The day this sees print will be the day of my 45^th high school reunion. I might go … I probably won’t.

I’ve not attended the previous ones. I’m one of those classmates who everyone says, “Whatever happened to so-n-so?” I’ve recently connected with some classmates, and I admit, I am curious, but nervous about seeing them.

When we graduated, we parted to our various colleges. I would say, “and careers,” but in 1966, unless you wanted to be drafted and go for a two-year stroll in the jungle, you went to college. I was like most; I hid behind a college deferment.

Unlike most, after four semesters, I busted out of school and joined the Marine Corps. While I was doing my obligatory stroll in the jungle, my folks moved, and when I got back from strolling, I didn’t have a hometown. I went back to college and all the other stops in life and lost track of classmates, and they, me.

A few years later, I had a chance encounter with a fellow graduate. I was pleased to see her, but she stood with her mouth open staring at me. It was a little awkward, and I asked why the stunned look, she said, “You’re dead.”

To set the record straight, I am not dead, and have not been for a very long time, and plan on not being for a long while yet, and I told her so.

“But your name is on the memorial…” She was in reference to the Vietnam Memorial. To set the record straight again, my name is not on the memorial.  “…everybody thinks you’re dead.”

That explains why I get such comments on my Facebook page as, “You’re still alive,” and “Is that really you,” or “No way.”  I thought these people were just trying to be clever. Now, I’m wondering if they see me as some reincarnate miracle. It makes the prospect of a reunion somewhat daunting.

Another reason I may not go is that I don’t know anyone. The list of 200 attendees has the names of 10 or so people I remember. Our class had 984 graduates. At commencement, there were people who walked across that stage that I’d never seen before, now they’re coming to the reunion.

I envision someone coming up to me and saying, “Oh, you’re David Atwood, remember me?” I’ll look at their name tag, awkward, but none of us look like we did 45 years ago, and say, “Uhh, no.” Now, they have to explain who they are, how we know each other, and I still won’t remember. We’ll stand there until one of us lies and says, “It was nice to see you again. Have a good life. There’s other people I want to see.” Wow, two lies in three sentences. I’ll be wondering if it’s time to go.

Another dread is being with the people who do know me. I do not want to re-hash the stories about the things I did in high school. I was wild and crazy, and the stuff is funny, and might still be, but those stories are in the past for a reason. I’m happy to leave them there.

After saying all that, maybe I won’t be on my way to my 45^th class reunion while you are reading this. I’ll be right here typing something to meet some deadline, and that is a reason, not an excuse to not go.

I will miss seeing some people, and it would be fun to be see the shock on the faces of those who think I am dead, and I’ll miss the best barbecue in the state of Texas, and it would be fun to see the house where I grew up, and where we used to swim, and where we put that alligator, and… Hmm, maybe I will go.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at: www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.