Losing My Tradition

Traditions come in many varieties and serve many functions. Some people get together at Christmas time for public tree-lighting ceremonies; others get together for ritualistic observations of birth, marriage, and death; and some people get together to discuss shared interests such as books, art, and social issues. But whatever the reason for tradition, the one constant is people. People getting together. People staying connected. And that is why you should hold on to your traditions with both hands.

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This Thanksgiving weekend, my Stoneham High School class of 1983 will gather for its 25th reunion. And while class reunions are a popular form of tradition, they play only an incidental role in this story. My friend, Chris, who was our class president, asked for my help in locating missing classmates. During my search, I came upon a website dedicated to Stoneham’s class of ‘82. Having known many members of that class, including my oldest and closest friend, Michael, I took a few moments to look in on people I once referred to as upper-classmen.

Among the site’s features was a slide-show displaying images from their 25th reunion. There were photos of people dancing, drinking, socializing, and posing in groups. I recognized many of the faces, though it seemed various degrees of age-advancing make-up had been applied since the last time I’d seen them. One of the group shots showed eleven smiling women standing side-by-side. I recalled a few of the names and remembered sitting beside one of them in history class during my junior year, but what struck me more than their apparent closeness was the caption below the photograph:

This group gets together once a month

Then, in case you were inclined, as I was, to re-read what you thought you read, the captioner emphasized:

- yes, once a month.

It also mentioned that one woman was missing from the picture bringing the total number of women who meet once a month to twelve. That’s twelve women meeting twelve times a year.

I wondered what they could be doing. They have enough women for a full-court basketball game with two referees. They are a jury of their peers. Maybe they sing, each lending their unique voice to songs like The Twelve Days of Christmas. Mostly, I wondered how they pull it off. To me, holding once-a-month gatherings of a group that size is a remarkable achievement in tradition-making. Perhaps it’s easier for women. I was once part of a meaningful tradition that, as time went on, became harder and harder to maintain.

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I played varsity football during my senior year in high school. Members of the team were expected in the locker room early Thanksgiving morning to prepare for our annual game against Reading. That meant we had to obey a strict curfew the night before. Michael was on holiday break from college, and to make sure I would be home in time for a possible bed-check phone call, we went to an early showing of First Blood at the Showcase Cinema in Woburn. We didn’t know it then, but that ordinary trip to the movies began a streak of Thanksgiving Eve reunions that would grow in both membership and significance, becoming a tradition we vowed would go on forever.

The early years of the tradition were all about partying. Michael and I, and several close friends would converge on Faneuil Hall Market Place in what was basically a continuance of the disorderly drinking and carousing of high school. We usually ended up at Clarke’s Turn of the Century Saloon and quickly discovered that the idea of a reunion at Thanksgiving was not our’s exclusively. Several groups from previous graduating classes had already laid claim to the tradition. Perhaps it was embedded in Stoneham’s genetic coding to drink all night and attend the Thanksgiving football game with a head-splitting hangover.

By the time we reached our mid-twenties, a core-group of four had emerged. Michael and I were joined by Chris and an older friend named Bernie - class of ‘78 - and the tradition became more than a simple beer bath. It was an event we anticipated eagerly throughout the year.

We began kicking off the evening with dinner at the Kowloon restaurant on Route One. Flaming pu pu platters were picked clean as we took time to catch up with each other’s lives. Conversations revolved around work, school, girlfriends, and family, before moving on to more pressing matters like movies, music, and sports. I wish I could say it was a sign of maturity, this settling down to catch our collective breath, but we still ended up at Clarke’s clinking glasses with old friends, pledging allegiance to our annual renewal, before freezing our asses off at 3am on Revere Beach with a Kelly’s roast beef sandwich.

As we approached our thirties, attrition began picking apart the congregation like a downsizing social virus. Many from the group at large had gotten married and were unable to convince in-laws that a drunken promise of loyalty superceded the vows of marriage. Others simply grew weary of the crowds and partying. But the thinning of the herd did not effect the inner-circle; Michael, Chris, Bernie and I remained true to the cause. Even during the few years I was forced to work Thanksgiving Day at the post office, I stayed out until 3am, punched in at 7am, and suffered through a six-hour shift, all for the sake of tradition. It was that important.

When we reached our mid-thirties, Michael got married and moved to Maine after accepting a position as assistant basketball coach at his alma mater. I thought the tradition was doomed, but in an impressive display of commitment, and despite a round-trip commute of three hours, Michael stayed on for five more years. The first three years, he made it into Boston for drinks, but the following two years saw him head back to Maine after dinner. When his wife, Kim, gave birth to their second child - both late November babies - it was time for Michael to sacrifice tradition for practicality.

During Michael’s transition, my brother, John, joined the group, and Instead of Faneuil Hall after dinner, we began hitting The Lizard Lounge on Mass Ave in Cambridge where local musician Dennis Brennan played his Wednesday night residency. There was a change of personnel, as well as a change of venue, but the tradition was alive.

In January 2004, at the age of 38, I gave up drinking. It wasn’t a New Year’s resolution. There was no twisted car wreck or need for a twelve-step program. I just quit. What remained to be seen, however, was how my social life would be effected by the absence of alcohol.

Turns out, music clubs with live bands still provided a great night out, but standing around a tavern without entertainment while other people got drunk was an assault to my sensibilities. The designated driver role, while admirable on paper, gets a little old in the harshness of last-call lights when you’re circling the bar rounding up friends who "Just wanna finish this beer". I hung in with the tradition during my first three years of sobriety, but Chris lost interest, leaving me and Bernie as the only remaining members of the original four.

Last year, as Thanksgiving approached, I found myself pressing to finish a story I’d been working on. When Thanksgiving Eve arrived, I decided to stay in and write while John, Bernie and a few other friends met in Cambridge. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. I was doing what I wanted and wasn’t aware of any sense of loss. For me, the tradition had followed an orderly progression; it took off like a comet, then reached a comfortable cruising altitude before touching down quietly in repose. At least, that’s what I told myself.

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This year, as October segued into November, I again found myself planning to stay home on the night before Thanksgiving. Then, while helping a friend search for missing classmates, I saw the picture; eleven women, plus one, getting together once a month, yes, once a month.

Perhaps they sit around splitting twelve-packs of Budweiser. Maybe they’re making plans to produce their own swimsuit calendar. Whatever they do, I imagine they enjoy themselves in the comfort of their ritual. They look happy to pose for that photograph. Happy to get together.

Seeing the picture made me wonder why I gave up so easily on something so important. I still see my close friends on a regular basis throughout the year, but we rarely get together as a group. Once a month with everyone would be an unlikely scenario, but I’ll gladly take once in a while with a few of them over not getting together at all. The tradition hadn’t really touched down, it continued on without me after I had bailed-out.

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Today is Thanksgiving. Last night, John and I joined Bernie and another friend in Cambridge. We listened to The Dennis Brennan Band. We talked about our lives. And as we raised our beer bottles - non-alcoholic, for me - in ritualistic fashion, I said a silent thank you to twelve women for their inspiration.

It felt good to get together.

It felt like tradition.