Fifty years. Half a century. And yet, if I close my eyes, I can still hear the music drifting down the hallways, feel the sun warming our faces on autumn afternoons, and see all of us—young, fearless, laughing—ready to take on a world we could scarcely imagine.
This week, I’ll be among old friends at my 50th high school reunion of the Class of ’75, back in our little hometown, what feels like a million miles away from where I ended up. Once, a 50th reunion sounded so outlandishly old and distant. Now it’s at hand.
The 1970s were our cradle, our proving ground, our shared dream. We wore bell-bottoms and leather jackets, we danced under mirrored balls, and we spoke of peace and possibility with the fervor of true believers. The air smelled of adventure—and maybe a little bit of vinyl, patchouli, and hairspray, too. Every corner of our world seemed alive with music, protest, hope, and rebellion. In retrospect, maybe wearing a shirt unbuttoned to our navels wasn’t the best look. We were not just coming of age; we were trying to remake the age itself.
Ron, c. 1975
This weekend, we gather not just to reminisce, but to honor who we were and who we have become. We have weathered storms—some we anticipated, others that blindsided us—but through it all, a part of that restless spirit, that golden 17-year-old soul, has remained within us. Some of us have been known longer by a married name than their maiden name. Some of us have lived longer someplace else than we ever lived in Casper, Wyoming. One way or another, all of us left home a long time ago. Jim Croce’s Time in a Bottle was our prom theme (I think) and back then, we giggled about the “bottle” part … today we are completely sober about the “time” part.
Though time has traced its gentle lines across our faces, it has not dimmed the light in our eyes, nor the laughter in our hearts.
Look at us now: silver-haired, wiser, maybe a little slower to rise from our chairs, but still full of the same spark that once dared to dream the impossible. Time may have taken the sharpness of our youth, but it has given us something even greater—the joy of knowing what it meant to really live.
So here’s to the Seventies—to vinyl records, endless summers, and the sweet, stubborn spirit of a generation that still knows how to love, to laugh, and to dance.
Here’s to us—to friendships that have stretched across the decades, to the music that still plays in the backrooms of our minds, and to the everlasting magic of a time when the world was wide open and so were we.
Here’s to the friendships that never faded, the music that never stopped playing, and the dreams that never really grew old. Here’s to the bittersweet knowledge that though we cannot stay in this place, for one fleeting night, we are home again. Here’s to the Class of ’75.