High School Memories

I think I am entering the time in my life when I realize one of my own is preparing to leave the nest. Although I am totally excited [for her] and for this next chapter of her life to begin...I just find myself more engrossed this week in taking the time to sit down with my girlies and them with me, so we can laugh and love.

Tonight we grabbed dinner at Subway, headed to the park, sat at a table under a tree and talked. With King Ralph gone on his annual man trip-- aka the drink beer, fart, don't change your underwear, fish-all-day trip-- our time allows us to be selfish and indulge in girl bonding time.

Last night I grilled chicken and we sat outside on the deck for dinner. D lost interest in our "quality time" as soon as she popped that last bite in her mouth-- ventured off to be with her friend because that is what a thirteen year old does. So there we sat, me, Princess A and M, we were laughing. Of course no dinner is ever complete without talking about her French class and the teacher. Next thing you know M is darting in the house to retrieve my high school yearbook. M swore, being that she is of thought that the teacher is as old as dinosaurs, she must have taught way back when I was in high school. Sadly to her dismay she was not. Lucky for me because I took French and can't imagine what my life would have been like...well I'll stop before I say more.

Anyway, as we flip through the pages, I let my eye catch sight of K.V.; then high school story just starts rolling off my tongue.

I took a ceramic class in summer school to achieve the required fine arts credit needed to graduate. There was boy who sat next to me he was a year older. He was a total burnout, the classification for those notoriously known for A. hanging out at the school's smoking section B. wardrobe consisting of bell-bottom jeans, a ¾ sleeve jersey style T-shirt usually with a concert transfer on the front and C. lover of the reefer. Oh yes, and his name was "Stubby". Well not really but, since he blew all his fingers off while making a pipe bomb in his garage his friends of his same high school social class thought it fitting to nickname him--"Stubby".

We lived in a four-family flat that backed to the highway. We had some neighbors downstairs whose intelligence probably should have been called into question. I don't know, call me smart but doesn’t the farmer of a crop of marijuana usually want to be discrete about their illegal actions? Oh not these folks, apparently there higher education and farming abilities helped find the richest soil and the wealth of sunshine right there where I could admire the green foliage from my bedroom window--watching its growth process while facing the highway.

Back to art class.

We had an assignment to make a pot. Stubby had the perfect hand, a tool of sort, his own personal with-him-all-the-time Anvil. So I struck a deal with him a perfect pot for some pot. I told ole' Stubby, your classic American high school burnout, just where he could score himself some GOM (Good Old Marijuana). The next day my sister and I are asleep in our room, the window is open on an unusually cool Midwestern summer morning when we wake to the sounds of; "what, someone stole our pot plants, SOMEONE STOLE OUR PLANTS". I remember rolling over to my sister and saying, "Stub-beeeee"

Stubby had an accomplice--K.V. Which is the reason my mind was triggered to the memory of high school. The memory of the time I rid the neighborhood of a crop of reefer.

Plus, I got an A in my summer ceramic class. Which in my opinion means we all left summer school a happy bunch.