Fifty years out of high school, my husband and I attended his reunion last weekend in Barberton, Ohio. I don't remember but apparently I had encouraged him to go. I'm not sure I encouraged him to take me.

Thursday evening kicked off the weekend with dinner at one of the several, supposedly world-renown, chicken dinner houses. Barberton was settled by those of Serbian and Yugoslavian descent. They brought their recipes to the new world and set up in Barberton. What followed were decades of rivalry over whose was tastiest. Iron Chef came to town last year and declared one winner over all the others.

To serve the entree one places lots of fried chicken pieces on the bottom of a platter-size dish, spoons a hefty portion of hot sauce on one side of the dish and coleslaw on the other. Over all is heaped french fries until they are pushed over the sides of the platter falling on the table, floor, etc. This is a Barberton chicken dinner. Cost about $8. My father-in-law loved to tell the story about taking the family for Sunday chicken dinner after church and paying $5 for all five of them back in the '50s.

The next night was dinner and dancing at the local country club. Dancing was scheduled until 2:30. The last alum was gone by 10:30.

Saturday afternoon the golfers had a tournament and that night dinner at a Sports Bar, owned by one of the grads, and watching the end of the Ohio State football game which they won 73-24, or some ridiculous score.

Sunday morning found us back at the country club for breakfast before heading for home, seven hours away.

Met some real nice people. One told me he had attended his 25 reunion and found the group cliquish and playing one-ups-manship with each other. In 2010 it was the rare alum who was still working outside the home and talk was about retirement and grand kids. The playing field had leveled.

I met a former police officer who still looked like he shouldn't be tangled with, someone who spends much time in Surfside Beach, SC, one of my husband's and my favorite places, a woman who built a pond in her backyard and has butterfly moths visit her flowers. Some still had their hairstyle from long ago, others looked just like their yearbook picture. Many, many were veterans; others never made it back from war. Much hair had vanished.

One story: When ten or eleven, one boy had been target practicing with his rifle, in the middle of a residential area but aiming at and over a hill in a vacant lot. When we was done he started walking home. A police officer stopped and asked him about his rifle and had he been target practicing at the hill to which he readily admitted. The officer told him to get in the car and took him to a home on the other side of the hill. The boy could see the shattered window. Inside there was a traumatized family. He said he was sorry. The policeman took the boy home and before he drove off told him to pay for the damage, about $75. He remembers he paid for the window and that was the end of it.

The ramifications of that sort of event today would be very different. Lawyers, judges, lock-up, police brutality charges, trauma counseling, window estimates out the wazoo, etc.

Met two former English teachers. We lamented on the state of creative writing and critical evaluation of literature in today's school.

Spent time with two wives of alums, one had worked at the same place I had, the other just pure delight as we all three observed the events from the perspective of outsiders.

Next to come is a reunion of that section of this class who went to a certain middle school. A cliquish streak still exists.

And that's what I think about it.