By Steve Horton

This Sunday (June 6), barring an unforeseen mishap, I’ll again be kneeling at the side of an aisle, camera in hand, waiting for the opening notes of “Pomp and Circumstance”. Then in pairs or as triplets, the soon-to-be graduates of the current senior class at Fowlerville High will begin walking from the back entrance of the gym to their seats in front. Assembled there to observe them (besides yours truly) and to share this landmark occasion will be parents, siblings, grandparents, and special friends.

The graduating classes in recent years have ranged between 150 to 200 students—smaller than our neighboring schools in Howell and Pinckney—but large enough in numbers that it takes awhile for each of them to stroll briskly past me. I haven’t room in the newspaper for all of these deserving students, so the pictures I take are spur of the moment decisions.

There are several, though, usually athletes that I’ve taken pictures of with their sports teams during the past four years, whose names and faces have become familiar. Several of them and the few others I might happen to recognize will most likely find themselves in next week’s paper. The other images I select are done solely by chance.

I also will take photographs of the class president, the valedictorian, and salutatorian as well as this year’s guest speaker. I always do so at the start of their respective addresses so as not to distract them or the audience once they’ve gotten on a roll. I then find a seat or stand off to the side and listen to what each has to offer.

Like the long-serving board of education members who sit in the back of the dais, donned in black robes (a rough outfit to wear on those more warm and muggy Sunday afternoons), I’ve heard my share of speeches. The guest orators, usually a favorite teacher or class sponsor or a special school employee, have on the whole been entertaining as well as reflective. Most have been advised to keep the talk reasonably short. And most do. A handful of them, the naturals who are able to mix a heartfelt message with a good seasoning of humor, have finished to an enthusiastic and grateful applause.

The valedictorians, salutatorians, and class presidents have been a mixed bag. The presidents, as a rule, get to be presidents because they’re extroverted and confident and that carries over in the presentation of their talks. The top two academic students (some years there are more than two) might also possess those speech-giving traits or they may be nervous, meek of voice, and read the text with head down.

No matter. They’ve earned the right to be up at the podium, this is their special day, and I try to listen in a respectful and attentive manner. God knows, I didn’t come even close to earning that honor back when I attended the hallowed halls of Fowlerville High. My respectable ‘B’ average got me a seat at the ceremony and a chance to continue on that fall to the equally hallowed halls of Michigan State University, but not any invitation to offer my counsel at our graduation.

On June 12, 1969, on a hot, sweltering Thursday night inside the gym of what’s now Munn Middle School, Paul Grill, our class president, gave the Welcome Address, while two of our Top 10 classmates, Connie Tomlin and Jim Walker, provided the Student Addresses. For the record, Sherry Maleitzke was the valedictorian. The tradition then was for the girl to ask a boy to escort her as we walked down the aisle. My good friend Patty Roche did me the honor.

The main thing I remember about the evening, other than the humidity, was that a group of us sang the “Impossible Dream” midway through the ceremony. This title song from the Broadway play “Man of La Mancha” (i.e. Don Quixote) was then (and still should be) a graduation standard.

Actually I did not sing. At least not very loud. I had been invited to participate in this chorus, but the teacher overseeing our rehearsals and accompanying us on piano soon discovered that I sang in rather flat notes, a bit off key, and that my somewhat deep voice stuck out. After a few futile attempts to improve my delivery, she politely asked if I’d be so kind as to mouth the words. Our vocal music teacher in elementary school, Mr. James Wong, had made a similar request of me years before, so I was prepared. It was a cruel fate since my innermost desire has always been to be a crooner, moving the audience with a stirring and lyrical voice, rather than dabbling (as I’ve done these many years) in journalistic lingo.

On that night, softly, very so softly, I sang with the rest of the performers of the “quest to follow that dream, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far, to right the unrightable wrong, to bear the unbearable burden, and to reach the unreachable star” and that “the world might be better for this”.

There’ll be some students who’ll sing at the Sunday program. No doubt they’ve been blessed with voices that are both stirring and lyrical. Their inspiring songs, the band playing a final piece with its senior musicians, the speeches, and the presentation of the long-awaited diplomas, I can’t think of a better way to spend a couple of hours than witnessing this traditional rite of passage.

The cliché, one you’re bound to hear at least once at each ceremony, is that this is not just the end of a student’s journey through school, but the start of a new one. The poignancy is that, as a class, they’ll never be assembled altogether again “as one”… just as my gang of ‘69ers never was. We depart forever and move on.

You look out each June at the young, eager faces and think about your own journey from that long ago Commencement Night to where you are now. There are dreams and hopes aplenty at graduation, they permeate the air, some maybe impossible and unreachable, some more practical and obtainable, but dreams nevertheless; dreams of hope and aspiration. When you start a new journey, as these graduates will this Sunday, I think a dream is a good thing to take along.