Forty graduated in my Akron, CO High School class of 1964. I could write a story about each person, according to my perspective of course. We were close, and each was  special. We had clowns, beauty queens, musicians, intellects, sweethearts, and athletes. We were Catholic, Four Square, Presbyterian, Church of Christ, Methodist…it didn’t matter. Some lived on farms and some in our ‘city’ of 1800 population. Some were obviously poor or wealthy, but most of us were middle class, happy, regular kids. We were raised with Elvis plus the Beetles, we remember our first TV, and the day Kennedy was shot. The day Jackie set new standards for women.

Girls did not play sports. We had pep club, and cheered for the boys. We also took home economics with Mrs. Keenan,  and shorthand with Mrs. Eggebroten. Thank you Mother for years of piano lessons with Mrs. Holt, and 4-H Clothing. Females have come a long way, baby. I was a cheerleader with some of my best friends; Bonnie, Pat, Pam, Marlene, and Barbara. We had sharp uniforms, shakers, and plenty of fight. On long road trips, especially to Burlington, we led our pep club in singing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, Catalina Magdalena, and our school song, “Akron High School We’re All For You, Blue And White We’ll Fight For You Too … Onward to Victory!” The school provided separate busses for girls. Those were the days. And, we did think they would never end.

Bobby, had a car, was one year older, and was my first love. I was taller, bigger, and felt like a giant. He and his entire family were sweet. They all had blue eyes and gentle smiles. We were going to get married and own a combination barber shop and hair salon. I decided college was for me, and I fear I broke his heart. He died in 2002, thirty-nine years after we broke up. I cried. K.T. Oslin’s song, Hey Bobby, is his.

Since I didn’t have a car, I walked across town to school. At the beginning of each year I suffered shinsplints. They hurt. I’m not sure why I mention those, but as I write this story, they’re in my memory. I also sported many sprained ankles and canker sores in my mouth. Doctor Davie gave me an annual Smallpox vaccine to stop the excruciating pain. Thank you, Lydia, his nurse – we thought she was the doctor.

For spending money, I babysat for twenty-five cents an hour and cleaned house for Mrs. Yeamans, who had debilitating Rheumatoid Arthritis. She was wealthy, but treated me kindly, always. She collected ceramic cats and had one live Siamese who would pounce off the mantle and scare the breath out of me. My mother told me I could not work for her anymore if I didn’t ask for a raise. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. She said, “Yes Dear, of course.” When she died, again I cried.

One would not know I seldom cry. Today, I know tears are about anger, and now it all makes sense.

This short story is about gratefulness; for long-ago friends, Bobby, Lydia, and Mrs. Yeamans. Lucky girl!

Written 4-13-16

Dr J’s Comments

I’m just writing my memories. I am giving YOU examples of how YOU too could write yours. It is easy and fun. I would love to read YOUR’S too:-) They are easy to post, and if you take a picture with your phone, posting a picture is easy too. Give it is a try:-)