The Classes of 1961 held their 50-year reunion at the September Goldbug Dance. Tom Kiske wrote his feelings/comments on observing this significant event:

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come...

Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare
Fifty years.

Fifty years of time. Calendar time, pages full of days, months flipped through then discarded for a new calendar, a new year. Clock time, ticking away the minutes and hours. Minutes and hours of our lives.

Some ancient peoples viewed time as a tangible force, governed and controlled by one of their panoply of gods.

Time as a thief. Jealously, he robs us of so much. Friends and classmates are stolen away. A spouse may be taken. Perverting the natural order of things, time may take one of our children, a soul-fracturing loss for which there is no recompense. Marriages fall victim to the dark invader against whom there is no defense. Little by little or in one sudden, voracious grab he takes our health or – worse – the health of one we hold dear.

Year by year he grows bolder, this Taker, and never is he satisfied. Vicious and uncaring, he steals what he will, leaving us only... what?

Yes, Time does leave something behind for everything he takes, so perhaps he is less a thief than a masterful trader, albeit one who dictates his arbitrary terms and brooks no negotiation, no bargaining, no appeal.

What he leaves us in trade are our memories, a commodity that grows more precious with each tick of the clock, each page of the calendar. Like certain metals, memories seem to accrue a kind of patina over the years, a softly glowing layer that blurs hard edges, rendering them perhaps less true but far sweeter, far lovelier. So that they become not so much memories but dreams.

And if through all the years we have kept some friends of old, there is no finer use for memory’s dreams than sharing them, like the lyrics to a well-known song best rendered in a harmony of complimenting voices. An oldie but goodie, as are we all.

GROWING UP IN THE 50's

Long ago and far away, in a land that time forgot - before the days of Dylan or the dawn of Camelot - there lived a race of innocents and they were you and me!

Ike was in the White House in that land where we were born - where navels were for oranges and Payton Place was porn.

We learned to gut a muffler and we washed our hair at dawn. We spread our crinolines out to dry in circles on the lawn.

We longed for love and romance, and waited for our prince, and Eddie Fisher married Liz, and no one’s seen him since.

We danced to “Little Darlin” and sang to “Stagger Lee” and cried for Buddy Holly in the Land that made Me, Me.

Only girls wore earrings then, and 3 was one too many. And only boys wore flat-top cuts, except for Jean McKinney.

We fell for Frankie Avalon, and Annette was oh, so nice. And when they made a movie, they never made it twice. We didn’t have a Star Trek 5 or a Psycho 2 and 3, or Rocky/Rambo either in the Land that made Me, Me. Miss Kitty had a heart of gold and Chester had a limp. And Reagan was a Democrat whose co-star was a chimp! We had a Mr. Wizard, but not a Mr. T. And Oprah didn’t talk yet, in the Land that made Me, Me.

We had our share of heroes - we never thought they’d go. At least not Bobby Darin or Marilyn Monroe. For youth was still eternal and life was yet to be. And Elvis was Forever in the Land that made Me, Me.

We’d never seen the rock band that was Grateful to be Dead, and Airplanes weren’t named Jefferson, and Zeppelins were not Led. Beatles lived in gardens then and Monkees lived in trees. And Madonna meant Mary in the Land that made Me, Me.

We’d never heard of microwaves or telephones in cars. Babies might be bottle-fed, but were not grown in jars. Pumping iron got wrinkles out, and gay meant fancy-free. And, dorms were never co-ed in the Land that made Me, Me.

We hadn’t seen enough jets to talk abut the lag, and microchips were what was left in the bottom of the bag. Hardware was a box of nails and bytes came from a flea. And rocket ships were fiction in the Land that made Me, Me.

Buicks came with portholes and side shows came with freaks. And bathing suits came big enough to cover both your cheeks. Coke came just in bottles and skirts were below the knee, and Castro came to power near the Land that made Me, Me.

We had no Crest with fluoride - we had no Hill Street Blues. We had no pantyhose or Lipton herbal tea. Or prime time ads for dysfunctions in the Land that made Me, Me. There were no Golden Arches, no Perrier to chill - and fish were not called Wanda and cats were not called Bill. And middle-aged was 35 and old was 53 and ancient were our parents in the Land that made Me, Me.

But all things have a season or so we’ve heard them say, and now instead of Maybelline, we’re using Retin-A. They send us invitations to join AARP - we’ve come a long way, baby, from the Land that made Me, Me.

So now we face a brave new world in slightly larger jeans, and wonder why they’re using smaller print in magazines. We tell our children’s children of the way it used to be - Long ago and far away, in the Land that made Me, Me.

If you didn’t grow up in the 50's, you missed one of the greatest times in history!

Goldbug Luncheon...

The next McKinley Goldbug luncheon will be Wednesday, February 15th. It is necessary to make a reservation to attend the great gathering of Goldbugs. To learn more about the McKinley Luncheons, including directions to the Royale Orleans Banquet Center, please click on the Luncheons menu option above. To print the required reservation form, please click on the photo to the right.