The Clifton Central High School Class of 1975 held its 50th reunion last weekend—and yes, my wife and I actually went for a change.

Back in ’75, they handed us a diploma, shook our hands, and pointed us toward the parking lot. Life scattered us like cottonwood dust in an Illinois breeze. Some lucky stiffs went off to college to major in partying. Others dove straight into the workforce. I think one guy lit out in a VW bus with a girl named Starshine and was last seen in a grainy crowd shot at a Grateful Dead concert, possibly holding a tambourine.

I’ve never been one for class reunions. According to my wife, I’ve attended three, including this one. (I carry my memory bank in her head now.) But something about the big five-oh felt different. If there was ever a reunion worth brushing my teeth for, this was it.

So last Saturday night, my former classmates, many of whom I hadn’t seen in half a century, gathered in Chebanse. We came from all over the country. The years melted away with every handshake, hug, and wildly exaggerated story.

Kudos to Mary Lukow and Lori Swinford, who worked their butts off to make the event memorable. (Funny—I initially typed their maiden names. Apparently, my mental filing cabinet never updated to version 2.0.) I’m sure others helped too, and if I missed your name, please forgive me. I’m old. My brain has limited shelf space, and most of it is occupied by guitar licks, useless trivia, and topped off with a miasma of bad golf memories.

Having not worn my hearing aids—because I live dangerously—I think the conversations were vintage:

We compared wedding anniversaries like battle scars. One couple had been married nearly 50 years. I wondered if they went straight from graduation to the courthouse, tassels still swinging.

We bragged about grandkids like they were Olympic athletes we personally trained. We talked knee replacements, Medicare premiums, and which pills pair best with which ailments—including the little blue ones, which, let’s just say, are not for managing blood pressure.

After dinner, I looked around the room. It was a sea of gray hair, bald spots, bifocals, and orthopedic shoes. Surprisingly, not a tattoo in sight. These days, you can’t attend a church potluck without seeing $2,000 worth of body ink going down somebody’s arm. But our group? Still inkless and proud, or maybe it’s just all hidden under compression sleeves and Bengay.

Still, the room was full of warmth, laughter, and something rare: people who knew you before life got complicated. Before mortgages, surgeries, politics, recessions, and adult kids moving back in.

For folks pushing 70, we didn’t look half bad. Gravity’s been tugging at us for decades, but we’re still standing upright, battle-tested, and stubborn as ever.

Then came the quiet gut-punch.

On the back of the little blue reunion booklet, the one with email addresses written, was a list of classmates we’ve lost.

Thirty-one.

Thirty-one out of a class of what, maybe 110?

Some of them I started first grade with, back when I was a little shaver with a crooked haircut and a sack lunch that smelled faintly of baloney and the fish we had for dinner two nights ago.

So long, Tim. Greg. Donnie.
Darrel, Leanne, Barb, Debbie, Kathy…
I remember you.

I grew up next door to Tim. Greg and Donnie lived 3-4 blocks away. It could be said we were… gutsy. A little wild. Not so bright now comes to mind. We got into some trouble running through small towns at night but somehow made it out the other side unscathed.

Oh, the stories I could tell about those three—but let’s just say some memories are best left between old friends and the cornfields. They don’t have to worry about the law anymore. I think the statute of limitations finally swung in my favor.

As the evening wound down, I couldn’t help but wonder:

Who among us won’t be here for the 55th?
And, perversely, who’ll be the last one standing?

That thought settled in, soft and heavy, like the last slow song on the jukebox that you dance to. And it stuck with me all the way home… right up until the next morning, when I dribbled my golf ball off the first tee.

We came together to laugh, to remember, to feel young again for just one night. And maybe, deep down, we came to remind ourselves that we’re still here. Still standing.

It was good to see you, Clifton Central Class of 1975.

I