerstein.

Jack arrived. He had his bandana tied around his head, pulling his shoulder length brown hair out of his eyes. Oh how my mother hated that young man. He very coolly took the panel from the driveway and wedged it back between the doors. With all his strength he jammed the partition between the arch and the concrete. I grabbed a sledgehammer and ran clumsily toward him. He took it from my hands, flashing a big smile. He swung accurately at the panel to force it into position. Oh how I loved that young man. The garage doors wouldn’t shut… everything wasn’t really lined up that well anymore. The paint job was all messed up. The car was dented on the right rear side. I pulled it back into the garage.

People started arriving. Our poodle started barking. Ice cubes were spilled on the kitchen floor. Halting conversations between people who were all connected to me but didn’t know each took place carefully, next to the buffet table of cheese and luncheon meats, brownies, carrots and celery. Jack went home and came back with sunglasses on and a big Hawaiian shirt and torn jeans. He stood, barefoot in the yard, talking to my grandfather, a successful businessman, who was quizzing him about his refusal of a scholarship to MIT.

Dad walked up the driveway and stood at the garage doors.

“ I would have cleaned the garage if I’d known everybody was going to be staring into it,” he said to me.

Then he patted me on the back and went inside to get a beer.