Click 'like' if you enjoyed the reunion

Driving on Sunrise Highway toward Mulcahy's Pub in Wantagh, I muttered to myself, "What was I thinking?" How did I allow myself to be the sole organizer of my high school reunion?

When it comes to these events, I'm usually a peripheral figure, not a leader (perhaps echoing my undistinguished high school career). I'd attended all my major reunions and usually ended up in the shadows, hanging with some of the same guys I did decades earlier, snickering, guffawing, acting as if we were still at Valley Stream North High School.

But this time I was the point person. I'm not sure why, although I suspect it had something to do with my son's graduation from Farmingdale High School in June. Andrew's high school experience was far better than mine, but watching him get his diploma reminded me that V.S. North's Class of '73 had nothing scheduled for the 40th anniversary of our graduation this year. The chief organizer for our prior reunions had no interest in doing another, and who could blame him? I saw the work he and the reunion committee had put into those earlier confabs, held in nice catering halls, with everyone dressed up and sporting name tags.

So if he wasn't going to do it, somebody had to take the reins. I mulled over the idea and thought, better to see these people now, while I'm not overweight, gainfully employed and still have some hair. Who knows, 10 years from now? But reunion committees? Name tags? Mailings? Later for that. If I was to do this, it was going to be the easiest way possible, as in . . . Facebook! Create an events page, invite everyone I knew from high school to come, and have them spread the word among their Facebook friends.

I bounced this bare-bones idea off a few classmates through Facebook, and they concurred. But the message was clear: People wanted it to happen before summer ended. That gave me less than two months. Mulcahy's was available -- with a reasonable, pay-at-the-door package, a semiprivate bar -- on Friday, Aug. 30. Labor Day weekend; about as late as you could do it and still call it a summer reunion.

On July 4, I created the event page. Right away, I heard complaints -- mostly from out-of-towners -- about short notice. I responded by sending them information on Travelocity sales.

I learned a lot about social media over the next seven weeks. And I was reminded that people don't read (a lesson that I had learned years earlier as a journalist). "Where is the reunion?" someone posted, about an inch below the event info. I guess that person also failed to see the link I posted for Mulcahy's Web page with the pub's green logo and its name in bold blue type.

I learned that it helps to stay on top of a Facebook page. Every classmate who confirmed their attendance got a "Like" -- the thumbs-up logo -- from me, and a brief welcoming message. Slowly, the numbers ticked up. We started hearing from people who had not attended any of the earlier reunions. The event page sparked conversations between old friends, some of whom weren't even planning to come to the reunion. When one of our classmates had to drop out a week before the event because of an ailing parent, the response was overwhelming. People were offering words of support, sharing their own similar experiences and exhorting him to hang in there.

Clearly, we had all reached a certain point in life. Still, on Aug. 23, when the event manager at Mulcahy's asked me for a solid head count, I was nervous. We had 35 confirmed and a whole lot of maybes.

On reunion night, I arrived an hour early, expecting to be the first one. To my surprise, a half dozen of my classmates were already there. Were we this punctual for class as teens?

Over the next three hours, people began dribbling in. I'd see some poke their heads in tentatively, trying to assess the situation. Did they recognize anyone? A few hesitant steps toward the party followed, and inevitably, a name called out in recognition, and someone was pumping the hand of the new arrival.

What was clear is that we're old enough now where some things that used to matter, don't. As our section of the bar began to fill with classmates, guys who used to be jocks talked with guys who used to be nerds. The most popular girls in high school were hobnobbing with former wallflowers. "It doesn't matter who has money or who gained weight," commented one alumnus. "I think we're at the point where everyone is just happy to be here."

A total of 53 people showed up that night, from as far as Seattle and London; that's out of a class of about 300. A decent turnout for the 40th, which, reunion experts say, is the lowest-attended anniversary year. My former classmates seemed to enjoy the food and the no-frills venue, but I think what they enjoyed more was the chance to be with people they hadn't seen in years.

It was, as I had hoped, simple and social. A no-hassle, fairly inexpensive setting with no intricate menu planning, no need to book a band and prepare name tags, or worry about big party details, made it enjoyable for me, too.

Over the next few days, dozens of messages and photos were posted on our Facebook event page, talking about how much fun we had. Those who didn't make it wanted to try next time. There were calls to hold the next reunion in five years instead of 10, and several people nominated me to organize it again. Another guy said those of us on Long Island should have an annual dinner. "You can plan that, too," he said.

He was joking, I think. I may be simple, but I'm not that social.