A hometown that never really let go

My 50th high school reunion was flawlessly organized, and I really enjoyed reconnecting with people — some of whom I hadn’t seen in half a century. A few were familiar faces, others almost strangers, and I found myself wishing I’d known them better back in 1975. Funny how time shifts the lens.

I’ve always processed milestone moments by turning them into virtual stories in my mind. It helps me put events in context, gives them shape and meaning. This reunion certainly qualified.

Returning to Wantagh has never been simple. It’s where the best of times and the worst of times collided — a launching pad and a place of emotional weight. You’d think that at 68, the edges would have softened. After all, I’ve had a rich life — more ups than downs.

A classmate who has known me since third grade said something that stuck: I was never going to be content staying in one place. She wasn’t wrong. My wanderlust wasn’t fueled only by curiosity but also by escape. My mother struggled with alcoholism, and even as a child, I knew I had to break free and find stability elsewhere. So, I chased horizons, lived on both coasts, traveled to 117 countries for work and pleasure, and eventually built a career that let me balance travel with finally putting down roots.

And yet -- Wantagh. What does it have to do with all that? More than I usually admit.

The people we grow up around leave their imprints. They shape what we admire, what we reject, and what we chase. My love of baseball was born on the Beech Street fields, where I learned teamwork and grit. My drive to succeed was sparked in Wantagh, too. Whether by longing to leave or my hunger for more, that fire started there.

Those first 18 years spun us all into the world. Fifty years later, we landed back in a banquet room at the Hartigan House in Bethpage, trying to match 118 current faces with yearbook photos. I had great conversations with people I barely knew in high school and genuinely enjoyed them.

And I realized something: Back then, we all traveled in self-defined lanes — cliques, circles, invisible boundaries. But those walls were gone now. I met people at the reunion I wouldn’t mind seeing again — people with good energy and good stories I wish I had brushed against sooner.

For years, I downplayed my connection to Wantagh — maybe to distance myself from the past. And yet here I am, helping run an online memorial site for deceased classmates for 15 years, still detouring through Wantagh on the rare occasion when I’m on Long Island, still pausing at the house on Temple Drive where I grew up. Despite all my wandering, Wantagh sneaks back into conversation whenever someone asks: “Where are you from?”

It’s about roots. Whether you run from them, plant new ones, or both, they matter.

The reunion gave me peace with where I came from and a surprising sense of connection with people I hadn’t expected. The past isn’t fixed — it keeps unfolding, as long as you’re willing to show up, shake a few hands, and stay open to who people have become.

Glenn Strachan now lives in Annapolis, Maryland.