Remembering the Class of ’65
Do not waffle about going to your class reunion; do it.
In the six months before I swung open a hotel lobby door and walked 40 years into my past, I was ambivalent about reconnecting with people I barely remembered. What if I didn’t recognize anybody? What if I didn’t care when I did?
An uneasy sense of time passing got to me on the plane; who is this white-haired woman staring back from the mirror? Perhaps she won’t be around for her 50th.
At the reunion, it sometimes felt like I was watching a split-screen TV. Embracing a graying father of three daughters, I was also hugging, in my mind’s eye, a sweaty 17-year-old basketball player in the euphoria of victory. That investment banker’s sky-blue eyes were exactly the same, but where did all that thick chestnut hair go?
Life has roughed us up. Our brows are worried and our daring tempered. We scattered into a country dominated by Vietnam, Nixon and the Cold War. We reunited as suicide bombers blew up the London subway, a gallon of gas rose to $3, and a secure retirement is defined as a seven-figure savings account.
The quietest guy in the class now complains non-stop about public schools, television and electricity. Three star athletes who survived wartime service in the Air Force worry their decades of commercial flying won’t yield them pensions if their bankrupt airlines go under.
My best pal in 1965 was widowed young. She raised two babies by herself and is now a grandmother who oversees a busy office, takes college courses and owns her own home.
Also circulating around the room was the tallest girl in the class, a once-awkward, now willowy and elegant woman who carried a baby boy in her graceful arms.
“Your grandchild?” I inquired. “No, my new son,” she replied. She took the biggest leap of faith of all of us when she adopted a Russian orphan last February at the age of 57. Her joy and his contentment made all of us feel younger.
Moving from empty chair to buffet table to bar stool, I connected not just with old classmates but with interesting, engaging people who’ve learned hard lessons, accomplished much good, and value their families and friends. Catching up and sharing photos, we slipped an arm around each other or held hands; our need for intimate connection went unspoken but deeply felt; we were aware it might be our last embrace.
The best part of the reunion was the absence of ego. It didn’t matter where we’d gone or what we’d done; what was important was that we shared common memories and experiences from an out-of-focus time when we brimmed with optimism.
The person I enjoyed most at my reunion was myself. I, too, was on that split-screen TV in my mind. The awkward, driven egghead who couldn’t wait to graduate had given way to a relaxed sentimentalist bursting with affection toward people she’d foolishly thought no longer mattered.
I was shocked to realize my Belton (Mo.) High School classmates had exerted a greater influence on my character, career, values and attitudes than I’d recognized until I reunited with them.
They were the first to praise my fledgling writing efforts in the school newspaper. Many came from Air Force families who’d lived all over the world; their stories of different cultures and exotic locales fueled my imagination to see beyond my flat, midwestern horizon. The local kids who lived on farms never complained about milking cows before school and bailing hay after football practice.
Our collective pranks, SAT tests, homework, dances, football games, crushes, heartbreaks, dreams and fears also shaped our individualism. To embrace them was to embrace myself.
(You may also write to Tad c/o The Women Syndicate, P.O. Box 10169, Columbia, Mo. 65205.)