I had a wonderful childhood, schoolwise. My family lived on Truman Boulevard at the southern edge of the Dunklin R-5 School District, so my siblings and I went to Herculaneum schools.
I remember Mrs. Kaufman’s kindergarten room, with its black Kit-Cat Klock on the wall. I remember playing catch with bags of potato chips from Cheryl Ann Freiner’s lunchbox and sharing an ice cream cone from the nearby Campus Inn store with Jackie Murry. I remember quite clearly the gym where Mrs. Thomas refereed volleyball games and the cafeteria with its steel shelves and plastic trays and the playground where I got a bloody nose when Susan Bingenheimer took a tumble off the jungle gym and bonked my upturned face with a knee.
I lugged home countless library books and enjoyed art projects in Mrs. Porchey’s basement lair – although walking past the old boiler area was kind of creepy. I learned to sing songs from Mrs. Hattershire and to play the trombone under the direction of Mr. Gray.
I sat in my family’s pew at the old Assumption Catholic Church in Herculaneum in my itchy wool hand-me-down coat, watching my friends also trying to behave themselves under the strict eyes of their parents.
Those were good years, and they gave me a solid foundation, both socially and educationally.
Laura Marlow reunites with her former classmates of Dunklin R-5 School District.
Then, between seventh and eighth grade, my family moved to Crystal City. Age 13 can be a terribly tough time for a move, and things weren’t made any better by the fact that my mom, who had just given birth to my youngest brother, was in ill health and much of the care of said brother fell to my sister and me.
It was hard to change schools, to leave the place where I felt a deep sense of belonging and try to make new friends and learn new routines. At that age, most students already know their classmates, and they have a history together that doesn’t include you.
But hey, life goes on. I eventually settled in, making friends and taking part in all the high school things – classes, concerts, plays, homecoming floats, debate competitions, prom – with my new peers. But I was relegated to the sideline when there was any discussion about their childhood experiences. I had none of their institutional memories about Crystal City stuff.
Still, I enjoyed my time in high school and made a lot of great teenage memories. I had then – and have now – a deep fondness for the people who journeyed alongside me as we made our imperfect and uncertain way toward adulthood.
After graduating in 1975, I went to college, got married, had children, became a journalist. Life was full and busy and exciting.
Then, inexplicably, it was somehow suddenly 2025 and I found myself facing the 50-year reunion of my high school class. I was excited to go and see my classmates, reminisce about our shared experiences, scandals and triumphs alike. These are good people, and we had some good times together. Our celebration took place on a sunny September day, and I smiled until my cheeks hurt.
Turns out that wasn’t enough time together to satisfy us all, though, so we are planning more activities as a group. We have time; most are now retired (or edging toward it) and are free to have a fish fry on a Thursday if we durn well please, or to spend two hours over coffee and a pastry in between grandchildren’s activities.
But it still seemed somehow that I had missed something along the way.
But then I got a second invitation. Mary Ann, one of the Herculaneum High School 50th reunion coordinators, sent me the information and a sign-up sheet for that get-together.
When I protested that perhaps I shouldn’t show up at a high school reunion when I didn’t actually, you know, attend that high school, she said the loveliest thing:
“But of course you should come,” she said. “You’re still part of our class.”
It felt so good to have the committee recognize that I was part of Herky '75 history, even if I hadn’t finished up there. These were my people, too. They knew childhood me, a skinny, little thing with giant eyes, long braids and knobby knees. They were part of my origin story, and I was part of theirs.
Even still, I went back and forth about whether to attend.
Oh, I wanted to go. Even 60 years on, some of my memories of my time at Herky – faces, sounds, places, even smells – are sharper than any I have from Crystal City.
So I walked into the reunion that day with some trepidation. I wasn’t at all sure any but a few would remember me, and feared I might feel like an interloper.
But I was met with such a warm reception. We immediately connected over the old stories. They knew what I was talking about when I mentioned the Hiawatha mural we made in fifth grade or the math contests we did every Friday afternoon.
It felt like coming home.
And, just like that, it felt like I finally closed the divide between the two halves of me. I’d spent so many years feeling like I only partly belonged to either school, and suddenly I could see the clear solution: It doesn’t have to be either/or. I can be proudly part of both.
Did I come to this realization because of my age? Possibly. You tend to mellow in your 60s. Or maybe I’m simply too tired to waste any further mental energy on the topic. Whatever the case, it feels like everything just clicked into its final place.
I wish to offer a big thank you to both my Black Cat brothers and sisters and my fellow Hornets. Both groups helped shape me into the person I am now: an old lady lucky enough to have two wonderful ‘families’ with which to share my great school memories.
Love you guys! Thanks for all the good times.