Classmates for Life?

 By: Kelly McDonald

You're off to great places!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So...get on your way!

- Dr. Seuss

When Beverly and I arrived at the Oakley Diner for my fifty-fifth high school class reunion, Don, the first person I encountered, asked me if I remembered who he was. I stammered, feigned a greeting, then quietly admitted that I didn’t recognize him. I thought I had mentally prepared myself to reconnect with my classmates. What was I doing here, trying to recall long-forgotten friendships and acquaintances, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself further? 

My class at South Summit High School graduated in May 1970. Although some graduates stayed in Kamas Valley, many started new lives in college towns and big cities. I moved to Provo, Utah, to attend and eventually work for Brigham Young University. Now, fifty-five years later, I still live there.

For the first few decades after graduation, our former class leaders, wanting to foster lasting friendships, sponsored get-togethers at five-, then ten-year intervals. Beverly and I attended a few of them, but we didn’t make it past twenty years. But in 2020, during the Covid pandemic, Russell, our former student body president, contacted me and asked if I would help coordinate a virtual class reunion, online, for our graduating class, celebrating fifty years since our high school graduation.

I set about gathering email addresses for as many class members as possible. As I researched the dispositions of my classmates, the number who had already passed away since graduation deeply moved me. About twenty of the original fifty were deceased. We held our virtual reunion and exchanged greetings and life summaries. I posted the recording on YouTube for the classmates who hadn't taken part. And that seemed to be the end of my class reunions.

But six months ago, Russell called me again, proposing an in-person class reunion for our fifty-fifth anniversary of graduation. He asked me to refine and update our email list, then communicate the plans to our remaining classmates.

Here were thirty individuals, remaining, with whom I spent many years attending class, cheering on our teams, laughing, crying, and dancing together. Then, suddenly, we stopped having regular contact with each other. An inexplicable interest drew me back to continue my participation with Russell. I have developed friendships over the years amongst my neighbors, co-workers, and fellow volunteers through service opportunities. But this interest in reconnecting with my former school classmates was unusual.

My parents moved our family to Kamas, Utah, in 1957, the summer before I was to start kindergarten. There was a boy, John, who lived across the street from me and who was my same age. We became fast friends. In the fall, we started school as kindergartners at the elementary school a short distance away. I was the youngest in my family, and this would be my introduction to the world my older siblings were already traversing.

These other boys and girls, I learned, were my classmates. Although a few, like John, became regular friends, most were simply weekday companions experiencing the same academic and physical challenges as I was. In the classroom, we sat in a circle and learned to read together. On the playground, we formed ad hoc teams to play dodgeball. On ‘shot’ days, we lined up in the lunchroom to suffer through our vaccinations at the same time. In high school as the academics, physical activities, and infatuations became more complex, we divided into cliques but never totally excluded anyone.

By our junior and senior years, many of us had already decided on our future. A few of the young women embarked on marriage, either before or shortly after graduation. For me, computers became my fixation. I needed to move away to follow my dream. For others like John, working in a family business would become their future. We all separated at graduation, and some I would never see again.

So, there seems to be an attraction, fifty-five years later, which caused twenty of us to travel to the Oakley Diner for at least one more association with childhood classmates. Interestingly, we didn’t focus on our life stories. At this stage of our lives, our careers are over, and we have finished raising our children. We’re all pretty much the same: old. Interestingly, when John and I chatted, we almost immediately talked about some things we did together as young friends living across the street from each other. We quickly recalled activities such as conducting rudimentary science experiments and blowing up anthills with gunpowder from my father’s ammo reloading equipment. But with others that evening, such as Melanie, Barbara, Connie, and others, I interacted in a new friendship, which didn’t happen much when we were young, because we simply weren’t in the same clique.

Whether we schedule another reunion is uncertain. Undoubtedly, a few more will be gone if we try it again sixty years after graduation. And because we’ll be approaching eighty years of age, I’m sure there will be more than one or two that I’ll no longer recall. And so, Don, when I hobble into the Oakley Diner in 2030, continue to reach out to greet me and ask me if I still remember you. I’m sure I will. But no doubt I’ll ask you who all those other folks are.