One morning a few weeks before I headed to Dallas for Christmas holidays, I woke up to find that I had a few WhatsApps and emails asking me about my participation in a high school spirit group known as the Wranglers. Apparently my family and a couple of old friends were decorating the Christmas tree one evening, chatting about old times, and this question came up. My sister, you see, was also a member of this group a few years before me. However, neither she nor my old friends could recall me ever having been part of the Wranglers, while my parents were certain that yes, I had been in the Wranglers. To settle the debate, everyone turned to me, 7 hours ahead of their time zone, fast asleep in bed.
So, I responded to the query by sending a little email that helped remind everyone of the facts, and mentioned that upon my arrival stateside, would pull out my old year book and show the photos for additional evidence.
This actually unintentionally set off another small issue, as my sister was reminded that she could no longer find her own yearbooks from junior high and high school, along with some other books from that era.
I arrived back to the states a week or so before Christmas, and as always, I spent the first few days trying to adjust to jet lag, culture shock, and the memories that flood me each time I return to my hometown. This year is a bit interesting, as my nephew is doing a little study abroad, and actually attending the very same junior high school that I went to 30 years ago. Both he and my sister are staying with my parents, so I arrived to a full house. (Perhaps one day I will write a post about the irony of how the sleeping arrangements were set up: my nephew sleeps in my sister's old room, my sister sleeps in the room over the garage, and I slept in my old bedroom, which had been converted to a study and then, with the help of an inflatable mattress, a guest room. Thus, I was a guest in my own bedroom.)
The first couple of mornings, I rode along when we took my nephew to school; he was finishing up finals week, and I hadn't seen my junior high in at least 20 years. Though I didn't go inside the school, I could visualize the various class rooms and hallways, which probably haven't changed all that much over the years.
One night before dinner, I stayed true to my word and located the box of my old books (labelled rather clearly "Bryan's books and annuals") in the garage, and brought them inside. Sure enough, there were a handful of photos of me in the Wrangler group from my senior year at high school. Everyone browsed through the 3 yearbooks from junior and the 3 from high school; my sister took more time with my high school yearbook, partly because she recognized so many names. Like her, many of her classmates all had younger siblings who were my classmates. I suspect that she was also wondering to herself, "where the hell are my yearbooks?"
What I didn't anticipate was how my nephew reacted to the annuals. He went through all, found interesting pictures of people and enthusiastically commented on them. Then, somewhat to my horror, he began reading out loud all of the entries that my friends and classmates had written.
I quickly tried to remember how many of those entries might be inappropriate for the dinner table, and figured about 70% would be safe and innocent enough. I was a pretty good student, pretty well behaved, and more or less stayed out of trouble during school, but that didn't mean that everything was aboveboard. Fortunately, no one ever wrote anything in my yearbook to the effect of "Liquor, I never even knew her!" or "I'd like to bend them over and eat them like an ice cream cone," but still, I was eager to avoid any awkward moments having to explain the significance of some random comment like, "oh...that teacher Mr xxx was such a fucking jerk," or something like that.
Thankfully, most entries were "hey, have a good summer. bye," and "have a nice life. don't do anything i wouldn't do" and "party hard." In other words, typical things that everyone writes in yearbooks, especially at a time in their life when things are usually bigger than life. For example, "party hard" takes on a whole new meaning once you enter university, or maybe when you move to a German city which has a really popular pub next door to your flat.
Anyway, the yearbook review was a nice reminder of the past, and I repackaged the books and put them back in the garage for safe keeping, while my sister kept wondering where her own yearbooks were.
During the Christmas break, I found it interesting to spend my time with my 13 year old nephew. He is just like any other teenager that I know (not that I know all that many), and reminds me a whole lot of how I was at his age, particularly as he is literally doing many of the exact same things that I did. He is going to the same school (albeit for probably just one year) as I did at 13, and he sings in the youth choir at church.
This year, the youth choir group is celebrating it's 50 anniversary. The current group is preparing for their big fund raiser, but many former members are actively involved with the celebration preparations. While at church my first Sunday back, an old friend told me about the photos he had collected of our old times when we were in the choir, including several photos of me. Wow. Talk about some memories.
Sure, I am sentimental, but I don't really harp on about my past. In truth, I didn't enjoy my teenage years so much, but I have found that just about everyone says the same thing. Perhaps it was easier to recall the times that were not so great, but over the holidays I realized that I actually have a lot more positive, happy memories from those years than bad memories. Of course, it is always relative, but I needed the refresher.
I am not really a fan of social media, and am extremely glad that I am no longer a teenager (dependent on a smartphone for 90% of social communication), but looking through the yearbooks and seeing the old choir pictures posted on facebook, I am glad that we have the opportunity to share these kinds of things and stay connected.
Last week, I reconnected somewhat randomly with an old friend from junior high and high school, and was delighted that he shared a few old bits and pieces from when we were in 9th grade. More evidence of great memories and times. I seem to recall that we hosed all the dancers with our super powerful water guns during Frankie's "Relax," only for Mr Madsen to come storming in the DJ booth minutes later angrily wanting to know who had water guns. "It wasn't us..."
Great stuff, Steve, many thanks.
As I wrap up this piece, I will mention that on the day before I returned to Germany at the end of Christmas break, I helped my father take down some decorations and store them in the garage. As we were trying to make some space, I found two heavy boxes, and upon opening them, was delighted to find my old collection of Hardy Boys novels. The second box contained my sister's collection of Nancy Drew mysteries, and ALL of her junior high and high school yearbooks.
Case closed.
keeping up the happy thoughts on a cold January Saturday morning
bryan
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