BENTONVILLE — This past weekend was my 20-year high school class reunion. As semi-familiar faces strolled into the ballroom of our hometown’s Holiday Inn, you could hear low whispers of “Do we know him?” or “For heaven’s sake, that can’t be her!” from nearby tables. Then someone would jump up and throw her arms around this one or that, utterly thrilled to recognize old classmates from years past.
With time under our belts, even kids who once cared about cliques, teachers’ pets, grade-point averages or social statuses cared no more. The “hoods” hugged the “preps” and the “nerds” hung with the “jocks.” No one talked much about what they were doing now, other than to share pictures of their kids. Without question, the collective focus was on one thing: genuine joy at simply being together once again.
Oh, we poked fun about the beer guts on a few of the fellas and the snow speckled throughout their beards. We good-heartedly teased about those who looked much different now, some losing their glory days and others who came into their own later in life. Some (including yours truly) were kidded about not having changed a bit and looking as though we were still in high school. I’ll admit, the Dick Clark syndrome does have its advantages.
But for the most part, we talked of things we remembered about each other growing up. Who gave who their first kiss (Mark Cope in Mrs. Schlimpert’s coat closet, thank you very much); who broke all the young girls’ hearts; who stood up for those unable to do so for themselves; who was no longer alive to reunite with us. We laughed about our jalopies we were so proud to drive (especially about the bench seat in Sonya’s car collapsing forward, throwing us into the dash each time she applied her brakes, and we became speechless when the children nearby asked what a bench seat was). Stories of pranks we pulled grew more elaborate with the passage of time and we delighted both at our well-spent and misspent youth.
Our senior high allowed us to go back to the campus to see how it had changed (or hadn’t). Besides a lovely theater built recently, much was the same as it was 24 years before when we first entered its doors. Several of us played ball in the gymnasium while the next generation looked on with bewildered embarrassment or awe that their parents could move like that (although we could barely move at all the next morning). And after having danced the night away to songs from the ‘80’s hair bands, we ended up at the local breakfast joint for eggs and coffee, still not ready to let the moment end.
I know not everyone has this experience. For some, high school is a time just as well forgotten. I consider myself very blessed to feel such warmth toward the bonds formed with my childhood classmates. One group of us (that hit the breakfast joint) was together from kindergarten through 12th grade and we still keep in touch through Christmas cards, online chats and mini-reunions now and then. Growing up, where you saw one of us, you typically saw the others. And in those moments together again, we all felt the unique bond of our lifelong friendships.
My close childhood friends and I have a shared history of defining moments in our lives. We learned how to play well with others during recess over rounds of Red Rover or dodge ball or by building forts on the outskirts of Oak Grove Elementary. We watched each other navigate the growing pains of adolescence and our coming of age. On one another, we learned how to love, hate, heal, hurt, cover sins or spill our guts. We were, and remain, fiercely dedicated to each other in an unconditional bond of camaraderie.
I was in charge of taking pictures to commemorate the event. I scurried around the dimly lighted ballroom, snapping pictures of unsuspecting souls caught up in the moment. At one point, I looked up from behind the camera and leaned against the wall. There, in a room of wide smiles and bad dance moves, were the very people who formed my roots. Little kids, all grown up, embracing the awkward and beautiful stages of our past and present. Together. This column is dedicated to you.
LISA KELLEY IS A WRITER, MASTER GARDENER, ANIMAL LOVER AND ALL-AROUND GOOD OL' SOUTHERN GAL WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO PRACTICE LAW AND MEDIATE CASES IN DOWNTOWN BENTONVILLE.