It’s unnerving to face the prospect of a 50th high school reunion, one of those undeniable signposts of geezerdom, like Medicare, Social Security and hip-replacement surgery. It’s even more unnerving when the reunion is three years late.
I was beginning to wonder if our class – 1971 Moss Point High School, Go Tigers! – was ever going to get together to commemorate the 50th. COVID derailed it in 2021 and again in 2022. And then, well, maybe it was just inertia. Old folks at rest tend to stay at rest.
Plus, our class doesn’t seem as dedicated to socializing together as some others. A friend who finished MPHS in 1969 told me his class has had 11 reunions, one every five years. The 1970 class has been having lunches monthly or so for a while now.
We’d previously managed gatherings on the decade anniversaries, but 50 was proving a stumbling block.
COVID aside, I also attribute part of the stasis to the circumstances of our senior year. After years of Mississippi’s legal, extra-legal and downright illegal fight against it, ours was the first Moss Point class to be fully integrated, with students from what was the all-Black Magnolia High School transferred to what they had always referred to as “Central.”
I don’t want to get into all the ramifications of that merger, but I think it’s fair to say that the result was no one’s favorite school year. (OK, a couple of ramifications: no school dances; no class plays.)
Still, that wasn’t the only year our class had spent together. Some of us had logged 11 years of good memories before it. Rekindling memories, and cross-checking them against those of others, is part of what reunions are about.
That and gauging the toll taken by the passing years on other people. It’s always more than on ourselves, right?
Finally, earlier this year, there was movement in a positive direction. A half-dozen or so classmates still living in the area got the ball rolling for a class lunch in February at a local favorite seafood restaurant. Turnout was good, enthusiasm was encouraging and a second lunch was planned.
That second one overlapped with a trip down I’d planned to celebrate the birthday of my brother Mark, so I took advantage of the opportunity.
Bear in mind, I am not what anyone would describe as outgoing. But even we shy people appreciate that there’s a certain comfort level among people who have known one another since they were 6, 10 or whatever. And guys well past their last athletic exertion still get a kick out of swapping tales from Little League.
We offer one another proof: Yes, we were young once!
From the lunches, bit by bit, plans began to coalesce for that long-delayed 50th.
A committee was formed, peopled primarily with women. No surprise there. Women tend to get things done, in my experience, while guys are more likely to just muse about it.
I’d made it before to reunions 10, 20 and 30, though I skipped 40 after my best friend and classmate’s death a couple of years before. But I never debated whether to attend a 50th. Was I close to everyone who would be there? No. Did I even know everyone who would be there? Again, no.
Didn’t matter. I looked forward to seeing anyone who showed up. My belief is that each one of us honors every other one of us by being there.
We also honor those who for one reason or another can’t be there. As for those who don’t want to be there … ah, well, you can’t please everybody.
When the occasion arrived a few weeks ago, I spoke to some people I knew, and some people I didn’t know. Not enough of either – where did the time go? – but enough to remind me that I went to school with a bunch of good folks.
And I took a few tentative steps toward trying to repair a breach in one of my oldest and dearest friendships. I hope they pay off.
I wouldn’t put money on there being a 60th reunion. We’ve already lost 46 members of an original class of 312, including two in the past few months.
The trend is likely to accelerate, and I feel the same as one of my older colleagues at The Tennessean, who used to say, “Man, I don’t even buy green bananas.”
None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, much less 2031.
But I’m OK if the big ones end with 50.
Joe Rogers is a former writer for The Tennessean and editor for The New York Times. He is retired and living in Nashville. He can be reached at [email protected]