It must be a mistake. Couldn't be. Something's wrong. How is it possible?
Alas, it's true. It's been 50 years since I graduated from Frankfort (IN) High School. We were (still are) the Hot Dogs!
Great name, eh? Different, at least.
So last night, about 50 of our original class of 181 got together for a reunion. 30 have died. It was a mixed feeling of joy and sadness that I could see some long lost classmates, but not others I really wanted to see.
The high school building has been demolished. Nothing but memories left. I took my yearbook with me last night. Everybody wanted to look at it! I sought after those that inscribed a note to me 50 years ago. They enjoyed reading what they had written. Some added more!
I got to sit between two of my best old friends. And unlike most attendees, I roamed around, yearbook in hand, shaking hands and hugging each and every former classmate--even if I really didn't know them. We share a bond broken only by death. Few people sought me out--I was the seeker. Strange. They just sat at their tables, like they were stuck (or too fat and lazy--or old-- to get up and about). Wrinkled, white hair, overweight. Who were these people? I hardly recognized some of them.
My prom date (both years) was there, sans husband (!). No, she gained weight and looked all of 68. My first date was there also--7th grade dance. It was fun to reminisce.
I have no point to make here. No moral to the story. I don't really like "living in the past". But the good times stay with you 'til your dying days. They WERE good times.