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The Class of 61, an original poem by Joan Hart


The Class of 61


We started out early that morning in ’49;
Twas our first day of school, we were feeling so fine.
Leaving parents and siblings for an adventure so new;
Who could have guessed where it would lead us in 2002?

Country schools now long gone, names like Detherage and Bolles
At High Prairie and Bacon, we answered the rolls.

Phillipsburg and Washington, we walked down gravel lanes
There was Dry and Dusty, what was it called when it rained?

Some started out at Adams, Oh, the memories we share;
Gathered in lines up the staircase, for our day to prepare.
Harry Truman was President, most cars were still black;
TVs? – we didn’t have them, didn’t know there was a lack


Of things we would soon find we couldn’t live without;
Life was simpler and slower, of this there’s no doubt.
First strangers, then best friends, we soon made our way
To our groups and our cliques, though some changed day by day.


There were teachers we loved, and I fear some we hated;
Others were thought“nice”, some we just tolerated.
They all seemed old in our time, not young like today
But it seemed we learned better, not so much time to play.


Sputnik caught us off guard, why were we so far behind?
Were the Russians much smarter? Did they have better minds?
The school code said dresses for girls, slacks for boys.
Mr. Potato Head and Slinkys were just some of our toys.


Boys wore crew cuts, looking clean cut was the rage,
A good bicycle was important in life, at this stage.
High school girls had their pop beads, sack dresses, saddle shoes,
Ruffly can-cans and bobby socks, hula hoops made the news.

Now 40 years later, soon to be 41
Life has changed us and made us what we have become.
Seems we like ourselves better, more accepting of flaws
In ourselves and each other. Our mortality gives us pause.

Now we’re grandmas and grandpas, some heavier, most gray,
And we’re thinking that 60 looks younger each day.
So we gather at midday, at the start of a new year,
What will 2002 bring? Well, at least we’re still here.



Written by Joan Rowden Hart 1.12.02 as the Class met for their first Quarterly Lunch following the 40th reunion.

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