The festivities began on Friday night. I sat on a bar stool draining Michelob Ultras, listening to songs summery and bluesy and full of memories and talked to a friend about what a mess my life is and how I am still happy to be back in this place. She was here from out of town and I think she's feeling the pull of home.
It's a special place, we agreed.
I imagine most people feel that way about their hometowns. The place of origin forms you, at least partially. For better or worse.
The point of reunion is to return and remember. The Class of 1984 gathered on Saturday night to toast departed friends, to catch up on each other's lives. We joked about how Facebook makes it almost unnecessary to have these reunions except that you don't get the full story from social media. It's always best to be able to reach out and touch, hug, see the unedited version of life.
We resumed old roles and tried out new ones. We welcomed friends who hadn't been at any other reunion in the 30 years since high school and wondered about those who didn't show up. We marveled at how damn good we all still look and how, at nearly 50, most of us still carry those 18 year old goofballs around with us like photos in wallets.
The night ended too soon. We hugged and promised it wouldn't be so long until we gathered next time. And I think we meant it. Having that time with those who remember us when we were young, and I mean going all the way back to first grade for many of us, becomes more valuable with each passing year.