By Kim KincaidClass reunions have never really been my thing. In fact, in the 30-plus years since I’ve graduated from high school, I’ve only gone twice to alumni gatherings.Don’t get me wrong, I graduated from Columbus Grove High with some really great people. Only problem was when you move to the school as a junior in high school, there’s really not too much “memory creating” time. So, my motto has always been to leave the remembering to those who actually do.However, last weekend my alma mater had a sale of many of old school items as they make room for a new building. Up for grabs were the desks, lockers, bleachers, clocks, yearbooks and gym floor of the old building.Never having been to an auction in my life, my husband and I headed over to watch. At this point in our lives we’re down-sizing so we weren’t interested in buying. There were enough people there to do that.No, we just wanted to see how the process worked. We had decided to be careful not to raise our hands or even scratch our noses, lest we go home with a truckload of old school.First person I ran into was standing in the library, telling stories.“See those books in that pile? I remember my senior year Miss Myers slamming down two books just that size on the library table, threatening to flunk two senior boys she had found switching term papers to turn into her,” said one lady about my age. Continuing her story, she said this pint-size teacher had scared the living daylights out of those two football playing seniors. And, after slamming the books on the library table, she gave each of the boys one of those thick books saying she wanted it read and reported on in two days if they wanted their diplomas signed.Those gathered around the table remembered that story as they laughed and nodded their heads at the memory.A younger man stood by the high school annuals. His parents had met and married after sharing 12 years of school together. “Many a times divorce lawyers were not needed because Mom and Dad could go to the old yearbooks to settle any argument,” he said.In another room, an old teacher’s wooden desk went for a good price. No stories to accompany that particular desk, but it was obvious by the wear and tear that the piece had stood solid through decades of youngsters.Elsewhere, row after row of pint-sized desks were being carried out. One little girl was narrating to her mother which child in her class had occupied every desk less than one week prior. I questioned her knowledge, until I saw the children’s names on the desks in that clear print that only a teacher can manage.There were bookcases that were bowed in the middle from years of holding heavy books.People were standing by lockers hoping to latch onto the one they used as a senior. Two-sided clocks from the hallway had one person remembering exactly how much time he had to get from his history class to band — a nearly impossible run in the few minutes allotted. “I always knew if I wasn’t at the gym — my halfway point — by the time the second hand hit the 9, I’d be late,” he said.Even an old yardstick came with school memories.“I know that’s the one the teacher used to slap on the desk to wake us up,” one older man said.Time went quickly that day as we stood and listened to the stories.I think I’ll go to the next class reunion. I enjoy the memories, even if they’re not mine.