I often think of my old friend, the late Stan Milton, whose column “The Good Life” never failed to bring memories and remind us of our truly good life.

This week, I’ve been making phone calls, emailing and generally talking with cousins, mothers and friends of a handful of my former classmates from Windham High School, in an effort to bring them all together for a 50th reunion of our 1955 graduation. During these conversations, I was reminded of the good life most of us have enjoyed, despite the era and the times during which we entered the Real World. Stan would have felt right at home.

By today’s standards, we were a small class in number – but then, Windham was small in number, too. The population was about 3,500 in town, and about 50 of us when we climbed up the stairs from the basement where we spent our 8th grade and settled in at our desks in the Main Room. Already the differences appear. We each didn’t have a locker – we had desks with chairs affixed, and the whole unit bolted to the wooden floor. The desks didn’t lock. We had no expectation of privacy, and the thought, in fact, never occurred to us. Lockers were in the shower room, and were used, as I recall, by athletic team members.

So, in the fall of 1951, we took our seats, wondering what this would be like. We didn’t have a lot of choice of subjects, rather, we chose a course (General, Commercial, College) and classes were assigned for that course. As freshmen, we went through Freshman Reception, ‘hosted’ by the Seniors before which we all suffered some minor humiliation – carrying their books, wearing foolish clothes and so forth. At Freshman Reception, we were performers of various skits and all that carried us through was the thought that one day we would be seniors and get to do the same thing!

Some of us didn’t become seniors, though. Over the years, some dropped out of school to go to work – not always by choice. Some went in the military (today’s kids have Iraq, we had Korea) and a number of students quit school and got married and a few moved away.

In those days, we knew everyone in the school, we knew their parents, where they lived and what they did for work. There were a little over a couple of hundred kids in the high school and nearly each of the 10 teachers also coached a team or had other extra-curricular duties – the drama club, Future Farmers and Future Homemakers (there’s a memory!). Ten teachers in all – the guidance counselor was the history and civics teacher.

About this time of year, 50 years ago, we were more than ready to get out and be on our own. We were going to work and “live our own life.” Financial aid and/or scholarships were nearly nonexistent. There was no such thing as a Pell Grant or such. A handful of graduates went to either two- or four-year schools after graduation.

We spent the last few weeks before the June 10 graduation, practicing marching, singing our class song and waiting for the yearbooks to arrive.

In my case, I was in a state of near shock, as I had to write and memorize my Salutatorian address, which today is a total loss – I have no idea what it was about. I know only that our English teacher, Miss Browning, and my mother, heard it enough times to probably repeat it.

In my first-ever pair of nylon stockings and high (well, almost) heeled shoes, and a maroon cap and gown, I joined the other couple of dozen on the stage and before I knew it, it was over. Thus ended a dozen years seeing all of these people, nearly every day for nine months of each year. Squabbling on the school bus, competing in the schools, on the playground, yelling at basketball games, and class events – all was ended.

Fifty years sure sounds like a long time, but for those of us who attend the May 14 Alumni Banquet this year, it will all seem as yesterday. We’ve been through a few more wars and lost some of our classmates along the way, but we don’t care anymore whether we get our essay written, whether our clothes are as good as someone else’s, or if we make the team. The important thing is, we’ve made it this far.

See you next week.

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