I graduated from high school 50 years ago this year. It was 1976, our country's bicentennial. It made us feel special, unique, as only an 18-year-old can feel, like the world was made for us. I came to high school as I did for almost all grades, from another town, in the middle of my freshman year, my dad taking another church. I felt like an outsider, didn’t belong, and didn't want to. I was good at sports, which had always served me well, like a cloak that made me someone when I was no one. It was a time of greats, great angst, great loves, great meaning, great losses, when your total memory was 18 years, and all experiences were exquisitely profound, and you would die for a small band of brothers and sisters. It was 3 1⁄2 years, a little less than a quarter of my life then, but now at 68, it makes up half the memories I remember. I left that town “and took off for the sky” and never came back except when I think about “The Way We Were.” Oh, to find myself “on a warm summer’s evening on a train bound for nowhere” with a few of those who make up many of the memories of my heart.
