Brian Curry
I like going to my high school reunions. In my case, the Patchogue-Medford Class of 1973 in New York.
I’ve made it to every one of them and then some. Well, that’s not exactly true. For my 20th, I only made it to the “Icebreaker” on account of some personal issues, but I saw enough of my classmates there on the eve to compensate for missing the actual formal affair.
Here’s a little nutshell synopsis of my take on each of those benchmark affairs. Personally, I hated my 10th. It was a brag-fest with every conversation about what college you went to, where you were working, where you were living, and the biggest one … how much money were you making?
By the 20th, we could all see our 40th birthday on the horizon. And while we all still felt on top of the world with our best years ahead of us, there were also some warning signs that life, if it hadn’t yet, may be preparing to throw us a curve.
Actually, by that time, there were enough of us who had dealt with some serious obstacles that the tone of the conversations was sprinkled with some, “Are you okay?” “What was that health scare you had?” or that big one, “You didn’t deserve to be treated like that, and you can do better.” And by this time, there were some empty chairs among us, and that was a sobering and sad moment.
Our class was lucky enough to pull off a 25th, and that just seemed like one big, great family party. Smiles, laughs, and lots of hugs and kisses. And me? Now I was the master of ceremonies as well as the shutterbug for the festivities.
By our 30th, it was more of the same, just one big, happy gathering. Nary was heard a discouraging word as we looked over the dance floor. Old friendships were strengthened, and some, after many years, were renewed. Some fellow alumni made their first reunion, and that was an added plus.
If there was any one place that symbolically represented our teenage high school years, it was the beach over on Fire Island. So, on a perfect summer day, we made our way in 2013 over to a beach restaurant for our 40th reunion, which brought back all sorts of great memories.
By now, we’re all in our late 50s, and among all the toasting of each other, we noted that a few more of our classmates had passed. Among the toasts was one for all of them. We lost a few more friends immediately after that reunion, and that kind of gave the class a sort of collective realization of our mortality.
So much so that an informal get-together done only on social media announced a “‘73 turns 60” birthday party at a local restaurant. Very well attended and just as much fun as the more “formal” reunions.
Our class seemed to have a knack and, more importantly, an interest in these get-togethers, so we were back at it again for our 45th. (I mean, why wait for every 10 years to have this much fun?) What was amazing to us is that, 45 years on, we were still averaging over 100 classmates!
This July will be my Class of ‘73’s 50th reunion. My wife Debra, also a classmate, is all packed already.