First, the basics of our vacation:  we flew to Denver, rented a car, and from there went on a road trip, with–you guessed it–fun bag in tow.  We covered 1,491 miles in a week (spending about $200 in gas in our lovely Hyundai Sonata rental [which we had to fight for, as they tried to put us in an SUV]).  In my mind, the trip moved in thirds, the first third being my high school reunion, the second third being the South Dakota/Nebraska sites, and the last third being Colorado.

The catalyst for the trip was my reunion.  Paxton does an all-school reunion, meaning anyone who’s ever graduated from there is invited to the reunion every five years.  So technically, it’s my 19th-year reunion. But it was my dad’s 50th, same bat time, same bat place, and my brother’s 23rd, etc.   For the banquet, you are seated with people from the surrounding class if your own class can’t fill a table (only four from my class of 16 went to the banquet).

Here were my overall reactions to the reunion part of the weekend:

  • Basically everyone in my age range looked great, like I kept thinking, look at how well people have kept themselves lookin’ fine. 
  • Just like being back with family and falling into those family dynamics (youngest child), I found myself feeling 18 again, trying to negotiate time between family and friends and gossiping in the bathroom with my two high school buds just like we did during junior homecoming.
  • A drive around the Sarben Road is always good for the soul, whether I’m 17 or 37.
  • I love that it’s for all ages, because I so enjoy seeing some of the older folks, too, like my sassy cousin Lois, who always tells it like it is.
  • We are all the same as we were back then, when you get right down to it.

Chris was a trooper while I veered off to chat with Mark or Cody or Gina or someone else.  And the day after the reunion, as we were driving up Highway 83 in the gorgeous thick of the Sandhills, he pointed out something (unprompted) that my Paxton friend Rae and I have long held as Truth:  that people from our hometown are wittier than average.  I couldn’t have been more delighted that he noticed this of his own accord.

My blog title, Far From Ole’s, is in reference to the local watering hole in Paxton, Ole’s Big Game Bar, which opened at midnight the night Prohibition ended in 1933.  Ole Herstedt hunted game on five of seven continents and displayed many of his trophies in the bar, including a giraffe, elephant, and a huge polar bear encased in glass right in the front door.  I got to experience my niece seeing Ole’s for the first time for Saturday morning coffee and rolls.  She asked me eagerly, “Have you ever been here before?” as though she’d just made an amazing discovery.   So cute.

Friday night we met a couple of my classmates for dinner, where I ordered chicken fried steak with brown–not white–gravy, which Chris finds a sacrilege.  And I must say: sitting in Ole’s with the familiar animals looking down from the walls, old friends, cold, cheap beer, and mashed potatoes slathered in brown gravy was just divine.