By Neal Wooten
Nothing makes you feel old like another class reunion. Our group of miscreants and misfits from the Sylvania High School Class of 1983 will be gathering to celebrate 40 years of no longer being at Sylvania High School. We’re meeting at Limon’s in Henagar this Saturday to reminisce about those old lunchroom disasters the only way we know how – with tacos and margaritas.
If past reunions are any indication, I already know what to expect. All the guys from our class will look like geriatrics from a mental hospital, and all the gals will look like they’ve found the fountain of youth and are guarding its location with fierce devotion.
What is it about sharing 12 years together that makes people long to keep that connection? Obviously, all our classmates have their own lives and have friends they now have known much longer, but there’s something about those old relationships that never die.
I have my theory. I think the more traumatic an experience is, the more kinship you feel for those who lived through it with you. Like any band of brothers, from soldiers in combat, survivors of a natural disaster, or all the folks I may or may not have met in jail, there’s something about that kind of bond that’s everlasting.
And yes, school for me was quite traumatic. Like splitting my pants dozens of times and having to go to the Home Ec room to get them sewn up. Like the hundreds of visits to both principals’ offices, resulting in not being able to sit at my desk comfortably for hours. Like having Mrs. Niblett for math. (Kidding, Tonie)
I used to think I didn’t fit into any groups in school. Looking back on my days at SHS now, however, I believe I fit in better than most. I played baseball and football for many years, so I was right at home with the jocks. I was on the math team, so I was right at home with the brainiacs. I never smoked (and still don’t), but all those students who lit up by the giant propane tank were all friends of mine.
But I think what really keeps us joined at the hips are those old feelings and memories of a simpler time. Seeing these old classmates reminds us of when we were kids, when we were innocent, and when we cared about each other for no reason at all. When the 64-count box of crayons with the sharpener in the back was admired, and when Scholastic Book Fairs were magical.
So, here’s to the 12 years we were forced to know each other and to the 40 years we chose to.
