| My Memoir |
| Tuesday, 13 October 2009 19:59 | |||
 When we were kids growing up in a mid-sized but very special college town, about a fifth of the grade and high-school aged population attended a school that had been founded in the mid-19th century by the University of Missouri, and was going full force by the time we came along over a hundred years later.
It was called the University Laboratory and High School, and was housed in a large, nicely appointed building on the University campus, then called simply the “Education Building”. Upon graduation, many of our class exercised the option of attending colleges and universities in other communities, some in Missouri, and some further away – since attending the University of Missouri would have been to some of us like continuing on with high school in some other, nearby buildings. I and three of my closest male friends were among those to ‘make the big move’ – and we journeyed to Harvard, Yale, Notre Dame and Northwestern, respectively. At the time of our departure, two of us were less than a month into 18, with the other two tied to the age of 17 for a few more months. We were still kids, and totally unaware of what was before us. Shortly after our arrival in Cambridge, New Haven, South Bend and Evanston, the realization of what we had done hit us. On top of being homesick, we reflected on the horror – leaving our girl friends, family cars, everything we knew and were familiar with – moving to a strange and difficult new world filled with new people in undiscovered surroundings. We missed our moms and dads, and we missed each other. In those pre-Internet, pre-cell phone days, when calling long distance almost necessitated taking out a loan – we compensated and communicated by writing to each other: yes, just regular old snail mail, when the cost of sending a letter, not counting the time to write it, was (hold on to your hats) – three cents. Although not declared openly, the intent of our communication was to share in each other’s misery, and commiserate as best we could from afar – which we attempted to gloss over by establishing a set of bragging rights for our new turf. Years later, one of our four, who had saved many of the letters, brought them once again into the light – and we read portions aloud. We laughed at the pretentious posturing, but noted how well they were written, considering our ages at the time. That in turn brought the recognition of what a wonderful education we had received at the hands of the University of Missouri, which had helped make us good writers. Talk then turned to the suggestion that I, the only one who had eventually returned home, and who supposedly had the ability to recall the smallest of events, consider writing a memoir about growing up in our idyllic little college town. I began writing in January, starting with the first known event I know I remembered on my own – having my tonsils removed at the age of four. My memoir will end with the week the four friends all leave for college. Hopefully it will catch the eye of a national publisher so that others, both in my age range and from other generations as well, can share and compare with the lives we led, as I describe those incredible times. As I work toward completion, I stop and review, completing a ‘surface’ edit before continuing on. As I do this, I become conscious of how the simplicity of life in those days was in many ways more desirable than it is today. “Trust” was a word used often, and it meant something. In a general sense, people felt positive about themselves, each other and their collective futures; there was less to distract us. We were not barraged with news 24/7 as we are today – and we trusted (there’s that word) those who delivered it to us. It was a world far from perfect, but less spoiled, more hopeful. We’ve lost some of that, and we must get it back. When this anecdotal attempt is read by others, I hope I will have sent an encouraging message from another lifetime that readers will take to heart -- using the insights it provides to build more confidence, commitment, focus, love and joy in their own lives. John, Brian and Tom are the names of my three special friends; this memoir will be dedicated to them.
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