Stories Are For Eternity

Dream a little dream…

I’ve been an active dreamer for much of my life. And, because I’m curious by nature, I’ve done quite a bit of reading about dreaming, dream interpretation, etc. My mind is open to most possibilities, at the very least I’m willing to consider both sides of a concept. Though not a religious person per se, I would describe myself as a spiritual individual.

Now I’m not talking about sitting around a ouija board or a crystal ball. I’m talking more about being in touch with the idea that there’s more to life than may be easily explained. Decades passed before I was able to comprehend the depth of my own sensitivity and feelings. There are names for this now. I may be a “deep feeler” or I may be a highly sensitive person (HSP). Well, duh. I don’t need a designation.

This may fly in the face of how I’m perceived. For most of my life, I’ve appeared as a stoic individual who also has a sense of humor. In my youth I was athletic which often goes hand in hand with a lack of intellectuality. The stolidity of my appearance is my armor. I felt if I presented myself this way, nothing troubling would get past that wall. That’s like scolding a puppy for playing.

A bit of a change in direction. A poet and writer named Avijeet Das is credited with the following: “Some people feel everything deeply. They know no other way.” When I first read that, it gave me a feeling of calm. I felt “accepted.” All of a sudden I didn’t feel ashamed of the depth of my emotions. Living for decades while suppressing how you feel is not good for one’s physical health.

Most of my life I railed against my sensitivity by stuffing it out of sight so I couldn’t be hurt. What I realized too late was I was also suppressing my creativity while creating some really bad mojo inside of myself. As I let myself begin to express my sensitivity, through my writing, I filled the void it left with food. Letting go of myself resulted in creating an addiction designed to provide comfort.

Anxiety was embedded in me from a young age. It grew mostly out of the domestic unrest I experienced. Looking back I can remember lying awake in bed and listening to my father wreaking havoc downstairs through verbal assaults fueled by alcohol. I’m not here to rehash that nor am I here to point fingers. I’m just saying I was not well-equipped to deal with the depth of my sensitivity. My need for acceptance became overwhelming because, in my mind, I never measured up.

Look, I’m very fortunate that in all of this mess I was given the means to be a successful student, to complete a higher level of education, and to sustain a career that was satisfying. It all came at an enormous cost. I “settled” for things because most of my energy had to be spent keeping myself upright. That’s in the past and I’m heading forward. And you will see how that will manifest itself in my future.

One thing that was clear to me through my book signing experience was the joy I received from meeting, and speaking with, so many nice people. Though I’m meant to interact with people, it’s very difficult for me. At the root of it, though, I genuinely enjoy “teaching,” and rambling on about a subject of interest. The amount of joy in me after each book signing event was immeasurable. I continue to search for more ways to experience that feeling.

I’m not a quitter though I’m the first to admit that I’ve come close a handful of times. It took losing one good friend and one longtime acquaintance, because their pain was too great to continue, for me to see and feel the profound results on those left behind. It’s not something I wish to do to anyone else. I will keep raging “against the dying of the light.”

Deep inside of me, I believe I will feel inner peace eventually. Until then, “I see my light come shinin’/From the west down to the east/Any day now, any day now/I shall be released.” Bob Dylan wrote this song and my favorite version of it is by The Band.

N.B. My apologies if this makes anyone uncomfortable. If it helps one other person, I’m ecstatic.

Continual renewal…

As we slide from autumn toward winter, my mind connects with the concept of change. As I accept and assume the mantle of writer and author, it has given me some great insight. I choose to share my thoughts in the event that others, who are seeking and healing, may connect and see they aren’t alone (as I have long felt).

For much of my life, the approach of autumn meant the start of another school year. Because of who I am, that meant lesson planning, research so I could write and/or amend unit plans, planning to teach a course that was new to me, etc. People would always remark that autumn was a lovely time. I didn’t take much notice.

Because I live in the Northeast, autumn meant raking, prepping garden beds for their season of hibernation, general winterization of house and car. In short, there was much to do in addition to easing back in to the school year. Autumn meant college essays, lots of college essays, and writing college recommendations, lots of recommendations. You get the drift.

As individuals, we perceive things differently. My observation skills are very sharp. My mind has always been a rich source of sensory wanderlust. Where a person saw a tree with orange leaves, I saw a sentinel that had existed for decades as a place where people met. Were they sweethearts stealing kisses? Were they lovers planning a tryst? Were they there to settle a debt? Were they kids digging for buried treasure? In my mind, possibilities are endless.

The shorter days of autumn sometimes reveal a resplendence that only exists in Nature as rays of sun play on the many-hued leaves struggling to remain on the trees. “That time of year though mayst in me behold./When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang…”. Shakespeare, never at a loss for words, worked hard to portray both the melancholy of the fading of a season and of one’s life in his famous Sonnet 73. Time passes, things and people age and fade.

As a younger person, I enjoyed tramping through the woods. There was so much to observe, a veritable smorgasbord for my imagination. At times, stories flitted through my thoughts fueled by my environment. Mostly it provided quiet time to think as I sought to conquer problems, perceived or real. I’ve never classified myself as a loner, more as an individual who craves time alone. It’s just me. It helps me maintain an equilibrium. “Autumn wanders through the barren woods,/as fog cradles the pain she feels.” This is a passage from a poet named Angie Weiland-Crosby. It captures feelings that have always lived in me.

Yeah, yeah, am I always a Debbie Downer? Contrary to what is released through my writing, I am a cheerful and friendly individual in person. Many people, including former students and my mother, have suggested I try my hand at stand-up comedy. Don’t ever assume I’m joyless but don’t ever disrespect the pain I’ve felt. You aren’t me. You have never walked in my shoes. You couldn’t begin to imagine.

Now that I’ve had the time to stop, wander, and observe, I realize the depth of beauty that is autumn. Though it signals the coming of winter, it also promises the renewal of spring. So while autumn goes out in a blaze of glory, rather a Dylan Thomas-like “rage against the dying of the light,” so is it “Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile.” (William Cullen Bryant)

Take a deep breath and ponder the accompanying photo taken of a recent morning moon. Perhaps you might sing a little song to yourself:

“And I wanna rock your gypsy soul/Just like in the days of old/And together we will float/Into the mystic.” Van Morrison

The Alone Girl, the final push…

The Alone Girl gobbled a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She felt the sunburn radiating through her pores. It was one detrimental side effect to her job as a summer tennis instructor, the guaranteed nasty sunburn from the first week of summer tennis.

But she had class tonight and couldn’t miss it. When she transferred schools midway through her college experience, six credits did not count toward filling the new school’s requirements. A night class last summer, and one now, assured she would graduate on time next May.

Of all nights to have a group presentation. She and her group were to explain the short story “Hills Like White Elephants,” by Ernest Hemingway, to the rest of the class. The Girl and one other guy in her group were the dependable students in that they read the assignments. But she would be quick to admit she didn’t always understand the full scope of an author’s message(s).

She drove to class with the presentation on her mind. Could she say the word ‘abortion’ in front of the class without turning red? This caused her to laugh. No one would notice if she turned red. Her sunburn was that bad. A wave of cool menthol drifted by her nostrils. The once soothing effect of the Noxzema liberally applied to squelch the fire on her skin was wearing off. This night’s class wouldn’t pass quickly.

Two members of the group were absent, the concept of the “presentation flu” taking root in the Girl’s mind. The other two members were not even able to sit adjacent to the Girl due to the heat radiating from her sunburned body. Misery was the Girl’s companion on this night.

When the professor asked them to present, she sighed and looked him in the eye. Her explanation of having read the ultra-short story and finding difficulty reading between the lines. Her group felt the story was perhaps a metaphor, building on the white elephants in the title, for being rid of something you didn’t want.

She wasn’t certain what she was saying. It didn’t matter because the class members began bombarding the professor with questions about pregnancy, abortion, drinking, the characters. The Girl had been truthful, in her own fashion, about not totally understanding the story. And now, with a cool late-June night breeze blowing through the car, the Girl thought how unfair it was for the female character in the story to feel she needed to do what the man wanted even though it wasn’t the character’s own choice. The Girl snorted and vowed no one would ever tell her what she could or couldn’t do with her own body.

Within two months, as summer neared its completion, the Girl would be forced to make a decision. Thankfully it wasn’t the decision the character in the story faced, the decision of whether or not to terminate a pregnancy. It was, in fact, a decision that would impact whether or not the Girl would ever have a pregnancy. And it was the Girl’s decision to make. Her tumor. Her body. Her decision.

Pride goeth…

Hot days hinted at the promise of summer. The Alone Girl was approaching a crossroads. High school would soon be over. And then what? Thrusting those thoughts aside, she turned her attention to the night. The air was crisp with an underlying earthy smell. It was the fragrance of promise and growth.

The Girl stopped to collect an acquaintance and they were off to enjoy themselves. A large part of her life at this stage involved walking to destinations near and far. One didn’t arrive at a party on one’s ten-speed though it was not unknown to the Girl. The twilight descended as the two young ladies traversed neighborhoods, their shoes making little to no noise. Giggles and mumbling proclaimed their passage.

At last they sensed unmistakable signs of the fun to come. Laughter and music spilled from a brightly lit house just down the street. The Alone Girl shivered, whether from anticipation or the cool evening, with the assurance of fun to come. And yet, she grinned as she hastily recalled her mother’s admonition to wear a jacket. Maybe she would heed such advice in the future.

Their quiet sojourn erupted into the controlled melee of the backyard beer party. Greetings flew through the air across the bunches of revelers. Older kids were home from college for the summer and kids like the Alone Girl were filled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation for what was to come.

The Alone Girl stopped to greet one of her friends who was attached to the hip of her boyfriend, he just home from college. The Girl knew he was home for just a short time as he was obligated to complete a summer program. He was resplendent in his college jacket. A grinning boy, unknown to the Girl, approached the trio with a fistful of dripping beer cups, wearing an identical college jacket.

The smiling fellow was introduced. He’d lived in town as a kid but his family moved. They were now moving back and he was there to complete some house projects before he left for his summer program. For the first time in her life, the Girl descended into that magical moment when time stands still and everything blurs outside of a five foot radius surrounding a girl and a boy. Was it the first blush of romance?

The Girl shivered. The young man, in as gallant a manner as any knight of the famed Roundtable, removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. It was a fantastical moment, one the Girl would always remember. They chatted the evening away until friends dropped them at the Girl’s house. Turns out the boy’s family was moving in around the corner.

The two giggled in the front yard, tipsy from the beer and perhaps their budding romance. A respectable, but promising, kiss ensued and the two laughed as the Girl pointed him in the direction of his home. The Girl later felt it was just like the “Some Enchanted Evening” scene from South Pacific.

I wish I could say this had a happy ending because it could have and, likely, should have. But it didn’t. Several dates between the two ensued though the boy was seldom home due to college commitments. Several months later the Girl avoided his calls during the holiday break. Why, you ask? Pride, pure and simple. The Girl was uncomfortable because the boy, as lovely and kind as a boy could be, was shorter than she.

Seriously? And thus the logic of youth spoiled something promising. Could he have been the one? Most likely, but the Girl, not yet emotionally equipped to move past superficiality, would never know. Still, she was glad for that one fantastical evening.

“Who can explain it?/Who can tell you why?/Fools give you reasons.” from Some Enchanted Evening. Song by Rodgers and Hammerstein.

More the fool was She.

Now what?

“Every time I get the inspiration
To go change things around
No one wants to help me look for places
Where new things might be found
Where can I turn when my fair weather friends cop out
What’s it all about”

The lyrics above are from a song called I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times. They’re from a song co-written by Brian Wilson and featured on the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds album. Another line from the song is front and center in my head today…”Sometimes I feel very sad (ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into)…”. I’ve talked about my experiences with depression and anxiety. I do so because I hope someone else will read what I’ve written and feel validated, or feel it’s ok to seek assistance.

My depression is very cyclical. There are periods of highs and lows which are mostly manageable. Right now I’m in the middle of a downswing that I’m finding difficult to smooth out. How is it possible for me to truly know this? It’s pretty simple. When I cannot summon interest to engage in my two favorite activities, I know times are tough.

Reading and swimming have been the two constant passions in my life. They are the activities I turn to when I must slow down and allow myself to relax. I know I project a laid-back attitude much of the time. On the inside, all of the pistons are firing and my mind is in constant action…thinking, fretting, analyzing, planning, etc. It.Never.Stops. It does slow down when I’m reading or swimming. That needed break is necessary for me to have.

“I keep lookin’ for a place to fit in…”. Do I ever relate to that. Except for when I was very young and we lived in Burlington, VT., I’ve never felt I fit in. If I became comfortable with one group, it wouldn’t be long before I was found lacking…not girly enough, too sporty, didn’t do arts and crafts or sew, didn’t play the right sports, etc. Add to the mix that I was very shy. I still am. People I know don’t believe it when I say it. I don’t lie.

Since I try to resolve (or smoothen out) my own issues so they don’t progress, it’s occurred to me that I may be having a downturn because my huge project of writing and publishing a book is done. One might think I should be ecstatic. Part of me is. Most of me feels a bit lost right now even though I have many things around the house that could be done. I have a ton of writing that’s unfinished (mysteries). My next goal was to publish a murder mystery.

And I just figured out what’s blocking me on that goal. Several years ago I pitched my work in progress to a handful of agents at a writer’s conference. Most were very pleasant and expressed mild interest. The final agent was challenging. And now I’m able to accept it was good for me though for years I allowed it to stifle my creativity. It was all due to one question. One lousy question.

“Why should I care about your main character?” I had no answer. I fumbled through my thoughts and tried to craft a sensible answer. It didn’t happen. Words came out of my mouth but they were not at all meaningful. She knew immediately I’d shut down. In a matter of fact tone, she explained that readers need to care about the protagonist and if I didn’t (as the author), why should they? I stuttered and stammered my way out of the situation, face scarlet with feelings of mortification and anger. I’m far too overly sensitive. Enough with that stopping me from what I want to do.

Writing can be a harsh and lonely passion. It can fill you with elation and then whip the rug right out from under you. My decision now is whether or not I start over. I have two unfinished drafts, each over 150 pages. I like parts of them. There is one new interesting idea in my head but I’m not sure it’s enough to be a complete work. It may be best as a short story. Short stories are not my niche. That’s not to say they couldn’t be. In the back of my mind a tiny, tiny voice chants, “memoir, memoir.” I’m ignoring the voice currently.

“ain’t found the right thing to put my heart and soul into…”. I’ve been casting around for years. Yes, I have ideas for dream projects but they will remain dreams because they’re financially unattainable. But I have pen and paper and I do have a dream that’s attainable. I’m going for it. Thanks to you all for letting me work it out.

A few words about the image I’m posting. It speaks to me in ways I’m not able to explain. It’s a photo taken by an individual who was a friend. This friend turned out not to be a true friend. So, while the image is hopeful and uplifting to me…it comes at a huge emotional price. I won’t apologize for still feeling the hurt but I will not let it overrule the joy. I will continue to search for something I can put my heart and soul into. I’ve long accepted I will never “fit in.” That’s ok, I like who I am.

It sounds trite, but…

Dreams do come true, even if you achieve a goal that wasn’t initially your dream. What? The depth and breadth of emotions I’ve experienced lately, and continue to experience, are at once overwhelming and comforting.

I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t a book in my hand, under my pillow, on the nightstand, the coffee table, or next to my chair. My childhood home was around the corner from the public library and I utilized it as though it might disappear before I read each and every book. And, for me, there are so many sensory associations with books and reading. A different topic for another time.

I never had aspirations to be any sort of writer. I shied away from writing stuff like articles for the camp newspaper, or heaven forbid, the school newspaper. Thinking back, I probably felt my writing ability was adequate. I took the obligatory writing courses in college, but the nature of being an English major involves writing loads of papers anyway so why take more writing? Let me read!

How did I learn to write? Do I have some sort of degree in writing? No, I don’t. I mostly learned by trial and error. And with the help of a great deal of reading. Wait, reading is able to help your writing? Why, yes! Reading is the path to many wonderful things! In addition to traveling places without leaving your comfy chair in the living room, reading lays the foundation for a rich and varied vocabulary. It allows one to appreciate how different authors write.

I’m not going to get into a teaching mode. I became a writer in spite of myself, in spite of my lack of self-confidence, in spite of any lengthy formal training. It took me a long time to realize I wanted and needed to write. I can’t imagine not writing. It helps me to clear my head and to put things into perspective. And, somewhere along the line, I began to believe that my writing had merit.

Though I never felt I was a creative writer, I discovered I was by virtue of writing poetry. That was an eye opener. I, the alone Girl, the girl who was either bouncing a ball, gripping a tennis racket, swimming, reading the encyclopedia (more on that in the future), or any book…wrote a poem. And it didn’t stink. It followed that I wrote more poems. I learned how deeply my emotions ran. Blah, blah, blah…self-awakening period of my life.

One of my favorite reading genres since I can remember is mystery or what some may call detective fiction. I do read true crime on occasion but I thrive on mystery. My goal isn’t to figure things out as I’m reading. It’s to let the characters take me on their adventure. So, for me, it followed that I felt I could create one of those adventures.

I have yet to finish any of the three I’ve started. When the non-fiction project moved into my head, I allowed it to take up residence. It matured and finally left home. Now I have more ideas to nurture. It will happen. I will achieve my true dream of publishing a mystery novel. And I’m setting a series of deadlines for myself.

Let me share an anecdote (like I don’t do this every moment of virtually every day)…I, like many, was a big fan of the tv show M*A*S*H. I had a love/hate relationship with Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester but every once in a while, he knocked my socks off. Charles is treating a patient who has lost the use of his right hand, his primary hand. Trouble is that he’s a pianist. Charles brings him some sheet music for just the left hand and the patient balks. Charles explains, “Your hand may be stilled, but your gift cannot be silenced…”. The patient replies that he no longer has a gift.

Charles then says, “Wrong! Because the gift does not lie in your hands. I have hands, David. Hands that can make a scalpel sing. More than anything in my life I wanted to play, but I do not have the gift. I can play the notes, but I cannot make the music.” Writing is more than creating words. For some of us, it’s a drive within the deepest part of our souls. If we don’t act on it, we wither and don’t thrive. And because I’m a sensory person (very tactile), I write with a pen. Letting it sweep across the paper is so satisfying.

When it’s said that you shouldn’t give up on your dreams, it’s true. But be reasonable. One of my dreams back in the early 1980s was to marry Tom Selleck. Not reasonable. Writing a book. Reasonable. Let your light shine, whatever it may be.

“Dreams don’t work unless you do.”

Savoring the glow…

There were times, during the last several years, that I honestly felt I wouldn’t complete my book. I know my system is hard wired to short circuit at important times. I’ve lived with this trepidatious feeling much of my life. It’s isn’t easy because I know my capabilities but I also know my challenges.

To complete my book and have it published is really nice. My mind says to me not to be overly excited because it was a job I set out to do and I did it. Yes, I did. It was not without struggle, mostly with my inner self, to focus and complete the job at hand.

Here’s the deal. Yes, I wanted to make sure I could gather as much information as possible. Yes, I wanted to make certain all of the information was properly paraphrased and sourced. Yes, I wanted to make sure the information was accurate and not unsubstantiated since some of it was anecdotal. Deep down I knew this wouldn’t be an issue because I was trained to research and accurately represent the information I discovered.

My self-imposed challenge was to make the story real. The story had to matter to people and it had to pay homage to the many who helped in the formation of a unique school district. Of utmost importance was for me to write this story as a gift to all who had come before me. It is everyone’s story. It is a story of strength. It is a story of chance. It is a story of learning through error. No one can deny, though, it is a story of evolution.

And when I tell you it was a labor of love for me, please believe it. I still find myself learning some tidbit and thinking, “that should go in the book.” I had to accept that I couldn’t include many things and it was hard for me to let go of them. My hope is someone will take it on in the future. The reality is doubtful.

I’m proud to have answered some questions and to have put some historic facts into place. In a world where we take so much for granted, I’ve never thought about my education in that manner. From my first few days in college when I realized I was far more prepared than a majority of my fellow students, I was thankful.

And so, this chapter is now closed. It’s a happy feeling though I can’t help but think about whether or not there was more information out there that I may have included. Hopefully Doris Kearns Goodwin or Erik Larson feel this way after finishing a book.

“The difference between who you are and who you want to be is what you do.” Unknown

Now I turn the page to focus on writing fiction. Now that I’m a published non-fiction writer, I am able to move forward and continue my dream of being a published fiction writer. Fingers crossed!

Perseverance pays off…

Seven years ago, an idea took root in my head. I was doing some research for an article I was writing for our local historical association’s newsletter. Hopping down rabbit holes to ferret out information is what I consider to be great fun. When I read an old newspaper article that referenced an experimental high school in our town, I wanted to learn more.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much more to learn. As with much of the country, our town was riddled with a number of one-room schoolhouses, or Common Schools as they were called. Most schools went up through sixth grade and many offered 7th and 8th grade instruction.

Our town did not have a high school program until 1926 and in 1930 a centralized school district was created, unifying the web of common schools. By the 1940s the school district was highly regarded. I needed to know how it happened. Though I had an inkling of an idea, I wanted to find out for sure.

There was very little concrete information in any books or reference books that could be found. I settled in to read hundreds of newspaper articles and to conduct over three dozen personal interviews with former students, administrators, and teachers. Though I regret to say the process took me much longer than I anticipated, it’s finally complete. Ok, it really isn’t complete. I couldn’t cover everything. But the basics are there and I’m happy with the answers to my own questions.

Now I’m free to push on with some detective fiction ideas and manuscripts I’ve started. But, honestly, I’m going to float on this lovely cloud of accomplishment a bit longer. And I love that people are enjoying the book. It was such a labor of love to produce.

Levels of love among friends…

Aristotle said, “A friend is one soul abiding in two bodies.” Rather profound. Winnie the Pooh said, “A day without a friend is like a pot without a single drop of honey left inside.” I get that. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, he of that damned albatross, said,”Friendship is a sheltering tree;”. I can picture that.

And so it goes that there are an infinite number of quotes, sayings, poems, songs, about friends and friendship. Are you all aware of the meaning of the word “epiphanic”? It’s an adjective meaning a striking and sudden realization. Picture a light bulb going off over your head. I’ve had several epiphanic moments in the past few weeks.

I know not why nor do I care. I’m taking the ball and running with it. The other day I took my 95 year old mom out to do some errands. We ran into someone we both knew, though through different contexts. I first knew her in high school where she was two years my senior. We played on the tennis team together. In a school both competitive and ruled by cliques, she transcended those things. She was kind and fair to each person she met.

Her dad and my uncle were longtime friends from childhood. Her family went to my uncle’s services and my mom and I went to each of her parent’s services. It’s what we were taught to do by the older generations of our families. It’s oddly comforting to be able to share a common bond during an emotionally fragile time.

This woman recounted how her dad would visit my uncle in his last several months of life. And she disclosed there were times when her dad would return from the visit and cry. We can only assume he was crying over the impending loss of a friend. These were men who spent their childhood in the Great Depression, then went off to unknown places to protect America’s democratic way of life. Upon return, each man went a different way. One married and raised five children along with his wife. The other worked and cared for his elderly mother.

Whenever they chanced to meet, the joy on their faces was immediate and genuine. Regardless of the passage of time, it was like they had run into the other on the school playground each time they met. Even as their chance meetings took place at numerous wakes as they aged, they found comfort in their memories and their feelings for one another.

As our friend spoke about the connection between these two men, the light bulb turned on in my head. I got it. These men, now deceased members of the Greatest Generation, truly loved one another. It was that simple, or rather that complex. What they had was true friendship, in my estimation. They loved one another with the depth of spirit and the ferocity that their life experiences shaped in their personalities.

Would my life have been incomplete if this epiphany had not occurred? No, but I’m so glad I had that epiphanic moment because it allowed me to see the absolute beauty of a true friendship. Since I believe in an afterlife, it warms my heart that Jack and Bill are reunited, talking and laughing like they’re still on the school playground.

I don’t get it…

We are able to make weapons that fire accurately and remotely. We can launch into space like we’re taking a bus. We can split an atom. Why are we unable to make eyeglasses that stay clean? I know, oils from the face and blah, blah, blah. Don’t care. Just make some eyeglasses that clean themselves, please.

I began wearing glasses in my mid-40s in order to read. Soon I was wearing progressive lenses because my teaching career involved me holding books and referencing them while I was teaching. The constant motion of looking from the text to the class would have caused constant nausea if not for progressive lenses.

Here’s a thought process of mine…glasses dirty again, clean them, think of teaching, think of spring, think of stress at the end of the school year, think of one true sign we were getting close to the end. Most mornings when I drove to school I turned left to go down the road to access the parking lot behind the school. On the corner of that road were a couple of old lilac bushes. They were the traditional light purple blooms. When these showed themselves, I knew the end of the school year was that much closer.

And then, my mind would quickly flit to the words of a great epic poem. “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d/And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night/I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.” These are the first lines from Walt Whitman’s poem “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” It was written as a personal response to Abraham Lincoln’s death.

Whitman expressed his grief over Lincoln’s loss all the while glorifying the beauty of spring. Lincoln died on April 15th, certainly a time when varying blooms of spring would be present. My memory would then skip to second grade when I recited a poem in front of the PTA. It was my first experience with Longfellow’s poetry. The poem was “The Children’s Hour,” a lovely lyrical poem celebrating family and love. All of this in the two minutes it took me to drive down to the parking lot. My purpose is not to teach these poems to you, just merely to illustrate a thought process.

School is never far from my thoughts. I spent a large part of my life in schools. They were happy times in my life, though I know it wasn’t that way for everyone. If it was a rough time, I’m very sorry for that. Naturally my thoughts about school are likely to turn to music.

Most every year at the end of the last day of classes, I’d play the joyous song “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper just for my enjoyment. This was an anthem from my school days. “We got no class and we got no principles/And we got no innocence/We can’t even think of a word that rhymes.” Youth personified, much like the Who’s “Baba O’Riley.” “Teenage wasteland, it’s only teenage wasteland…we’re all wasted.”

There are many, many songs that reference school days and school daze. Another popular anthem is Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall.” “We don’t need no education/We don’t need no thought control.” For some reason these words seem especially timely. Enough said.

“Rock ‘n’ Roll High School,” a song written for a movie of the same name, features The Ramones singing “Well I don’t care about history/‘Cause that’s not where I wanna be/I just wanna have some kicks…”. Everyone should have fun in school. It should be a fairly carefree time of life.

Times have changed so much that a parody song that was wildly funny in the 1980s now seems distasteful. I once found the song to be very humorous and that was its intent. So much has happened in the ensuing decades that it isn’t as funny. It’s a song that was sung by a gal named Julie Brown. Look it up and decide for yourself. “The Homecoming Queen’s Got a G*#” is the title. Remember it was a much different time.

I’ve traveled through lilacs, spring, poetry, music, and school gun violence, all with an image of glorious spring flowers in my head. As always, I’m left with varying levels of thoughts. Most are positive, some are downright joyous. But there’s the sadness of the loss of classmates, former teachers, and former students. And the memory of a time of innocence that can never be replicated.