Somewhere in Henry County, Georgia. Headed south on state route 23/42. The GPS is barking orders left and right. Marion is navigating. We are in search of my high school reunion.

I am dressed “business casual” because that’s what the invitation called for. Tree farmers do not really understand this concept. Marion helped me pick out the shirt. A tight blue plaid button up. Short sleeves because it’s hot enough to fry an egg on my scalp.

I actually brought four shirts from home on hangers for this event. We went to a tent sale on Friday where I bought four more shirts for forty bucks. I wanted her to have plenty of options to work with. I am clueless when it comes to dressing up for a party.

Somewhere in the back of my head I heard my mama speaking to me: “At least sit down and polish your shoes.”

I have an old box in my closet where I keep shoe stuff. I open an old tin of KIWI brown. A relic I’ve had since I was in college. The polish is hard and cracked, but I manage to get a coat on my old scratched up boots. A good brushing makes them look presentable.

We are early by about 15 minutes. I see a guy across the parking lot retrieving his sports jacket out of his back seat. He is a pin-striped model for the JC Penny catalogue. Military haircut. Sharp as a tac. I feel like I should have tried harder.

The heat is hovering around 98°. My boots are clopping against the asphalt. My stomach is turning backflips. I am a bundle of nerves.

We open the large glass doors to the conference center and the cold air rushes over us like a waterfall. Jan is there to greet us. She is the Reunion Commander. She has labored for over a year to put this night together.

“You’re not wearing jeans,” she says.

I point to Marion. “You can thank her.”

The first order of business is to find my nametag. The front table is covered in shirt-pocket-sized tags. Black and gold, the Warhawk colors of HCHS. Our senior pictures are on the front with our names below. The print is too small for progressive lenses. I search the table until I find the face of a kid whom I hardly recognize any more.

“Is that you?” Marion pokes me in the ribs.

“Afraid so.”

What happens over the next hour can perhaps be best described as a game of Guess Who. In a few faces, I can see the eyes of an old friend. I spend most of the evening walking up to people and reaching for the name tag so I can hold it where I can read the tiny print of their name. This gesture is followed by hoots and hollers of “how’ve you been?”

Some of us have seen each other at some point over the last 10 years or so. I’ve had occasions to catch up with a few classmates at times over the years. Not everyone is a surprise. But fifty years is a long time.

Tim is an old Hampton buddy of mine. School. Scouts. Everything. He comes up to the table where I’m seated and sits down next to me. I haven’t seen him since high school.

“I had to ask someone who you were,” he says.

I squint and tug at his name tag. I am lost for a moment.

“Holy Cow!”

And we catch up like time had stood still for us.

This is the beauty of a class reunion. Kids from all over the county came together for four intense years. I had never known anyone from remote places like Ola, Flippen, Locust Grove, or McDonough. I had been to those places, but Hampton was my little world.

High school changed that. We rubbed shoulders everyday in the hallways. We endured Romeo and Juliett together. We played pranks in the library. We joined clubs together. We played sports together. We screamed at pep rallies. We were there when the tornado came through and knocked out the power on prom night.

Then we graduated. The surging tide of life washed us all out to sea. We landed in different places and followed different paths. Responsibilities challenged us and changed us. 1974 became a time from another life.

But here tonight, that time is not forgotten. We remember. The hugs are real. The laughter is contagious. We recall the spirit of a time that molded us into classmates for life.

I can’t even describe how good this night is for us.

Near the end of the evening, the call came for us to gather up for a class photo. Herding a bunch of folks in their late 60s is kind of like herding first graders. It’s not that we don’t listen. It’s just that we don’t hear so well anymore.

Wanda is holding the microphone. “I’M GOING TO SAY THIS ONE MORE TIME.”

We are doing our best to form straight rows. A few take seats in chairs on the front row. There are close to 130 of us trying to fit into a space defined by a camera lens.

“TURN YOUR SHOULDERS INSIDE TO THE LEFT.”

Half of us turn right.

The group is too wide. People in the back are hidden by taller heads and shoulders.

“CAN SOME OF YOU, IF YOU’RE WILLING, PLEASE COME AND SIT ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF THE CHAIRS.”

Wobbly legs shuffle.

“I can sit down,” Billy says. “But you’re gonna have to help me get back up.”

The class of 1974 does not know how to sit gracefully. Moans. Grunts. Rude laughter. But cooperative spirits by all.

The photographer is patient. He moves a few people around from within the crowd. He points and shuffles people to the left a step. He backs up surveying the group. He comes forward again to make more adjustments. I can feel the blood in my legs coagulating, thinking a blood clot is going to break free any minute.

From the third row looking out, I can see the photographer surrounded by twenty other photographers with their smart phones in the air. Jeff stands up in a chair to get the aerial shot.

The magnitude of this moment captures me completely. We don’t have another 50 years, and we may never be together like this again. That’s just the truth.

This is why we have come here. At our age we recognize the brevity of life. We know better now than we did in 1974 that friendship is a precious commodity. To spend an evening with friends you’ve known, some for over 50 years, is a priceless opportunity that none of us can afford to ignore.

Back in 1974, Billy Thornton wrote a note in the back of my yearbook. In my mind, his words speak for all of us here tonight.

“I always considered you a friend, but I didn’t know what a friend you were until this year. True friends are hard to find.”

He signed it, “Friends Always.”

Salute to the Henry County Class of 1974.