This weekend at my alma mater, Sterling High School Class of 1975 celebrates its’ 50th reunion. Sadly, the Big Pond and 4000 miles that separate us makes it impossible for me to drop in, but pieces of my heart never left home.
Born by the Rock River in Illinois, I grew strong in my family (McKinzie) in my hood (19th street) and within the halls of Sterling High School.
The baby boomer names— Bob, Doug, Mike, Chris, Deb, Sue, Pat— of my classmates, no longer common, have gone out of style.
Over the past half century, names aren’t the only thing that has changed.
Back then, cell phones hadn’t been invented. Instead we dialed friends’ numbers on land lines and tied up the family phone for hours as we spread gossip and sorted out teen dramas.
Text messages, huh? We communicated by flicking hand written notes across the class room on paper folded into tiny footballs.
In spring of ’75, Bill Gates and Paul Allen founded Microsoft computer software, but my peers and I practiced the hunt and peck method on type writers. Anybody remember those antique machines?
Boys jostled in the halls and teased the girls, but dangerous bullies back then did not exist. Today’s 21st century bullies lurk on social media spewing hatred and vitriol. Predators hide online; deviants use AI to create fake photos and identities and blackmail innocent victims. Cyber bullying destroys teenagers’ lives.
In the 70’s, our streets were safer; outside threats smaller. We lined up on the playgrounds during fire drills and hid under our desks in tornado warnings. But no one could ever imagine a school shooting.
No one died at school.
Nobody owned guns except deer hunters.
Back then, we walked through the open school gates freely. Now security guards check backpacks at the door and roam the halls sweeping lockers for guns. Active shooting drills have become the norm.
As high schoolers in the ‘70s, we did stupid stuff. We hung out in cars, but nobody owned their own wheels. We cruised in our parents’ vehicles, spinning grease laps around McD’s, running Chinese fire drills at stop lights, pitching toilet paper out windows to TP trees.
My class was notorious for the “Moon Mobile!” Bare butts hanging in the wind became a common sighting!
Our shenanigans were annoying, but innocent.
Our greatest transgression — streaking (running buck naked) across the football field under the Friday night lights. We had slumber parties and seances and summer jobs.
“What’s happenin?” 70s gave way to the shake your bootie disco days of the 80’s. We grew up to the background beat of Motown and Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” during the Vietnam War Era, moon landings and Watergate.
At the time, we never appreciated the opportunities Sterling provided, giving us the chance to pursue our interests and hone skills in outstanding facilities. Drama club, robed choir, marching band, dance, pom poms, cheerleaders, chess, debate and sports a go go.
Not for girls.
Not right away. But when Title IX started rolling, we were one of the first schools in Illinois to provide girls’ competitive sport programs.
Back then, I probably had a chip on my shoulder because I wanted to play ALL sports like my male peers. But I was lucky to come of age at the tip of Title IX and be there at the beginning—first girls’ teams, first female Roscoe Eades recipient, first women’s athletic college scholarship recipient, first women’s pro basketball league (WBL) draftee.
I will always have a special affinity for the class of 75, but after graduation, age differences blur. Once we tossed that blue cap to wind, we all became proud alumni. In retrospect, boomers raised in big families had so many siblings at SHS at the same time, class distinctions never mattered.
I recall my older brother’s talented class of 73, with his brainy bunch of friends headed to the Ivies, and equally exceptional athletes off to the Big Ten. I’ll always remember the Sweet Sixteen boy’s basketball team that let me play in pick-up games, long before girl’s hooping was a thing. And who could ever forget my lil sister’s winning Illinois’ 1st girls’ state basketball championship in 1977.
Did we appreciate our fortune surmounting those challenging rights of passage on our campus, as impressive as any university? For a blink in history, we shared a common bond. We grew up in the same place, at the same a time, when graduation to adulthood was simpler, safer, saner.
We were basically good kids.
If we ever failed to toe the line at SHS, we had great character-building role models, teachers, coaches and administrators who held us accountable and made us own our mistakes.
We learned lifelong lessons of dependability, honesty and integrity through team participation and performances in the arts and sports.
Sadly, since those carefree times, we have lost family members and loved ones, including friends from our graduating class, like Mouse, Bob, Jay, Laurie and others.
Many classmates attending our 50th reunion will have replaced worn out body parts, survived heart attacks, endured cancer, COVID 
and other chronic diseases.
My old friends will gather to celebrate, to watch a football game, tour the SHS campus and reminisce about the good ol’days!
Somewhere across the globe, a tall, slender gal will raise a glass in their honor.
Thanks for those magical 70’s memories.
Our Sterling years remain etched in gold forever.
I stopped blogging when overgrown connective tissue crippled my fingers from Dupuytren’s Contracture, a hereditary condition. A hand surgeon split my palm open, removed the diseased tissue and attempted to straighten my little finger. The dozens of ragged stitches across my hand healed, but on top of muscle memory, the tendons and ligaments pulled my finger back into a clawed position in a protective natural reaction.
After a half a dozen visits, the ergo-therapist put my hand in thin, plastic glove and dipped it in warm, melted wax. Then she kneaded my palm and finger to break up scar tissue, restore mobility and coax tendons to loosen their hold on the joint.
Lately, the medical field has been broadsided. Healthcare workers face endless scrutiny and skepticism under a tsunami of misinformation on social media and inaccurate directives from the authorities. That, along with major funding and resource cuts, make their job even harder.
Forty years ago on New Year’s Eve 1983, I said, “I do,” in a seventeenth century chapel in France, not far from the famous WWII Landing beaches. What are the odds of a small town girl from the cornfields of Illinois meeting a French boy raised by the sea in Normandy?
But our rewards were great; none greater than watching a bright, adventuresome daughter and a clever, witty son grow strong on basketball courts across Switzerland and go onto become doctors.
Girlfriends get us through tough times, celebrate our victories and always got our back.
bunkmates’ early alarm clock with the darn dozer button. It never felt like a sacrifice until the basement flooded.
harrowing miscarriage at an isolated cabin in the woods. When our children were still young enough to drag around, we gathered for “family reunions” on my stateside visits.
bourguignon", and "mousse au chocolat". Over champagne, we toasted to ISU, to friendship, to resiliency. We survived thyroid cancer, breast cancer, brain surgery, a car wreck and other calamities.
We treasured memories of that special time as college students when we starred in our own life stories savoring lazy weekends, crazy keggers and Florida spring break.
My head hurt, my face hurt, my right side hurt. One side of my head was shaved. I reached up and traced the scar dissecting my skull from my forehead to my earlobe.
to hallucinations.
With my daughter, nieces, siblings and dear mom, helping him regain mobility and self care, my determined dad learned how to push out of his chair and walk unassisted again. Just like I once I relearned how to tie my shoes, grasp utensils, and button my shirt.
