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Last week, while back at the old homestead, I happened across a picture of my sixth grade class. There I was, on the top row, in my cub scout uniform, standing at attention next to the alluring Cathy McCarthy.
In fact, I was soon able to recall the name of every last kid in the picture, and with the names came a flood of long buried memories. Actually, they seemed not like kids but like men and women, I suppose because I stored them in my memory banks as contemporaries.
I miss these people! We were a tribe, with common enemies, common goals, and a shared environment. We grew up together, each of us a part of the same whole. And then, at the end of twelve grades, there was some kind of explosion and we all went hurtling off in different directions. How any of us managed to survive the transition is beyond me.
When you think about it, it's a strange way to raise children...
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