As time passes and classmates dwindle, old friends find comfort in shared memories and laughter that defies age
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There was a tune many years ago that lamented, “Those wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine,” referring, of course, to that period of time when people were pairing off and marrying — changing the carefree landscape of bachelorhood for the guys and bringing the creeping fear of spinsterhood for the ladies.
My little high school graduating class numbered a mere 35. That June found us scattering to the four winds, a handful marrying almost as soon as they ditched the cap and gown. The brains went on to college hoping to fill in the gaps of what our former school either couldn’t or didn’t fill and, with any luck, find a whole new world out there. Some went on to specific trade or business schools, or right to work, where they learned a trade that evolved into a career that could sustain themselves and their young families.
Within five years, Uncle Sam came calling, and some of the boys — the ones who didn’t go to college or get married and start a family — got the summons or felt him breathing down their necks and joined one branch of the military or another, doing their best to avoid the specter of Vietnam.
Life went on, offering up all the usual highs and lows, joys and sorrows. The majority of the original 35 tried their best to stay in touch through class reunions over the past, unbelievably, 60-some years. As the years crept by, we often found ourselves laughing at how old we thought our parents were when, in reality, we now have children as old as our parents were when we graduated.
Those of us still able to travel now find ourselves meeting at funeral homes for calling hours for old classmates. It’s good we’re still upright and able to reminisce about the good old days, but there’s a little cloud overhead that nobody wants to acknowledge — though we all know it’s there.
My class recently lost our class president, Carol, who made it her mission to keep us all together, usually hosting at her own home. I’m not sure who, if anyone, will take up her banner. Carol was a teller of stories, regaling us with tales of growing up the middle child of five. One story we heard repeated every time we had a class reunion was of her crying in her bed as a little girl when her parents went out for their own 10-year high school reunion. Carol’s older brother came to check on her and asked what she was so upset about. She sobbed, “Mom and Dad are going to die! They’re old!” Of course, her sensitive big brother called her stupid and reassured her they were not going to die.
According to my calculations, my remaining classmates now number 15 — and I’m not sure about two of those. We never saw them after graduation day. Or maybe we did; we just didn’t recognize them — it’s been so many years.
I think that’s one reason I’ve tried to stay in touch through the years. The aging process can be brutal, but if we see one another at least once a year, it’s easier to believe it when a former classmate says, “You haven’t changed a bit!” Unless, heaven forbid, we looked this way back in the old days.
So, we walk a little slower, see more doctors, nod off in front of the TV, cut out spicy foods, lie to our kids about drinking our water, make sure we’re home before dark, and complain about the price of stamps. But bless our hearts — we’re still here.
