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.

If It Was Easy, Everyone Would Do It

Here’s the deal: if writing well (or for the masses, or for money, or for fame, etc.) was easy, everyone would do it. Even engineers and other “left brain” people would do it. (My left-handed daughter and wife tell me they are the only ones in the family in their “right” mind.)

Writing letters was once not an art form, but the only way to shovel out gossip across the nation or just let the parents know you (the poor college undergrad) needed more money. Yes, you could make a collect call, but back in my day you knew to reserve that for real emergencies like telling your parents you just broke your arm and couldn’t write for another six weeks. And, p.s., send money.

But, I digress.

My parents and grandparents wrote legibly. They practiced handwriting and expected me to write legibly. Sadly, I never got the hang of the legible part.

I remember the one letter I got from my father while I was away at college. In his impeccable handwriting, he said to write home more often without asking for money each time. My mother had begun to think I not only missed her cooking, but that she should also cultivate a money tree in the back yard.

Message received and understood.

I went to college to become an electrical engineer. But, after wrestling with calculus one semester and going in for a rematch in summer school, I thought I’d better switch to something more in line with my real talents. Or talent.

I could always fling the b.s. with the best of them, so why not use that talent to snatch a degree?

Much like this post (and this blog), I could write a lot of words about nothing. I became a liberal arts major. English, specifically, but I always keep mum when someone starts spouting poetry or quoting some esoteric passage from some obscure novel.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

If writing was easy, everyone would do it. I don’t mean just firing off an email to your Congressional Representative complaining about the lack of support (i.e., money) for the local opossum sanctuary. I mean writing novels, gripping short stories, award-winning plays or movies, or prized journalism. It’s just words, but words that mean something, evoke feelings, inform, educate, etc. (Didn’t they once say that television informed and educated? I can only say that someone had to write the words for others to read.)

Maybe that’s why I haven’t won any awards. I just don’t write well enough for the teeming masses. Or the keepers of the literary prizes.

Well, I honestly don’t care what others think! Writing gives me an outlet for my feelings. (Oh my, song lyrics just popped into my head.) It makes me feel important because people I don’t know read what I write. They may not like it, but unless I get a nasty email (never a written epistle, postcard, or note), I never know.

Oh, hell. I’m going to get maudlin on you. (Is that the right word–maudlin?)

I think I need to go work on my manuscript. It won’t write (type) itself.