I started the morning with a cold shower, which should have been a heads-up: This was going to be an unpleasant day.

But a water heater’s pilot light could be reignited. What I learned a few minutes after emerging from the shower had its own icy impact on me that lingers still.

A high school classmate had died, the victim of years of depression and anxiety that had grown too strong for him to endure. That jolt came through a fellow graduate of the Class of 1976, who shared the tragic news on social media.

Social would be a good word to describe Bill.

When I met him, we were 7-year-olds in second grade in an elementary school in the small town of Estelline, a small South Dakota farming community.

I was a new kid in town, since our family moved there in the closing days of the 1965-66 school year to allow Dad to get started on spring planting. We were from nearby Brookings, a “city,” at least in the South Dakota definition, so the kids in my class were a little wary.

The fact that Mom liked my wavy hair and had me wear it somewhat longer than most was also met with suspicion by farm kids with crewcuts. Being the youngest, shortest and not quietest kid in the class added to the sense of being an outsider.

But Bill, who always wore a bright smile, invited me to play catch. We tossed a ball around as the other kids realized I might not be so bad.

I can’t say we were close friends, although in a small class — there were 29 graduates — everyone knew each other.

We were on some of the same teams and in many of the same classes. Bill was much more popular than I was, and much more social.

We did not spend a lot of time together outside of school, but we were classmates. There’s a deep bond there, especially in a small school. Many of us mentioned that last week.

I got to know him a little better after we got out of high school. We played softball in the summer, and when our teams competed we would hang out after the final pitch. We often went to The Corner, as the popular local hangout was called, to talk about the game, women and life. We may have drank a beer or two.

I was reminded of the friendly, decent kid I had met a decade earlier.

We then lost touch for years. Bill remained in Estelline, getting married more than 30 years ago and becoming a father. I moved several times, working for newspapers across the Midwest, West and South, but came home from time to time to see family and stay connected, at least a little, to my roots.

I saw him at our first class reunion in 1982 — we had an impromptu six-year reunion to match the Estelline centennial. Almost the entire class was present and we laughed late into the night.

Bill then took charge of the reunions. They seemed to mean a great deal to him and he wanted everyone to have a good time.

I attended the 20-year and 35-year gatherings. That last one, in 2011, was at his home, and he was smiling the entire time.

Bill and I also started chatting on Facebook. I knew of his struggles and we chatted about how life takes twists and turns you didn’t expect. The news of his death was one of them.

There was another reunion last week, with several members of the class gathering for his services. I couldn’t make it, but my close friend Ray and several other classmates were there.

Once again, Bill had brought us together.