Seeing Old Friends at a 50-Year High School Reunion

I walked into the room and was struck by the preponderance of graying hair and balding heads. Who were these old people? And what were they doing at my high school class reunion?     

It was difficult to comprehend that it’s been half a century since my classmates and I walked across the stage in our high school’s gymnasium wearing those goofy hats and our goofy grins. Perhaps no one was happier with my graduation than our school administrators. This was especially true for our principal, Mr. Grebner. I spent so much time in his office that my name was stenciled on one of its chairs.

Time happens to everyone. Time has been very kind to those of my classmates whose looks had barely changed over the past five decades. Others were nearly unrecognizable to me, although that’s probably due to my notoriously leaky memory.

We were each issued a nametag with a photocopy of our senior photo stapled to it. This was a tremendously useful idea. Not so much the photos, but definitely the nametags. I think we should all wear nametags all the time. In my case, it would have prevented several embarrassing conversations over the years wherein I was talking to a person who wasn’t who I thought they were.

Time can change personalities, but I found that many of my classmates were pretty much the same people they had been all those years ago. For instance, I wound up sitting at a table in a far corner with three other single guys. None of us are bachelors, but we all attended the soiree without our better halves.

After a brief invocation we were told to line up for the buffet, starting with the table nearest to the burger bar. Tim B., who was sitting at my table, quipped, “Just our luck! It’s women and children first!”

Fifty years on, Tim can still effortlessly toss out a wisecrack that cracks me up.

Much of the talk during the gathering revolved around the medical issues each of us has dealt with. This isn’t the least bit surprising for a group of people who has put on as many miles as we have. More than a few have endured some version of the 100,000-mile overhaul.

The medically focused conversations were reminiscent of the bidding in a poker game: “I’ll see your cataract operation and raise you a hip replacement!”

Jane J. trumped everyone by attending the reunion in a neck brace. Jane is recovering from a recent spinal fusion surgery.

Prior to the reunion, I stumbled across an ancient artifact that I wore proudly on my shirt. It was a pin that bore a cartoon facsimile of our school’s mascot.

Exclamations of “Elmer!” rang out when my classmates saw the pin. Elmer was a beagle-like dog that looked suspiciously similar to Snoopy from the early “Peanuts” comic strips. Long before we arrived at Sioux Valley High School, someone had constructed a life-sized papier-mâché Elmer. He even had his own appropriately sized doghouse.

Elmer’s house was often placed at the front of the high school library. If our athletic team won, Elmer would be perched atop of his domicile. If our team lost, his doleful visage could be seen peering out from inside his abode. I don’t recall if this system was also used for the debate team. 

A confusing fact, and an everlasting mystery, is that our school’s team is known as the Sioux Valley Cossacks. Our mascot has long since been updated to a depiction of a fearsome mounted Cossack warrior, yet no one can explain how Elmer came about. He must have been the result of an immaculate misconception.

This was just one of the many topics of discussion among my classmates. A lot of conversations that took place involved catching up with one another, but a good share of the talk was pure, unadulterated reminiscing. Spouses had no choice but to hover awkwardly nearby and listen as we discussed people and events from the distant past. The tagalong husbands and wives must have felt like a plus-one at a stepcousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding. 

I chatted with several classmates who live nearby. It’s too bad that we only reconnect at class reunions. A person shouldn’t wait for a special event to touch base with old friends. This is particularly true when your friends are getting older.

We all had a very pleasant time at our high school reunion. I hope that we don’t let another fifty years go by before we do it again.

In a final note, I would appreciate it if Julie O. could say “hello” to her 104-year-old mom, Clarice, for me.

Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.