Fifty-five years after high school graduation, I went to my first class reunion for a high school I never attended. My parents moved so often that I attended three elementary schools, two junior highs and five high schools. I went to the reunion of the Jasper Central High School class of 1970 in New York where I attended school for six years. We moved before the end of eighth grade.
Going to the reunion meant I would also visit my cousins who did graduate from JCS and nearby siblings. After visiting relatives I gathered with others to tour our alma mater. Such a tour. The school, built in the late 1930s was flooded in 2021. Just as discussions for restoration began in earnest, another flood inundated the school in 2024. The two one-hundred year floods in three years compromised the foundations of the two-story building. It can only be torn down and the area used for sports or agricultural field work. We stepped into classrooms stripped of desks, chalkboards, books and papers. Only the American flag and a pencil sharpener remained.
“During the flood the gym’s wooden floor warped up four feet,” our guide said. The lights still worked as did the air conditioner to ward off moisture problems so we walked through dry, clean, barren hallways.At one door my cousin Jim stopped, “this is Mr. Nosky’s room. This is where I sat in my assigned seat, always near the front.” I stood approximately where I sat in front of a guy who pulled out his jack knife and traced it along my back as I learned spelling and writing.
Former classmate Bill VanSkiver opened his home for the reunion. The hot afternoon sun warmed us during our catered meal of chicken and pork. We munched cookies as former classmates relived their glory days. The jackknife guy regaled the alumni with greetings written decades ago in his yearbook detailing his rowdy behavior with predictions for his future. He has mellowed a bit over the years. The principal’s son in our class recalled the day his dad caught him misbehaving and motioned for him to come to the principal’s office for his misbehavior. “That was the only time that he mixed home and job. Usually he kept the two rolls separate. When I got home, he asked me, ‘What were you thinking?’”
The youngest looking man at the reunion, was the youngest kid on the senior trip. When the guys tried to order beer at a restaurant, the proprietors refused. So the guys just chatted with the waiter who asked them, “just how old are you?”
“We are all 18, except him,” they pointed at Don Parham, who was 17 years old. “He is 22 years old.”
“Well, why didn’t you order any beer?” the waiter asked.
“I never thought of it. I will have one.”
I am sure they saw many educational things during their senior trip to Washington D.C. but conversation centered on shared exploits. A few recalled teachers that I had known. Mr. McClaren, the fifth grade teacher, who every morning went around the room with his book asking, “did you brush your teeth?” and checked the cleanliness of our hands. Mrs. Mindes, a sweet, grandmotherly woman, read a chapter each day from classical children’s literature.
By the time we left, I had shared some memories with the gang of 16 who came. We said goodbye to the building and former classmates who have passed. We recalled the teachers who influenced us, their high performance expectations and the blessings from having attended a small country school.
Note, technicalit was the 59th reunion of my 8th grade class.