The Post-Diploma Dash
The Source
In our neighborhood we call it the Graduation Marathon, an Olympic sport to see how many of your commencement party invitations you can fulfill in a single weekend. If you’re a parent the contest lasts for a few years as the friends of your youngster graduate from high school or college and if you’re a teacher the marathon runs about 40 years or until you die. The party invitations go out and you draw up your battle plans, strategically mapping your route around the community, trying to get everything covered in one or two nights. Some graduates make it easy and consolidate their parties into one mega bash, allowing you to knock off two or three in a single stop. Others are more playful, cleverly spreading out their parties over several counties and giving your GPS system a real workout. I sometimes envy the Jacksonville folks who have their graduation parties confined within a single city’s limits. The Triopia district covers 62 counties (or something close) and runs through at least three temperate zones so you never really know how to dress. I’ll admit that I’m lucky. I only attend these galas and don’t have to actually execute them. I pity the poor mothers (sorry dad’s, but it’s usually the mom’s who mastermind these things while you mow the yard) who have to plan something tasteful but spectacular, knowing that your guests will have just come from at least three others parties and comparisons can’t be avoided. It’s not secret that some mom’s after having observed a special touch at one of the earlier parties hurry home to add it to her masterpiece. And what started out as a cookies and punch reception a decade or so ago has morphed into a full-blown catered meal at most stops. Were the parties not so far apart most guests would be advised to walk from one celebration to the next to work off the poundage. Don’t read this as a complaint. I never have to buy groceries on graduation weekend. However, the wise mom learns that the later in the day the less food that’ll be needed. By the time you hit a 2 o’clock and 4 o’clock feast your belt is straining for the Rolaids at the 6 o’clock. And I’m just guessing here, but I think that the parties held for graduates of small high schools might be a bit better attended than those of our city cousins because, like sending out wedding invitations, we all know each other and where in the heck do you stop? Most opt for a simple, “Who cares? Just order more pulled pork.” And although the actual reason we’re gathering for a commencement fest is to celebrate little Johnny or Suzie earning a diploma, the real joy of the evening has less to do with the graduate than the simple act of sitting down and chatting with old friends. True, you’ve sat beside them at ballgames and concerts for 12 years, but tonight there’s no score kept, no awards to win, and cheesy potatoes beats the heck out of a bag of ballgame popcorn. Yes, it ages me to sit and chat with a father whose graduation party I also attended many years ago, but if you’ve gotta feel old then being surrounded by good people and mounds of cupcakes isn’t a bad way to go. I should add that the world speed record is often set by parents who host a party then quickly slam a lid on the buns, pick the lawn darts up, and head for the next party down the road. After all, those people were nice enough to come to our party so we’d darned well better show up for theirs. Since it would be a mortal sin to run out of food it’s always plentiful but I have often wondered what a family of three does with the remaining 200 cookies, 12 dozen buns, and a minefield of tiny meatballs floating in barbecue sauce. I propose a community-wide potluck on the day following the final party. Everyone bring your leftovers and let’s invite the world! We may set a world record for the most cheese potatoes amassed in one spot. It’s actually quite fitting that these backyard celebrations be as much about parents and friends as the graduates themselves. We are a community and whether you vote for Hillary or not, it does take a village to raise a child. I often sit at these graduation parties and look at the eyes of the parents and grandparents who’ve attended hundreds of ballgames, plays, recitals and awards ceremonies, knowing that it actually their hopes and dreams as much as the graduates’ who are being celebrated tonight. It’s a good thing and the very definition of the word “community.” It brings us together, it keeps us together, and there’s nothing in the world that can beat the smell of cheesy potatoes.