#515 Musings Beyond the Bunker (Tuesday November 22)
Good morning,
GROWING UP QUICKLY
Several weeks ago, I related a story of a classmate who developed lupus in our Sophomore year of high school, resulting in his untimely death. The impact it had on me was profound. To this day, I’ll always remember Edd, frozen in time at 16 years of age. People say that those who die young are frozen in time. But it is not only Edd who lives as 16 years old in my mind’s eye. There are others, including myself as 16 year-old, one who encountered death for the first time, scarred, scared and forever shaken, who remains vaguely familiar to me after all these years.
We tend to think that events that happen to us--events like these that shape us—are somehow unique. But they are not; many have shared similar experiences. Here is Steve Mossholder’s recollection of an experience similar to mine, but from the perspective of when he was the teacher:
“One year in high school a homebound student was assigned to me for her honors geometry class. She had lupus and was reportedly quite weak…I heard that her diagnosis of lupus had not been caught early, the disease had progressed, and she spent a good portion of her high school career, maybe 3 years, at home, missing out on the rewards that high school had to offer.”
JUST PASSING THROUGH
Shortly before COVID, one of our favorite breakfast spots closed its doors. I miss their incredible chocolate croissants (they set the world record for chocolate to baked good ratio). Meanwhile, this year, I learned that our ski shop, where we’ve had a locker for years, is packing it in. I’ll miss walking into town to pick up something, stopping by and say hi or just hanging around to schmooze with whoever’s there. The closing of either of these stores doesn’t seem like it should be a big deal. But these seemingly insignificant events remind us that nothing is permanent.
The other day I was walking the dog and walked by a school I pass by nearly every day. This time I noticed a fairly nondescript stone with a bronze plaque affixed to it. The plaque was dedicated to “a great teacher.” I didn’t stop to notice the teacher’s name. The plaque was dedicated in 1971, making the students who erected this memorial now 70 years old. No doubt most of the teacher’s colleagues also are gone by now. Nothing—and no one—is permanent.
I have been always been intrigued by old photographs. Some of my favorites are photos of old Los Angeles. I particularly like old shots of places around town today juxtaposed against photos of how they looked decades ago. The streetscapes have their differences—an added building here or there, a building that’s been razed, cars with fins, it’s the people in the photos to which I’m drawn. People in the 1950s (the decade in which I was born), go about their business in places that are both familiar and different. These people were born in the early part of the century (and some were born in the latter parts of the 19th century). Virtually all of these people are gone. They were living in what was “the present” but now are now history. We live in the present but will one day be history. Nothing is permanent.
What is the common thread? Change is inevitable. Our time is short. Our time is now. Life should be lived to its fullest. Nothing is permanent. We’re all just passing through.
Have a great day,
Glenn
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