The Boys of ’65

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a poem entitled “The Boys of ’65.” But so far inspiration has fallen short of perspiration, and the title languishes somewhere in the depths of my mind.

This sudden need to revisit the years 1961 – 1965 has been fueled by plans to attend my college class’ (VMI 1965) 50th reunion next year. Of course I have memories of those years, all of them made pleasant, or at least tolerable, with the passage of time. Those memories start with a pleasant day in September, 1961 where I became one of the crowd “pressing up the hill.” And that pleasant day quickly turned to chaos when I entered the barracks and became a member of the rat class.

I remember bitterly cold winters, slogging through calculus (twice), going to the boards, professors with charming nick names (Spider, Do Do, Tap Tap), hops (dances), reciting useless facts for upperclassmen, marching (and marching, and marching. . .), pay phones, inspections (and more inspections), stoops, running the block, and other stuff (some of it not printable). And I really remember being told “it” (it being anything physically, spiritually, or psychologically unpleasant) “builds character.” A lot of us graduated with character to spare.

But mostly I remember thinking one day that if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere (apologies, New York, but you’re second fiddle here). I think that epiphany came one day after a three mile jog carrying an M1 rifle.

Poll any member of the Class of ’65, and you’ll find everyone has both unique and shared memories. Every day of four years was the same and different, and the boys of ’65 wouldn’t trade those days for anything. And, yes, we are still boys at heart.