High school in the late 1960s: to borrow from Dickens, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” This was brought home to me last month as my Inglemoor High School Class of 1968 gathered for its 40th year class reunion.

Held over three days at the Lake City Dick’s Drive-In (a favorite post-game, post dance hang out, it remains much as we remembered) and Auburn’s Emerald Downs (I discovered a slight knack for pari-mutuel wagering – up $12 overall), it drew Viking grads from around the world.

My reunion attendance record is unbroken. From the fifth around a keg in a backyard to the ritzy 20th at Inglewood Country Club (in our late 30s, we were still climbing career ladders to prove something) to this one, I looked forward to them with great anticipation, and afterwards, looked back with great memories.

Not everyone shared my enthusiasm. Some have an equally unbroken record of never attending any. Whether high school was bad for them or they didn’t care, the truth of fellow committee member Jim’s comment was validated: those who want to be found get found, and those who don’t, don’t.

For those who did, it was great. To see Butch slowly make his way across the Dick’s parking lot assisted by his son and one of those walker-type devices with handbrakes and a seat was worth the price of admission.

We lived near each other in the nether regions of the Northshore District – a neighborhood socially on the wrong side of the tracks. And we played football together, positioned side by side as linemen. Sometimes I rode to school with him – sometimes he took his life into his hands with me in my 1954 Merc Monterey, dubbed The Green Skeeter.

Butch had been missing since the 20th, rumored to be dead. After suffering a serious industrial accident and undergoing a liver transplant, the rumors were taken for granted since he couldn’t be found. To our surprise, he found us – Anni, our committee member responsible for receiving registration forms excitedly told me one had come in from him and that he was living in the Tri-Cities.

My best friend, however, wasn’t there. Nor could he be. It’s been two years since Bill died, a loss that remains acute. His was among 17 pictures in a portfolio of remembrance of deceased classmates. Some from disease, some from accident, some from unspeakable tragedy, and some, like Gary, a belated victim (Agent Orange-induced cancer) of the Vietnam War – what, with assassination after assassination, made our school days the worst of times.

For a class of roughly 175, that’s a 10 per-cent loss, a fact much discussed in serious tones. For whom would the bell next toll?

In our day, Inglemoor, a school attended by many (three of my kids are grads) in my Kingsgate neighborhood, was brand new – ours was the first class to spend three years of high school there. Originally designed to max out at 750, it now has 1,900 students, sending more of them to the University of Washington than any other high school in Washington. Today, 102 are on the faculty – we had 25.

Our class was unique. We matriculated during a time of great social and political upheaval. Kids today may find it simplistic, but to us it was a big deal that the year after we graduated, girls were allowed to wear pants to school. We roared rebellious approval at a school announcement that a Northshore kid won a federal lawsuit on hair length.

Then, as now, there was a war. Then, however, we faced the draft, something unfathomable to today’s teens.

We were idealistic, brash, and insistent upon revolutionary change. Now, we remain relatively idealistic, but we’re mellower and patient. And mostly content, a secret of life that comes through time and experience.

40-years have elapsed – what 50 will bring?