The high school itself is turning 50 years old. North Park Collegiate and Vocational School was built to educate the throngs of post World War II baby boomers. Opening in 1959, the first graduates are now retired or close to it. I graduated 30 years ago, in 1979. My high school girlfriend, who is now my wife of 24 years, graduated 29 years ago.

We currently live 45 minutes east of our high school and our home town in the shadow of the sprawl of Toronto. In the 1970′s and for many years before that, Brantford, Ontario, Canada was a blue collar town of 75,000 people dominated by farm equipment manufacturers. However, in the mid 70′s, the large companies stopped making combine harvesters and tractors, at least in Brantford. As the big employers left town, so did the well paying factory jobs. The overall standard of living declined. Unemployment was high. It was a precursor to the Rust Belt of the Great Lakes Region. It was our plan, as well as our parents’ wish, to get an education and leave for brighter and better economic opportunities. For the next 30 years, we did just that.

We do go home to see our parents 3 or 4 times a month, so we do have some ties to our home town community. But we don’t keep in close touch with anyone from high school. Life took us away to places we never thought of going to as teens. We went away for college. We started building careers, travelling overseas and across the country, raising kids, partaking in hobbies. Life’s activities left no time for keeping in touch with high school friends. They were equally swamped with the demands of following their paths into an equally full and busy life.

On the day of the reunion, the sun is shining and a warm early October breeze blows through the leaves that have yet to turn colour. While I wait for my daughter at soccer practice, I deliberately start to think about the upcoming big event, and it has started to become a more significant event as the time draws near to go. What about my past friends? Where are they now? Did they live up to the image they projected in high school? What will we talk about? What if we don’t have anything to say? Will I recognize them? Will they recognize me? What if they don’t recognize me! Much has happened in 30 years.

What about me? Did I live up to my expectations of myself? What was my biggest accomplishment? What was my biggest disappointment? Am I over thinking this? Most likely.

Will the teachers be at the event? How old would they be? They must be old because I’m near 50!

What kind of shape will the school building be in? What is going to be in the “decades” room? The school had asked for memorabilia. I did not save a thing from high school that I am aware of. Has anyone?

I was in a positive mood before I started to think about the evening. Now I was getting a bit apprehensive. On top of that, I should have lost 20 pounds and dyed my hair from its current ‘distinguished silver’ (my stylist’s term) back to its original chestnut colour, with just a touch of silver at the temples. Too late now. I will need to go as I am.

Just after noon, my brother-in-law calls. He was at the opening ceremonies the night before. He says there will be many familiar people at tonite’s main event. He started to rhyme off names of his buddies, my buddies, the teachers, the condition of the school. Listening to him with his positive frame of mind makes me relax and any apprehension that may have remained falls away.

My former classmates helped shape who I became, but they hold no influence over me at this stage of my life. Why should I be concerned about anything they may say, or think about me? Its not as if I have done anything to be ashamed of in the past 30 years. I don’t even think I have had a speeding ticket. I have a very solid middle of the road life. I am happy. I still have dreams. Life really is good.

The evening is still young. The sun has not yet set on the crisp October evening as Lydia and I drive our mini-van into the partially filled school parking lot. A few people are going into the school, a few leaving. We laugh at the same time as we see that ‘the smoking area’ is still being used. Crowds of teenagers used to hang outside the school under a canopy, smoking, regardless of the rain, cold or snow. It is funny to see these adults reliving a teen moment. Same concrete pad, same tin roof, probably the same people, only decades later.

We leave the car and walk to the building. Four middle aged, bald and balding men, each carrying an extra 20 pounds or so walk towards us. They then ask if they know us? Beats me. Who are these guys? A quick glance at their name tags and I recognize them as friends of my brother, older guys who I knew on the periphery. I tell them my brother is out of town. We exchange a few laughs about various events and say we will meet up later in the evening. The ice has been broken. I feel relaxed, almost comfortable, with just a tweak of pleasant expectation.

As soon as we walk into the school, among the thin crowd and loud noise, there are 4 women, my age, standing around chatting. I recognize 3 of them immediately. They recognize me immediately as well. It is great to see them. We hug and start talking non-stop. If this is a precursor to the evening, then it will be a great evening. Now I am excited to be here!

After a few pleasantries, Lydia and I head off to find the ‘Decades Rooms’. Walking down the corridor, everyone is glancing at everyone else to see a familiar face or name. Even a vague sense of recognition will have people walking toward each other. Every one is warm and inviting as we reach for their name tag to see if that really is who we think it is or who they say they are. The women have kept themselves in better shape then the guys. Fewer extra pounds and barely a grey hair in their fancy hair styles. I’m sure the hair stylists made a small fortune off this event.

In most cases, the men, on the other hand, have packed on some extra weight, turned grey, or are bald or balding. In many cases, it is hard to recognize my buddies from the 70′s. We were once so young on the outside and we felt so self assured on the inside. Now, we look old, feel young and know that life is a complex journey with shades of grey dominating our daily view of our world’s events.

On the way to the hall with the Decades Rooms of the 60′s, 70′s, 80′s, 90′s and 00′s, we pass the ‘Prefect Lounge’. It is now the music teachers’ lounge. I guess the powers that be decided not to enforce a class system upon the school. But being a Prefect was cool! Sure there were responsibilities that came with the title, but they weren’t onerous. And the benefits we had were minimal, but it was another, small clique and the younger students could always look to the Prefects for guidance. Who do the kids look up to now? Some superficial celebrity who promotes beauty over brains or thuggery over thinking? What kind of role models are they?

We find the decades room labelled ’70′s’ and enter. As my last year was 1979, I lived through the disco era, Michael Jackson’s Thriller and the hair bands. I experienced on the big screen monumental performances; Jaws, The Deer Hunter, The Godfather. I have the pictures with my own ‘big hair’ to prove it, and my birth certificate.

The room has popular media posters, school memorabilia such as lacrosse championship jackets, football helmets and the gym uniforms we wore. The uniforms for guys was pumpkin orange shorts and a white t-shirt. The gym uniform for the women was in the same pumpkin orange colour, but a one piece, shapeless, dare I say ‘jumper’ like pull up with a long zipper down the front and scrunchy elastic on the shoulders and thighs. I overheard one woman talking to her girlfriend. She said that those outfits must have been designed by a man, because there is no way a woman would force another woman to wear such a hideous article of clothing. I had to jump in and state that a man would not have defined such a grotesque outfit as it is so shapeless and form concealing. They countered with the easy access full length front zipper. I gave them full marks for that observation and walked away while I still had some dignity left.

The most shocking part of the room was to see the names of students and teachers who had passed away. There must have been 75 names on the list. People passed away from car accidents, AIDS, heart attacks, farm accidents and more. I recognized more than a few names on the list. I never knew what those young men and women had done with their lives. Unfortunately, now I knew that I would never find out.

It was unnerving to see the name of a person I knew on the list. I could picture their face and recall an interaction that I had with them. After 5 years of being together (Canadian high schools had an option for a 5 year diploma at the time) and 30 years of being apart, I could easily draw upon those memories. I just needed a trigger, the person’s name, to bring the memory back. The memories were good, the circumstances were not.

After wandering around the 80′s room, Lydia and I head to the cafeteria, which is set-up for drinks, snacks and chatting. Everybody here looks so old! We wander around, glancing at the faces and name tags. Not finding anyone we know, we move over to the gym, which is also set up for kibitzing.

The gym is much livelier with many more people of varying ages milling about. There are people who just graduated in the 2000′s decade, going all the way back to the first graduating classes of the 1960′s. A DJ is playing his iPod over the speakers. It is loud, very loud. I realize I may be physically old, but not that old that I want to leave because it is so loud. The music calls the revellers to the dance floor. But the night is still too young for the floor to see much action.

I see the 4 women who greeted me at the door. Their group has grown as more people have encircled them. I gravitate towards them as my wife goes off to see her friends. Immediately upon entering the group of women, there are many more hugs and exclamations of joy that we are together again after 30 years. The feeling is one of inclusion, as if we are part of a well functioning family.

The conversation is light and lively. Where are you living? How many kids do you have? Who have you kept in touch with? Who else is here? It feels good to reconnect with the people who were so involved with your life as a teenager. There is no tension in our small group of friends. Everyone is now a mature adult, with many years of living, most likely the best years of our lives, behind us.

I start thinking about why there is so much of an impact on me being with my old classmates. Maybe high school, besides being one of the most formative times of our lives, is also the place where we are exposed to tribes. Tribes in the sense that we grew up together in close confines and what happened in high school, everyone knew about. Every one of us has and had strengths and weaknesses and we became part of cliques based on those characteristics. Cliques of leaders, athletes, intellects, ne’er do wells, druggies, artists and the awkward kids who never seemed to get a break. By our actions, we became part of one of those groups and once labelled, it was hard to break out into the other cliques, no matter how much we desired it. High school wasn’t ‘Lord of the Flies’. It was many steps removed from it in one direction, but not so far removed in another.

You were very unsure of yourself, regardless of the image you may have projected or that was projected onto you. Your body was growing. You were interested in girls. Yet you were so unsure of yourself. You were always so self conscious. You wanted to be accepted, but feared rejection. It was easier on your ego to not even try for fear of rejection.

Every body looked at what you wore and heaven forbid if what you wore was not ‘cool’. You could be razed for days, or weeks or your entire high school career based on some action or clothing that was outside of the teen norm. You nick name could change based on that faux pas. Teens can be malicious without knowing how hurtful they are, impacting another teen’s already shaky self confidence.

Status was important. Kids whose parents had money and little common sense, flaunted both. If only we were smart enough to turn that kind of human frailty into humour, the have nots and the outsiders might have had an easier time in high school, which may have positively impacted their lives as adults. One can only guess.

Early in the evening, there are disproportionately more women from my graduating class then men. Towards the evening, more guys show up. It is good to see everyone.

One guy appears to have kept in touch with quite a few people from high school. He rhymes off where the guys are working. Every one he mentions is doing very well career wise.

Most of the attendees, I assume, are hard workers,upstanding citizens. Honest men and women, who work diligently at the home, the office or the factory. They do all right for themselves. Most are not millionaires and I doubt they ever will be. I doubt at this point in their lives they care. As we age, we find that what was important at one stage of our lives take on much less significance. I am impressed with the conversations we have. Almost everyone I talk to is very grounded.

I like to think I am beyond the crassness of asking people what they do. I would rather ask who they are. I am not my job. I am a person with a wife, two kids, a dog, a house, social and civic commitments, bicycle fanatic, outdoors fanatic. What I do says more about me than the arbitrary title that is assigned to me my employer.

In the rocking, pounding music of the dimly lit high school gym, where once was a teen pecking order ruled, it has now vanished, everyone is an equal. Many people who stayed in the city as adults are now best friends, even though while in high school, they would rarely have acknowledged the other person in the hall. Their kids are best friends. Because of time, and without the social pressure cooker of high school, these people were able to see past youthful cliques and get to know the person for who they were, and now who they are.

I am impressed by the amount of care and compassion shown by the attendees to each other. Some people start to cry when they see you, others jump up and down, others embrace so warmly. I have known some of these people since grade 1, many since grade 7 and all since grade 9. It is like being away from your 10 sisters and 10 brothers after years and years of no contact, only to come together again. Normally a cynic, I feel good about the future prospects for our society, not moored to the crassness of shallow consumerism.

I notice that there are no, or few people on either extreme of society. Maybe some are too downtrodden, having been dealt blows in life they could not handle. Others may feel they are too important to be seen with their high school friends. Others, I’m sure, live too far away. Others just don’t care. It is their loss that they did not attend. I don’t feel anyone would judge another person at this event. We are here as long separated friends. We are now middle aged, middle class adults. We know what we value in people and it is their soul. That rings true in a person, regardless of economic status.

It turns out that we do know these people. After 30 years of widely varied life experience, the revellers at the NPC 50th reunion have become the back bone of our communities. They give of themselves. They raise decent, responsible, respectful children, who in turn will carry the pleasant and challenging tasks of building decent communities and ever lasting friendships. Time has changed us. We have improved as human beings.

There was only one person who did not recognize me, even after seeing my name tag. There’s a story behind that I would like to explore, but not tonite. There are too many people to still talk to and it’s after 1:00 AM.