My High School Graduation - June 6, 1958

I was ambivalent about getting out of high school. I liked the social part of it: attending ball games, the after-game dances (at which I never danced); and the teen canteen that opened for a couple hours after school and on weekends. I belonged to the Hi-Y, ran cross-country and high jumped during track season. The municipal swimming pool attracted me during summers. I swam nearly every night those last two years. Brian Cossell, the number-one high jumper on the track team (I was a distant second), and I were into diving, and chanced a number of fancy flips off the three meter board.

The canteen was my favorite during school session. The place occupied the second floor of a building on the corner of Buckeye and Walnut of the town square. The canteen opened its doors for a couple hours after school. I started going there in my junior year after Don left for college. It lay only two blocks from the Moose Lodge, where Mom and Dad worked, and closed about the time they headed home. The canteen, one big room on the second floor, had a free jukebox, a dance floor (on which I never danced); card tables, ping pong, and a couple of snooker tables. I was pretty good with a pool cue, and so was often sought after as a snooker partner.

I was indifferent about academics though. I took four years of math and science, and even had a semester of Latin before deciding, rightfully, that it was a waste of time. I enrolled because a high school counselor told me Latin was required to get into college. That might have been the case a century earlier, but colleges had moved on, but apparently failed to inform my counselor. The misinformation was an example of the crap we were often fed in the 1950’s. I have no memory of ever taking a book home to study, but still managed a grade point average placing me in the upper half of the class (barely). I didn’t get interested in learning until I’d been in college for a couple years. If the university had been anything like high school, I’d have probably dropped out, but something seemed to have sparked my interest about then.

I remember few specifics about my high school graduation in 1958. We held it in the gymnasium, a facility that filled eight thousand seats during basketball games. I don’t remember if it were at capacity that particular night, but four hundred and fifty of us graduating seniors sat on folding chairs on the main floor while proud parents, family and friends perched above to watch a tradition that probably hadn’t changed for generations. Six family members attended for me: Mom, Dad, brother Don, Grandma Frank, and my Uncle and Aunt, Joe and Gail Frank, who had come up from Connersville for the happy occasion.

Each row of graduates stood on cue and filed to the right forming a long line that snaked its way onto the makeshift stage. A dignitary clasped each graduate’s right hand as he thrust a diploma into the left, while uttering a perfunctory “congratulations“. The procession continued across the stage, off the far side, and back to the assigned beginning. I managed to hook a size twelve shoe on the leg of one of the folding chairs as I entered our row and was mortified to see the chair wobble along in front of me for a couple of noisy steps. The main speaker droned on for period, but none of his imparted wisdom lodged as it passed between my ears. And then it was over. We went home.

There were probably graduation parties, but I had not heard of any and received no invites. I wasn’t exactly a loner, but I was extremely shy. I went to most of the events but tended to hang in the background - the proverbial wallflower. I remember years later, at our twentieth high school reunion, several told me they thought I was probably the most changed of the class - they remembered my shyness, of how I could turn crimson so easily.

But I had my own party that night. I recall being so pumped that I went out for a walk after midnight. It was one of those magic evenings in June with clear starry skies and shirt sleeve weather. I felt invigorated with the thought that I‘d crossed a major threshold of life. I walked over much of the town, fearlessly through Crown Point Cemetery, around the town square, south along Washington Street, by closed stores, by factories, and by dark houses. I walked alone through the world till the light of a new day began to glimmer.

My 50th Kokomo High School Reunion

My Dad went to his 50th high School Reunion in 1980. His was a small class compared to mine and their newspaper group-photo showed a gang of thirty old people looking into the camera eye - a bunch of gray, wrinkled, heavy-set fossils. That was my impression at the time, and my own 50th was so far in the future that I did not much think about it. I remember him saying that it had been a lot of fun, and he said it had been interesting. I could understand the fun part, but I had to wait till my own reunion to discover what it was that he found to be so interesting.

I graduated from Kokomo High School in 1958. The ceremony was in the school Gym, and about 450 of us occupied folding chairs on the main floor. The bleachers were filled with proud families. Mom, Dad, brother Don, and Grandma Frank were there, and Uncle Joe and Aunt Gail had driven north from Connersville to help commemorate the happy occasion. I can’t recall much other than some guy droned on for an extraordinary time giving a commencement address that missed the connection between my ears and brain.

Fast forward 50 years and I’m landing at O’Hare Airport on a pilgrimage to meet those with whom I had spent my formative years. The first night we stayed with Ed Raab, a fellow graduate living in Michigan City, and then completed the hundred miles to Kokomo the following day.

After checking in with our motel we immediately headed down the By-Pass to the corner of Markland Avenue to feast on a large number of White Castle hamburgers. We have a steel plate advertizing White Castles on our kitchen wall at home. Its an antique - "Hamburgers 5 cents". That is the closest we get to them in Alaska, and the supermarket frozen ones are no substitute. After satiating that particular hunger we proceeded to the town square.

There was an informal gathering of classmates at a place called Sondy’s Martini Bar. We entered, found a table with blank name tags and pens, and then turned to see a crowd of people I’d never seen before - very interesting. Everybody I met bent over to read my name tag, and I did the same. Why! Dick DeWitt. The last time I saw you, you were skinny, thin faced and had hair. Ramona Wilson, you use to be a voluptuous blond.

About an hour later someone walked in that I could recognize from afar. Dick Chegar was tall and thin, and still wore the face I remembered. I experienced the same pattern the next evening at our formal reunion. Only about one in ten could I recognize - Dick Campbell, Barbara Ehrman, and Ralph Williams to name a few. I thought about taking a camera, but elected not to, as it would be futile to match old names with new faces …that were old.

One woman repeatedly hid her name tag by placing her hand over it as I repeatly tried to see with whom I was talking. When I finally discovered it to be Sandy Beck I accused her of sticking a pin in my leg when we were in eighth grade math and causing a blood stain on my pants. She denied the incident, but I could tell...

The host announced that 170 of the original class attended the reunion. I was able to identify four or five without cheating. We were all given a copy of The Kat Kaller, the name of our school phone book (We were the Kokomo WildKats). It gave all our names and present addresses. Sixty-seven were listed as deceased. That’s about 15 percent of the total. It was interesting.

I remembered a scene from thirty years before - one of my Mom sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her. I was home for a visit and we were talking about things past. Her age came up. She was about 65 then. A look of awe came over her as she stared into a distant past, and wondered aloud, “How did I get here so fast?” Yes, its interesting, for that was the thought that often came to mind during my 50th reunion pilgrimage.