Saturday evening, while sitting at school taking photos of the juniors and seniors in their finest attire, I couldn’t help but think about days gone by and prom, 1970s-style.

Our junior year, my classmates and I spent weeknights leading up to the big event, decorating the old gymnasium in varying hues of pastel. The ceiling was coated with strips of crepe paper, creating a whimsical carousel-like roof. I’m not sure how long it took us to cut streamers, maybe we started before the decorating marathon.

There was a carousel, built by the boys, and a fountain spilling water over rocks, into a kiddie pool, which at some point after the dance, leaked and ruined a chunk of gym floor.

Near the east wall, we fenced off an area, creating a sidewalk cafe vibe. When we weren’t dancing the night away, we could take a break and drink a glass of pastel pink punch with sherbet that emitted a fog-like haze of steam.

We even scored a band, a popular Nebraska-based group that played county fairs across the state.

I’m not sure how all those elements created the “Stairway to Heaven” theme, and I’m not sure it mattered. In our adolescent minds, our vision of heaven was perfect. Some of my best memories occured with my classmates during prom week, complete with a lot of laughs, a little blood, a lot of sweat and possibly, a few tears when it all came together.

I wore a red dress, bejeweled with rhinestones and sequins, and four-inch black velvet heels. The Dorothy Hamill haircut I sported didn’t require much work, but mom wove some baby’s breath on one side for “that little extra.” My date donned black tuxedo pants, white jacket, black cumberband and a red-ruffled shirt.

We were stylin’. And ... We. Were. Cool.

Ask me for details about my senior prom and here’s what I remember. I designed and sewed my dress that year - a two-piece ensemble, in apricot, with a center ruffle on the top that could wrap around like a sash, adding a different look. Same high-heels, though. Same date, too. The only difference: an apricot-colored shirt. We arrived in a new carriage - a 1967 Mustang, four on the floor, metallic teal paint. We were voted “best dressed couple” by the junior class, a title I’m not certain we deserved or cared about.

I don’t remember what colors lined the gym or if the junior-class moms served punch and cake and cream cheese mints. We left early and headed to Kearney, for a family event, which spilled over to Sunday.

Prom is a transition in life.

There’s something special about seeing teenagers transform into young adults, wearing a fancy dress, pairing it with of Chucks or slipping on a suit and coordinating tie (especially when your comfort zone is Levis and a T-shirt), having 100 or more bobby pins holding each starched strand of hair in place, praying your date doesn’t stick you while pinning the corsage.

Prom is as American as hot dogs, baseball and apple pie, a reprieve from teen angst, even if only for a few hours.