This spring we should have celebrated our 40th class reunion. For whatever reason, we didn't take the time or the trouble to plan for such a momentous occasion. I wish we had.

Unfortunately, in lieu of gathering our 62 classmates together at the lake or some fancy restaurant, we met last week instead alongside the casket of another of our classmates, our friend Tommy Drinkard. Such a scene is surreal in its reality and pains us down deep inside our hearts where precious memories are stored and, regrettably at times, ignored.

How can it be that the handsome, lithe, Red Devil quarterback with the quick wit and engaging sideways smile is gone? He was too young to die. At 58, he was still in the prime of life.

Tommy (it's never been "Tom" to any of us) had so much of life yet to live. He leaves a wife who needed him for strength and companionship as she grows older, a son and two daughters who needed his strong arms to caress and encourage, a brother who needed a confidante only a brother can be, and grandchildren who would so have enjoyed this funloving, teddy-bear of a grandpa.

All of them are left to wonder "Why?" As are we, the Class of '66.

Instead of celebrating life by regaling one another with tales of younger years, we stand dutifully by our fallen friend, mourning a shared history that was all too brief.

How many times did I see Tommy mowing his grass and feel that a cursory wave of my hand was sufficient to let him know he was still my friend after all these years? How many days did I pass his place of business and fail to stop in to say "Hi?"

If we learn but one thing when we are left with gaping holes in our circles of friends, it should be that life and death wait for no one. Today is all we have in which to grab hold of that fraying rope which links us to our past.

It is all the time we have to reach out to others who have in some small way made us into what and who we are. We must look past the double chins, the balding heads, and the expanding bellies (ours, as well as our friends) and make it a point to connect, to speak, to visit, to encourage, to laugh, and to remember the friends of our youth.

I don't want to look at another classmate in repose at some funeral home until I have made some attempt to relay to them that I love them and care about them and appreciate what part he/she has played in my life.

Tommy Drinkard wrote to me in our 1964 yearbook, "Dear Mickie, You are a really sweet and pretty girl and I'll never forget all our weird backyard basketball games. Best of luck, neighbor. I'll always be your friend. Tommy."

And he was. Though many years and even more miles separated us, our class was a close one and we always seemed to pick up wherever we'd left off should we happen by chance to meet.

I hope Tommy remembered, that after forty years and a fair amount of printers ink under his fingernails, he remained the jock, the jokester, and the blonde, blue-eyed Troy Donahue look-alike who once made all the high school girls "swoon."

In spite of the fact that as class members, our paths seldom cross and memories of our school days grow dimmer with age, Tommy remained, always and foremost, to every one of us, a friend. I pray he knew that. We will miss him.