Claymont Country Club

This is a funny little universe.

Every microsecond, our universe is expanding, throwing atoms, dark matter and sports radio broadcasts into the nether regions of the void, gobbling up cosmic real estate like a teenaged Donald Trump after his trust fund kicked in. Dialing back the scale a skosh, we humans also enjoy putting ourselves out there to the cosmos. Some of us move away - far away; some advance the common good of our fellow hairless apes with artistic, scientific or philanthropic endeavors and still others prefer to kick back against the monolith and lazily try to pick out silhouettes of past presidents in cumulus cloud formations. Me? Well, if you count picking up and moving to Cleveland for a year in the mid 1990s, I've worn each hat. You already know how I am solving the ills of society by writing about every rocking horse I trip over in the attic of my mind, but, allow me, for a moment, to celebrate the glory of the warm glow of home (I'm referring to the "monolith," for those justifiably trying to untie this wet knot of a paragraph).

Several weeks ago, I met up with some old friends from the Ghost of Middle Schools past. It was a glorious evening of reminiscing, laughing and hoping we didn't appear too old to each other, in between bites of coconut shrimp. At this mini get together, I met up with Fred Lang, Jeff Thawley and the former Donna Godfrey. I found the only major difference that had developed, for me, was not calling Fred "Freddy," as I had always known him. I have to admit, it took some doing. I solved my dilemma by making sure I only spoke in monosyllables. It felt like I was channeling Dr. Seuss. Turns out both Fred and Jeff were the same people I had always remembered them to be. With Fred, his personality and laugh is so infectious, you could parachute him into the palace of North Korea's grand poobah, Kim Il Jong, and after an hour or so, have the despot doing beer bongs and playing air guitar to April Wine's "Sign Of the Gypsy Queen." Jeff was the guy in school who was always smiling, irrepressible and upbeat, always quick with a joke and even quicker to laugh at yours. These days, he is a master crafter of wood who could build an entire bedroom set with some planks of wood and a few nails in the time it takes you to finish this sentence. Major points have to go to Donna, who graduated a few years after us and suffered through an evening of breathless immaturity that only occurs when old guy friends get together.

On the drive home, I played the events of the night in my mind over and over. It felt great to get together with old friends after a quarter of a century of putting whatever nonsense I created out to the world. I liked it. I liked it a lot. Like sneaking down to the fridge at midnight to grab a chilled Mint Milano cookie, I paused and cast a "do I dare have another?" eyeball back. It was at this point where I pulled on my self-righteous cloak and stood, with my fists dug into my hips, chin pointing skyward in a "Look to this day, graduate!" stance and announced to the Heavens, "that was pretty cool." I wanted to do it again. I envisioned more and more people from the old neighborhoods, old friendships rekindled and plans to build our own mini-empire. So, in my hubris, I created a "Claymont Country Club" site on Facebook in hopes of having a central information reservoir for our soon-to-be mob of people. The idea was to have people I knew in Claymont, during my school years, stop by Stanley's Tavern once a month for some socializing and catching up. Then, those folks would invite others they knew from the old neighborhoods (even if they no longer lived in the old neighborhoods. I don't.) so that everyone who came would know someone else there. It would be a rolling, floating reunion which would take us back in time to the days of hair metal, parachute pants and cruising the Valley. The only difference would be not relying on Bruce Lane's fake ID to buy us bottles of Mad Dog and cases of Budweiser.

In time, we would be able to meet for a Blue Rocks baseball game, a night of bowling or cookouts in Jeff's backyard (Jeff, if you're reading this, thanks in advance). You might be asking where all of this came from. Well, to be honest, I am part of a committee that is organizing out 25th year reunion. It's hard to believe it has been a quarter of a century since I was chased from high school, with my robes flowing and my diploma held high like a big foam "We're #1" finger. The administrative tasks involved in putting on a reunion can be a lot more difficult than they need to be, as the needs of the many supercede the preferences of the few. With the Claymont Country Club, I can organize activities or just be an attendee. No politics, no disenfranchisement, no hurt feelings. Nope, nothing but old friends showing up if and when they can and anyone can plan the next outing, if they wish. Our next get together, Friday, May 1, at Stanley's Tavern at 7:00 p.m., will have even more people than the first time. Ideally, it would be nice to do something once per month, but if people wanted to meet every other week, that's fine, too. It doesn't belong to me; it belongs to everyone.

Maybe, some time in the future, we will have enough of a base to take on things such as a group Walk-a-thon for charity, camping trips or capturing the majority in the state senate. Maybe we can get Fred elected President of the United States and bring about the end of civilization as we know it. Maybe we can cure cancer. Who knows? I'd be happy if we can just bring a smile to some familiar faces and let them feel young again, if only for a evening, the way the four of us did several weeks ago. No judgments on how bald, gray or fat we are, no comments about, "Hey, Kev, I see you're still pushing that '77 Honda around," no one holding grudges about losing the election for secretary of the French Club...unless there is a funny story behind votes being stolen.

Some call me sentimental, while others just call me mental, but there is a way to strike a balance of keeping your feet on the ground while your head is in the clouds. If you're going to dream, dream big, or why bother dreaming at all? Maybe someday we can have our own little meeting place, our own little proper country club, where old friends can meet without breaking open their kids's piggy banks to be a member. Maybe Jeff can build it. All he needs is a set of tools and a free couple of hours. And maybe, after hitting "Publish," these words will be thrown into cyberspace and emanate into the vastness of space, beyond our solar system, beyond our galaxy, beyond the nether reaches of any possible human detection, until picked up trillions of years into the future by a lone monolith, under which an alien suddenly bolts upright, inspired, and declares, "Hey, that cloud looks like Fred Lang."

Dream big.