As information was gathered for our 50th, I was saddened to learn Ken Rishel had died. I wanted to talk to him.
In eighth grade all our classes were together and we became really tight. Best buds. Then, as we prepared for ninth grade, freshmen in high school at last, we selected our courses, the first time that we actually had a choice. I remember vividly sitting on a curb comparing our choices and seeing with surprise they were completely different. None of our classes would be together. At first we asked each other, “Don’t you want to take this? Or that?” But our surprising differences sunk in as neither wanted what the other had chosen.
Oh, well, so what? We would still be pals.
Only we weren’t. In the fall with its almost overwhelming new experiences, we barely saw each other. But no regrets. We had moved on and didn’t even realize what we had lost, not for the rest of high school, not for the next 50 years. Not until I learned he had died.