Return to Bullethead High

My high school alma mater celebrated its 50th anniversary with an open house last week.

And while, yes, my high school experience was less than stellar, some weird nostalgia prompted me to attend the festivities.

Upon our arrival, we were afforded the opportunity to enjoy the Normandy High School Marching Band. The sousaphone players were marching about in the parking lot, doing what Mr. Ginley insisted was the "Script Normandy." When they played the school song and I didn't know the words, I got the "tsk tsk" from Mr. who, of course, can sing his own.

Inside, I signed my name, although I didn't write my name on an I.D. tag, confident in the knowledge no one would remember me anyhow.

In the cafeteria, we were served cake and purchased "bites" prepared by the culinary students. All was tasty.

Then we wandered the halls, Mr. Ginley keeping up a running stream of questions.

"Where was your locker?" (We got a different one each year, I don't remember where any of them were.)

"What did you see in the auditorium?" (Assemblies and school plays and such.)

"Where is the print shop where you worked?" (It's not there anymore, it was in the basement with the woodworking and other vocational shops.)

"Which classrooms were you in?" (No idea.)

And so on.

He snapped many photos while we roamed the three floors of classrooms in the round. And he took pictures of my sisters in their respective yearbooks. (My brothers all graduated from Parma High.)

I bought the official 50th Anniversary tee shirt as a souvenir. It features both the original mascot and the updated version. (Both versions of which my brother-in-law refers to affectionately as "the bullethead.")

Nothing felt familiar. No ghosts lingered in the classrooms. No memories came flooding back. It was just the place where I spent three of my formative years, trying to get by so I could get to real life.

If I'd known then...I might not have been in such a hurry.