Fifty Years Too Late

Fifty years! A couple of weeks ago it hit me: sometime during the first or second week of June this year my classmates and I will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of our high school graduation. I sent a message to a friend, asking about a reunion. Postponed, she replied. Apparently we are still feeling the effects of the Wuhan Flu.

Our graduating class contained, if memory serves, 128 graduates. There are several that are no longer with us, and I am still shocked when I hear that one has passed, even though we are all senior citizens. I still find it impossible to believe that a classmate, Betty, is no longer with us. And even though I have not met many of the spouses of my classmates, I still am saddened when one passes, as did Jonnie's husband recently.

I recall the summer of 1971 fondly. That fall I would begin my academic career at Wake Forest University, with most of my expenses covered by an academic scholarship. As was the custom of the time, I had a summer job, working in the shipping department of a spinning mill. Ginned cotton came in one end of the mill, and yarn exited the other end. I worked weird hours: 9 AM until 1 PM, then 6 PM until 10 PM. They called it a split shift. I didn't like it, of course, but it was job, and I had plans for the money I earned.

The aggravating part of the job was my boss. He and I were in the first grade together. Rumor has it he was in the first grade the year before I got there, and I'm pretty sure he was in the first grade the year after I moved to the second grade. I can't remember his name, nor can I remember the name of his good-looking older sister. That summer convinced me that I should look for work that involved my head, and not my back.

Tobacco was still the primary cash crop in the state of North Carolina, and the tobacco harvest usually ended around Labor Day, so the schools did not crank up until after that last summer holiday. Because I was a freshman, I had to report for a week of orientation, so I had to be on campus the week before Labor Day. My mother and I drove to school that last week of August in a 1970 Ford Falcon. I unloaded the car, we said goodbye, and I was, for the first time in my life, on my own.

Earlier that summer I received a letter telling me that my summer reading was to be the 1940 novel The Power and the Glory, by Graham Greene. Incoming freshmen were assigned an adviser, and we were told that we would discuss the novel in our advising groups. I bought the paperback version, and had every good intention of reading it. But somehow the summer passed quickly, and I found myself on campus with the paperback unread in my luggage.

My adviser was in the Speech, Communications, and Theater Arts Department (otherwise known as the Jock Department, for the number of scholarship athletes who chose this as a major), and apparently he was no fan of Graham Greene, because, as best I can recall, we never discussed the unread novel. And so it passed that I shirked my first assignment at my new college, and never paid a price.

That paperback remained, unread, on my bookshelf until just a few years ago, when I gave it to one of my children. I have been trying for many years now to downsize, so when my kids come to visit, I force books on them. This may be why they don't visit often. But it has worked. I started with 16 bookcases in our little house here, and we are now down to 15 1/2. A few more years of steady progress, and we will be down to 15.

Shortly after noting the upcoming fiftieth anniversary, my conscience began to bother me. I really should have read that book. Now the copy I bought back in 1971 was gone. Fortunately, a part of my downsizing scheme has been replacing physical books with electronic books, so a few minutes on the Barnes and Noble app resulted in my being the proud owner of a copy of The Power and the Glory, purchased nearly fifty years after that first purchase.

And I have just finished reading the book. It really is quite nice, and I wish I had read when it was assigned. I will not go into the details, because writing book reports brings back bad memories. But I do recommend it, if you are so inclined.

I feel better now. And I just remembered the name of that good-looking older sister of my 1971 summer boss! They say the mind is the second thing to go, so I am happy that my mind is relatively intact. If only I could remember what is the first thing to go . . .