Class of '69

Class of ‘69

Memoir 

by Gregory E. Larson

I turned up the Bob Dylan song, “Like a Rolling Stone,” on my iPod music to keep from getting drowsy on the highway, and yelled out, “Sing it loud and sing it proud!” Slapping my knee with one hand and holding the steering wheel with the other, I began to sing “Once upon a time, you dressed so fine…”

I kept slapping my knee as I looked out across ocean-sized farms that stretched as far as the horizon. I was comfortable inside the air-conditioned car, but it appeared hot and windy outside. The mirage from the late afternoon sun made it look like there was water on the pavement ahead. I had to admit there was a bit of angst in the pit of my stomach as I approached Garden City in Western Kansas. The fifty-year reunion of my graduating high school class of ’69 would be my first one to attend. Would any of my old friends be there? Would anyone recognize me?

I hardly recognized the town since it had tripled in size from the days of school. When I drove to the older parts of the main thoroughfares, I remembered that Garden City was aptly named. It really was a green spot in the bleak stretches of land that made up the surroundings. It was an oasis of culture, a safe place to raise a family and connect with friends, a place of protection from the unceasing winds and the harsh weather.

That first evening at the Eagles Lodge for the meet and greet party, my fears melted away. The friends, the stories and the laughter greeted me as I walked in the door. The memories weren’t so much about what we learned in class, but about life and growing up. High school was the beginning of finding our way in the world. The stories of sports, part-time jobs, first cars, extra-curricular activities and shenanigans – that’s what were etched in our memories and what we shared all evening.

A tour of the old high school building the next morning was bittersweet. So much remodeling had taken place to the building, we had to hunt for something to hang our memories on. Carpet was on the floor instead of tile. Someone said the tiles that made up our mascot (the Buffalo) on the floor were taken to hang on the wall of the new high school. And there were ghostly memories of encounters with the faculty – both good and bad. Those teachers were on a mission to mold us into adults, and in the process, we learned that both teachers and students are human – sometimes right and sometimes wrong.

What touched me most about the reunion was how important every person was that made the effort to come. Somehow, some way. we’d all survived the intervening fifty years and had the stories to tell. The social pecking order of 1969 didn’t exist. We were a big group of peaceful, caring folks. All the greetings and all the shared thoughts were precious. The stories brought fifty years of humanity alive. Births, marriages, divorces, death, years of toil, years of joy. It reminded me of the English teacher from our high school years, Miss Barbee, one of the faculty mainstays. I can still hear her southern accent as she spoke to us, “These classical novels of English literature are filled with life events.” I realized that after fifty years our lives have the richness of novels. Living in the real world can be more fascinating. I truly enjoyed listening to people talk about the past, letting them tell their story.

In those two brief days of the reunion, we experienced somewhat of a time warp and it almost seemed like the '60s. Several of us had lunch at the old dairy shop downtown. The tin ceiling, the long counter and the old menus were all still there, and it reminded me of “the good old days” when we used to drive our cars down Main Street to see and be seen.

This was a rare August day for the reunion – mild temperatures and almost no wind. One of my high school friends and I drove by the houses where we were raised, and that brought back even more memories of coming home late at night, or shooting baskets on a goal that was taken down long ago. The little spruce tree my dad planted was now 60 ft. tall.

The second evening we had dinner at the Knights of Columbus Hall, catching up on lost years with old friends and making sure we didn’t forget to say ‘hi’ to someone and share an old memory. And a group picture was taken with umpteen cell phones pointed at us. It was sad to leave at the end of the evening. Our brief encounters came to an end.

Sunday morning was blanketed with a light fog across hundreds of miles of flatland. I gassed up the car, cleaned the bugs off the windshield and pointed my car to the east, just as I had done when I left Garden City for college. As I drove out over the prairie, I thought about all the stories and memories I’d heard and shared that weekend. Fog enveloped the city behind me, as if a curtain closed all the festivities. I searched for a Beach Boys song, turned up the volume and sang, “Round, round, get around, I get around . . .”