As time rocks on, old words get new meanings.
Take “minute,” for example. Most of my life, a minute has meant one thing—60 seconds.
But not anymore.
Nowadays, you hear people say, “It’s been a minute since I last saw you.”
Well, not exactly.
That “minute” might have been last year, or it might have been 10 years ago. This weekend, Jesup High School’s Class of 1966 will be gracing the speckled terrazzo floors of Cracker Williams Recreation Center again.
Yeah, it’s been a “minute” since we danced in our leather-soled Bass Weejuns on those fancy floors to the tunes of King David and the Slaves. If there’s any music-inspired footwork during our 60th reunion, the dominant dancefloor sound will be rubber-soled sneakers squeaking.
You may question why I say Jesup High School when the letters on the building’s brick wall spelled out Wayne County High School. Our class was the last to graduate before Odum High, Screven High and Wayne County Training School consolidated. Our yearbook, the JACKET, said Jesup High.
So, that’s why.
Thinking about Saturday night, I sat in my office and thumbed through the JACKET. The musty smell of the 60-year-old book dialed up vivid recollections. Here are a few:
Cary Bennett
I dwelled on the page dedicated to Cary Bennett. Cary’s football locker was near mine. And I still feel the chill and the shock that swept over the Yellow Jackets squad the day we learned that he had been killed in a wreck. He was the first in our class to die. Sixty years later, that list is long, too long.
C.E. Bacon
The former Navy boxer was our take-charge principal. Beneath his tough-guy veneer, I found a friend. Leading up to graduation, I thought that I would be listed as an honor graduate. The requirement was that the average of your report-card grades be 90. Mine was 89.7. I appealed, “Mr. Bacon, when you round up the number, it’s 90.” With a scowl and a stare over the top of his glasses, he said, “Ninety is 90, not 89.7.” Years later, I visited him in the hospital. I thanked him for giving me a valuable lesson in tough love.
Clint Madray and Ben Park
I was a latecomer to football. Looking back, I wish that I had started in junior high. Coach Frank Hammond could have taught me the fundamentals. But coaches Clint Madray and Ben Park gave me, with the physique of a No. 2 pencil, a crash course. I have the scars to prove it. And by the time I hung up my cleats, I knew that I had two things: a backbone and guts. When I got to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, our drill sergeant taunted us to test our physical and mental limits. But over his snarling, I could still hear Coach Madray barking, “Even a dead man has one more step.”
Patricia and Larry
On page 62 of the JACKET, I paused to study the picture of Patricia Bennett and Larry Brannen, posing at a basketball game. I was somewhere in the crowd. Our class had voted them, as senior superlatives, “Mr. and Miss JHS.” My friendship with Larry started during our football days. Our bond lasted for the rest of his life. Our family’s photo collection is loaded with pictures taken by Tricia. When we gather under the vaulted roof of Cracker Williams Recreation Center, we’ll carry mental photographs and memories of so many in the Class of 1966, along with teachers, coaches and staff.
Memories from long ago.
But wait.
It’s been just a “minute” since we graduated.
Not the old 60-second minute.
The new 60-year minute.
Yeah, I like that thought.
