The following poem was discovered and submitted by Cathy Brattebo White. It says it all....
Class Reunion—oh yeahEvery ten years as summertime nears, an announcement arrives in the mail.
A reunion is planned, it’ll really be grand; make plans to attend without fail.
I’ll never forget the first time we met, we all tried so hard to impress.
We drove fancy cars, smoked big cigars, and wore our most elegant dress.
It was quite an affair, (the whole class was there), held at a fancy hotel.
We wined and we dined and we acted refined; everyone thought it was swell.
The men all conversed about who had been first to achieve great fortune and fame.
Meanwhile their spouses described their fine houses and how beautiful their children became.
No one had heard about the class nerd who’d guided spacecraft to the moon.
Or poor little Jane who’d always been plain, who married to a shipping tycoon.
The boy we’d decreed “most apt to succeed” was serving ten years in the pen.
While the one voted “least” now was a priest; guess you can be wrong now and then.
They awarded a prize to one of the guys who seemed to have aged the least.
Another was given to the grad who had driven the farthest to attend the big feast.
They took a class picture, a curious mixture of flips, crewcuts and thin ties.
Tall, short or skinny, the style was the mini; you never saw so many thighs.
At our next get together, no one cared whether they impressed their classmates or not.
The mood was informal, a whole lot more normal; by this time we’d all gone to pot.
It was held out of doors, along the lake shore and the menu was burgers and beans.
And most of us laid around in the shade in our comfortable t-shirts and jeans.
By the fortieth year it became very clear we were definitely over the hill.
Those who weren’t dead had to crawl out of bed and get home in time for their pill.
And now I can’t wait as they’ve set the date; our 50th is coming I’m told.
It should be a ball; they’ve rented a hall at the Shady Rest Home for the old.
Repairs have been made on my old hearing aid and my pacemaker’s turned up on high.
My wheelchair is oiled and my teeth have been boiled and I’ve bought a new wig and glass eye.
I’m feeling quite hearty; I’m ready to party. I’ll dance until dawn’s early light.
It’ll be lots of fun and I hope at least one other person can stay awake that night.