It’s class reunion time. My 50^th. I’ve really enjoyed being on the planning committee, although it has been odd getting used to the name Ginger, which is what I was called in high school. I started using Ginny when I read an Erma Bombeck column saying no one should be called Ginger unless they’re jumping up and down waving pompoms (which I actually did back then). As a grandmother of 7 and great grandmother of 5, I still answer to Ginger only because I know the person addressing me that has known me a looooong time.

Names are interesting. Mine is actually Virginia, but I was always called “Babe” by my family. Hated it, of course. Point is, I’ve learned to answer to almost anything -- Virginia, Babe, Ginger, Ginny. Early on, a secretary was confused by callers asking for me by so many different names. To justify it, I called upon my heritage to explain that within traditional Native American culture it was quite common for names to change at different phases of life. Spotted Pony at birth might become Leaping Deer as a prepubescent, Gray Cloud as a teen, and Many Beads as an adult. Not sure she bought it, but I impressed myself with my ability to think fast.

I intended to help organize but not to attend the reunion. I enjoy people in a small group but I’ve found the larger the crowd, the more superficial (and boring) conversation becomes. It’s been so much fun reconnecting with “old” friends in the planning stage though, that of course I’m now going the distance. I have a strategy. If conversation deteriorates to the silly “This is how successful I’ve become, how successful are you?” game, I believe I can convincingly fake choking on an ice cube and quickly turn to my husband for the Heimlich maneuver and/or CPR -- otherwise known as a hug and a kiss and an off-we-go-to-talk-to-someone-else.

On the subject of success, I like the philosophy that states it‘s senseless to compare yourself to others. There are always those better off, and those worse off than you. Frank and I are doing fine by societal standards, but when we look back on how far we’ve come, we feel we’re doing GREAT! He recalls living with his parents in a chicken coop ritzy enough to have a light bulb hanging on a cord from the roof. I recall living in my grandma’s little square house with a kitchen so tiny only one kid could be there with her at a time. The outhouse, however, was upscale. It had two, count them two places to balance our little butts. Outdoors there was no grass. I played in the dirt and climbed trees.