'83 after forty

 

9 June 1983.

NASA was in final preparations to launch Sally Ride and the crew of the Challenger into space as Oxford Hills High School launched the Class of ’83 on our way into the unknown. A gallon of gas was about a buck and a quarter. We could all drive stick and three-on-the-tree and knew every backroad in Oxford County. M*A*S*H* had just ended, Cheers had just begun, and Saturday Night Live was funny. We knew Jack and Diane, Billy Joe and Bobbie Sue and the Wuppa Gubba and Raputa the Buta. Our lives were orchestrated and choreographed from the back corner booths of Goodwin’s Dairy and the pay phone out front.

We came from eight towns, transported to different elementary schools by a fleet of buses that travelled over three thousand miles daily. Eventually we were brought together at the junior high where, unbeknownst to us at the time, we began to form as one. Two years later we landed in the halls of the high school. In the classrooms our teachers taught what we needed to fulfill graduation requirements while taking us on conversational side trips to explain how it all fit into daily life. In the gym and on the playing fields our coaches instilled in us teamwork, perseverance and leadership. In the hallways and after school our class and club advisors gave us guidance and encouragement to work with each other, take on projects, solve problems and make a difference in our school and in our community.

As is the case anytime a large group of teenagers are held in a pressurized concrete building all day for nine months, there was tension at times. Social groups, friendships and relationships fractured. New ones were formed. Somehow, we kept going. In the shadows of all the drama what I remember the most is our class coming together whenever we needed to despite our differences. Homecoming skits and competitions, Winter Carnival, Dance Marathon, Walk-a-thons, parades, football games, field hockey games, cross country meets, basketball games, wrestling meets, ski meets, baseball games, track meets, plays and concerts…we all supported each other. And we all supported the Class of ’83. We were The Vikings.

All of this flooded my mind while we congregated for our class photo at our 40^th Reunion a few weeks ago. As I looked out at the faces of people I’ve known essentially all my life and talked with some I haven’t seen since graduation, I realized one thing: the basis of everything I know, everything I’ve done along the way, all of it originated in those elementary schools, the junior high and the halls of the high school. What I learned about life and how to navigate it I learned from the Class of ’83. The good, the bad, the pain, the bliss, success and failure. We learned it together.

I regret that I did not get a chance to talk to everyone in attendance. I was amazed at the stories of those I talked with. Every single one. Our AFS sister and brother, those I’ve known since the first grade, those I only knew in high school and everyone in between. We’ve done well. Healthcare, construction and the trades, art, education, business, finance, the military, law enforcement, technology, communications…we are everywhere. We’ve built our own businesses, built homes, raised families, gone out into the world and come back home. Did we make our mark on the world, did we make it better? I think we have and will continue to do so.

I've omitted names in this. Teachers, coaches, advisors, classmates – there are just too many, too many stories. Each one is no less important than the others. To quote Aristotle, “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

The Class of 1983. We are one.

To close, I have three thoughts.

First, Viking Pride is not just a catch phrase.

Second, “Non Carborundum” should be excavated and read at the next reunion.

And lastly, long live The Hammer!

 Slainte!

 

3 September 2023

Littles Pond, MA