December 12, 2018

This week, while going through a few old boxes, I rediscovered my 1958 High School Year Book. Finding the annual wasn’t surprising. The big surprise was how young my classmates and I looked.

Each picture brought back memories of individuals and the events we shared. I believe my graduating class was the most positive, best looking, and most intelligent group of all time (I am prejudiced).

Looking at the sports sections of the annual our high school football team looked like a peewee team yet; we won our conference in 1958. I notice a picture of one of our starting tackles; he weighed 183 pounds. I was a running back and weighed 165 pounds.

Many of us had drivers’ licenses and drove the family car. It’s hard to believe our parents let us out of the house in the evening to drive, we were so young.

Last week, I saw high school kids standing outside their school and others walking home. Most of them have a backpack. I don’t think I knew what a backpack was until my son became a Cub Scout. We carried our books in our arms or left them in our locker at school.

Upon seeing these kids, my thought is always, how young they look.  Followed by, Wow! One day, these “Children” can vote. Can we trust them with the future?

When my wife and I eat out, upon our arrival, the average age of the restaurant patrons drops ten years. I can’t be one of them, can I?  Where did the time go? Can it be that I look as old as my contemporaries? My wife answers, “Yes.” I guess that answers the question of why I don’t go to class reunions or celebration services and view the person in the casket. I so want to remember them, the way I remember them.

I worry about today’s kids, looking so young. Then, I remember, once I was young.