My high school graduating class is celebrating our 40th year reunion this fall. I loved my high school years and had a great relationship with all my fellow students and teachers throughout my three years wearing the red, black, and gold. But I’m not planning to attend.

I’ve only attended two of the previous reunions, so I won’t interfere with the trend.

While it was great to see the faces who helped shape my memories from elementary school through graduation at the last one I attended 10 years ago, I prefer to remember my classmates and the fun times we had as they were four decades ago.

I cemented this decision back in 2012 while I was working in a leadership role at a two hospital system in Kansas and Missouri.

I was less than a three hour’ drive away from the military base where I was stationed in Nebraska from 1984-1988. I still hold fond memories of my time serving there.

One weekend, I was feeling sentimental and nostalgic reminiscing on all the experiences I had as a 19-year-old thriving in the Cornhusker State. So, I jumped in my car and headed down I-80 to relive all those memories from over  a quarter of a century earlier.

 As I pulled up to the main gate, where I had spent many a day checking ID cards and searching vehicles, I noticed it wasn’t the same one I stood guard at in the heat of summers and the brutal snowy winters.

I parked and walked over to the guardhouse to talk with a young airman. He wasn’t dressed in the same spiffy uniform and spit shined boots  I wore when I stood at attention there in 1984. I tried to engage him in conversation and find commonalities by sharing that I once held his same position.

He was unimpressed and equally uninterested, focusing on his duties. After being checked with security protocols, I was allowed to drive onto the base.

 I excitedly headed over to my former barracks thinking back on all the crazy and fun times I had.

I could barely contain my excitement as I pulled into the parking lot thinking of how I would go knock on the door of my old room.

The air was quickly let out of my balloon as I pulled up to an empty patch of cement where my four-story barracks once stood. Gone was the physical structure and all the memories that went along with it.

I stood in front of my car and looked around the plaza and saw that other buildings were also gone.

 My barracks was a short walk past the dining hall to the law enforcement center where I worked every day. I thought I would find some emotional redemption by going into the building where I was in charge of the communications command center on so many 12 hour shifts.

The area was a ghost town. The LE center had been relocated, and the adjacent chapel and movie theater were empty. All the administrative buildings that sat across from the row of houses where the generals lived were dark and silent as well. My heart began to hurt.

I drove over to the other entry gates just to relive the moments where I stood ensuring safety in entry control. None of the airmen were wearing our elite uniforms. Everyone was in camouflage minus the shiny boots we spent hours each night spit shining for our shift.

 I couldn’t take the change any longer, so I drove out of the main gate, putting my good memories of my time there in my rearview mirror. I jumped onto Highway 75 and headed towards Omaha. I had a renewed excitement of reliving memories of the city that shaped my young adulthood.

As I drove into south Omaha, things looked remarkably different. Gone was Rosenblatt Stadium, home to the College Baseball World Series.

I began to feel that pain again. I jumped back on I- 80 and headed towards the apartment building where I lived for almost two years. When I pulled up, I noticed a new sign that read it was government housing for low-income residents. The feel and look was less inviting than when I occupied space there.

 I backed out of the parking lot and headed my vehicle towards west Omaha. I recalled the many nights I spent at the upscale dance clubs and the large mall.

Two of the clubs were closed down while the other favorite was now a strip club. After driving over to the mall and seeing the crowds of young kids, I decided my visit was over.

 As I headed back to Kansas, I whispered to myself that I should’ve just allowed the  memories to sustain.

Have fun Class of 1983 without me.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.