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Irvin High School
Class of 1965


This is The Irvin High School Class of 1965  WebSite ... Welcome Aboard!

The site is a place to gather and share with our classmates, and help with the planning of our future Reunions.  Please look around, participate and invite other class members and other Irvin alumni to join in the fun. Reconnecting with classmates here before the reunion, will make your experience of the reunion all the richer.  Take our Surveys to offer your input to our plans and Volunteer your time and talents 

Your Reunion Planning Committee

Coach Roy Johnson passed away on Nov. 15, 2021. His funeral will be on Nov. 22, 2012 at 12:30pm at Coronado Christian Church, 118 Belvidere in El Paso, Texas. I thought that you might want to know! Thanks!

The New IHS

Those of us who toured the school at the 2015 reunion were treated to drawings of what the rebuilt school would look like.  The link below will take you to a Channel 4 News (CBS) article with a drawing of the new school.  Groundbreaking took place on March 8.

See the YouTube Video of the Class of 65 Fiftieth Reunion Visit to IHS

Barbara Watts' tribute to El Paso sunsets:

In the El Paso Sunsets

I miss those sunsets.  If feels as though I’ve left an important part of my psyche there at the foot of the Franklin Mountains where the setting sun delights with a brilliant display of colors extending from the horizon in the east to the juncture of sky and mountains in the west.  No tall trees break up that vista; El Paso sits on a high desert bolson.  The sky here is bigger than anywhere else I’ve been.  It took my breath away every day, whether for a moment as I rushed from place to place or for a transcendental period of time as I stood in my front yard and bathed in the colors. 

The colors swirl around in my mind and in my mind’s eye.  I think, “How could I paint that?”  Cureleum blue butting up against that peachy-rose color made by blending crimson red with a touch of dark yellow forming an intriguing gray where they transition from one to the other.  The gray, when I look at it, isn’t really gray.  It’s a dark stormy blue toned down with orange so that it’s muted and subtle.  On the other side of that cool rose color the sky explodes into brilliant yellow, yellow-orange, and the deepest red.  Red like blood bleeding from a crack in the universe.  Red that drips and runs through the weaker yellows and oranges threatening to overtake them.  The last color that flares as the sun sinks inevitably behind the mountains is that glorious red. (How would I paint that?  Watercolor?  Acrylic?  Blended soft pastel?)

Then it’s gone. I react with a quick unconscious gasp of breath. What is left is a soft, soothing washed out memory of those magnificent colors.  The subtle sense of impending darkness.  Like holding your breath waiting for the next display in a fireworks show.  This paleness, this nothingness seems to stretch out until the anticipation of the final darkness becomes unbearable.  Then colors blink out and it’s dark. 

Nighttime in El Paso is nothing like the nighttime of my new home in Shelburne Falls.  There is no sound of birds twittering as they settle down for the night in the tall pine tree outside my window.  Here, at home, there is no view of a canopy of twinkling stars; the sky is occluded by not only the pine outside my window but also by the trees in every yard and in the surrounding hills.  The streetlight in front of my house floods out any possible view of stars that persist even if I can’t see them. I hear the water rushing over the spillway and down the river not the soft call of desert life that emerges in the dark desert. 

Nighttime in El Paso settles around me like a warm blanket. Safe and mysterious. The sounds of an owl hooting plaintively, a distant coyote calling to his mates that are ever farther away echoing hauntingly.  Closer by there is the skittering of little feet as the desert comes alive in the relative coolness of the night. Cries of predator and prey.  Lizards, pocket mice, hardy sidewinders and rattlesnakes. No whine of mosquitos; there’s no moisture here in the desert for them to use as a breeding ground.  Mosquitos only appear after a rare shower or when water is left carelessly in a container outside.  Flying ants, colorless moths, and angry beetles throw themselves against the weak porch light that makes very little impact against the cloaking darkness.  Their bodies hit against the bulb with a tiny tick then fall soundlessly to the ground. 

Paradoxically even the darkness has color.  Perhaps it’s just the memory of color but I see it.  Not the gaudily breathtaking display of the sunset but its own calm subtlety of grayed out greens, browns and other non-colors of the dry desert.  As the darkness settles in and my eyes adjust to the change in lighting the colors fade to shades of gray.  Then the color is gone.

As much as I love the colors of the transition from day to night, the blackness of the night has a certain attraction.  There’s safety in the dark.  I become invisible.  Free to think and feel what I choose.  As long as I am hidden in the darkness I am only myself with no one to tell me what to do and say.  No mysterious rules that I inadvertently break then suffer the consequences.  It’s quiet.  Peaceful.  I can be alone with my thoughts of color.

Barbara Jean Watts