I sit down to write something in the blog, and it’s as if my brain shuts down. I tell myself that “it” is not coming so I might as well do something else. My mind starts going off on tangents, ably assisted by the “ropes and ladders” of the Internet (e-mail, feedreader, tweeter, eMusic). If I’m not careful, I will let the whole evening go by without getting anything constructive out of the time spent in front of the computer.
So I say, keep it simple.
I got a message from Classmates.com inviting me to look at their new feature of school yearbooks. They have the 1965 yearbook for Hammond High (IN), and my parents threw out my yearbooks when I left home. I bit the bait. It was my freshman year. I had transferred in half way through the fall semester. I could barely recognize a handful of the other freshmen, except for all the cute girls who ignored me as if I was not physically present. Of course, I did not appear in the yearbook so maybe I did not exist.
I have not been back to Hammond since 1973. I have never attended a class reunion. So it’s not surprising that there are no stepping stones of memory to link my high school years with adulthood.
Bottomline: the yearbook looks like it came out of a prehistoric era. Hammond was Middle America, a blander version of the film American Graffiti. The fact that I did not see my own photo merely reinforced the idea that this visual artifact came out of a time warp. No, it was a completely different universe.