***On “Now” Photos For The AARP Generation-Take Two

For Robert Flatley, North Adamsville Class Of 1964

Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:

“’Cause I’ve memorized each line in your face, and not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me”-a line from the folksinger/songwriter Iris DeMent’s hauntingly beautiful song, After You’re Gone.

Guys, you are probably wondering what the heck some old timey arkie angel country girl lyrics are doing as a lead-off to a quick little comment, well maybe not quick but a comment in any case, about where all the time has gone since we left the hallowed halls of citified old North Adamsville High back in 1964. Just to let you in on my motivation I have been thinking, and maybe you have too, a lot lately about the cold hard fact that our fiftieth anniversary class reunion is fast approaching and I wanted to get out ahead of the curve on one question, the question implicitly posed by the title of this comment, the one about, ah, the vagaries of being of a certain age. And see too I have by very devious means been able to grab a copy of the old yearbook, the Magnet, and that really got me to wondering how we went from fresh-faced bobby socks and sneakers, bee hive –haired, vital young women and sturdy, white socks and loafers, plaid-shirted, black chino-ed young men to the dissipated old folk of today.

Now that I am on the case no more can you Bob F. pretend that you are fifty-something when hanging around the bars at Falmouth but should go gentle into that 55 plus retirement village good night like a nice fellow. Or you Lenny trying to get that job at the supermarket bagging groceries like you were some schoolboy. Or you Diana saying that you have never used Botox in your life (or come to think of it you too Bob) and that permanent plaster-etched smile was always that way and maybe I have just be forgetful or over the rages of time. Or you, oh well, you get my drift and if you don’t then next time I will use last names (maiden last names since I don’t want to confuse everybody with the proliferation of hyphenated names and/or the third divorce last names gathered from our stormy needs to have it all).

That “certain age” observation  became painfully apparent when looking, looking quickly as the “now” photos on our class website, the one set up and run by Richie Jones, the old techie guy from our class who apparently has a lot of time on his hands these days to produce such herculean efforts (under the direction of The Committee, the pompous Central Committee like we were in Russia in the old days or something, the class reunion committee which has made no bones about the fact that they control the editorial policy of the site and everything else just like always). And while I cannot off of that quick perusal of Rich’s work recite from memory each line in each face I think I am on to something in Iris’ line, something about the story behind those lines and our hard fought battles, life battles, to get the lines that is.

Well, of course, those hard-wire lyrics, and those abundant lines only apply to our male classmates. After all Iris is singing about her gone man. (See complete lyrics below.) Her long gone but not forgotten man, her walking daddy who left her for who knows what reason, or maybe she left him but she was certainly busted up by whatever happened. She’s from strong stock though and will weather that storm and move on. But I do not, this age of sexual equality notwithstanding, want to extend the part about the lines anyway to our sister classmates because I do not need to have every cyber-stone in the universe thrown at me. But those same lyrics do finally bring me to the purpose for today’s comment.

As part of getting a 'feel' for writing about our days at old North Adamsville High like I said I have perused some of the class profiles the infernal 1964 class reunion committee has provided me. I, innocently, answered an e-mail from Sally Price, our old time class secretary who seems to have time on her hands as well, or has assumed that once a high school class officer that that job has life-time tenure (or life servitude),who asked me to write a couple of small things for the class reunion newsletter. You know stuff like –Did your high school dreams come true? Did your stay at North provide you some wherewithal to face life’s battles? Stuff like that, stuff that in the old days I could go on and on about without even working up a sweat so she knew who she was dealing with. Apparently once you answer a couple of off-hand questions about your doings (or not-doings) over the past half century you are fair game for every possible form of interrogation. Interrogations that would shame even the most hardened CIA or NSA bureaucrat. I don’t know about you but I am thinking of hiring a lawyer and putting a stop to this maddening harassment, and possible constitutional violation. But that is a subject for another day. For now, forward.

Lately Sally has ordered, and I do not use that term lightly, under some unspoken penalty, those brave classmates who have current (“now”) photos to post them to the class reunion website. A number of you have placed your current photos on the profile pages thoughtfully provided by said committee, although a number of people, including myself, are apparently camera-shy or have failed to provide for some reason. I admit to not being particularly camera-shy but rather to being something of a technological luddite (look that word up on Wikipedia if you do not know it) in that I do not own the digital camera or smart phone required to upload a snappy photo, have no immediate intention of owning either one, and would, moreover be helpless to do such a tortuous task as uploading a photo. Truth.

Some, however, like the Chase brothers are not. Not camera shy or luddites that is. They have their collective pictures blasted all over the site under every known condition including, well including being a little under the weather as we used to say. (By the way, Jim and John, and others as well, what is up with wearing hats these days? We are un-hatted Kennedy-era boys and hats, any hats, most definitely were not part of our uniform.) Or how about  born again "muscle man" (read: huge, belly huge) Bill Bailey, the star cross- country runner and track man from our class, whom I have has previously written about as slender-strided and gracefully-gaited and who now looks like he could rough up some sumo wrestler . That photo-readiness on the part of some classmates gave me a powerful urge to smite some dragons down. Those who are photo-less can breathe a sigh of relief-for now.

I have to admit too that I have been startled by some of the photos. Many of them seem to have been taken by your grandchildren just before their naps. Or maybe by you just before your naps, or some combinations of the two especially for those who are performing grandparental (is there such a word?) duty as “babysitters” in a world where both parents, your sons and daughters, are forced by hard-time circumstances to work to make ends meet these days. Isn’t the digital age supposed to have made the camera instantly user-friendly? Why all the out-of-focus, soft-focus, looking through a fish tank or a looking- glass kind of shots. And why does everyone seem to be have been photographed down the far end of some dark corridor or by someone about six miles away? Nobody expects Bachrach-quality photos but something is amiss here. [Bachrach’s was the photograph studio that took our individual class pictures for those who don’t remember or didn’t otherwise know.-Markin]

In contrast, a new arrival on this class committee profile page interrogation wall (sorry), Robert Flatley, has found just the right approach. Initially Robert placed a recent shot of himself on his profile page. Frankly the old codger looked like he was wanted in about six states for “kiting” checks, or maybe had done a little “time” in some far-off county farm or state prison for a gas station armed robbery. More recently, however, his page has been graced with some kind of stock photo, maybe provided by Flickr, a tastefully-shot, resplendent wide old oak tree. Automatically I now associate Robert with the tree of life, with oneness with the universe, with solidity, with the root of matter in him, and with bending but not breaking. Wise choice, Brother Flatley. Now, moreover, I do not have to suppress a need to dial 911, but rather can think of Robert as one who walks with kings, as a sage for the ages. And nothing can ever erase the story that tells to me.

Artist: Dement Iris
Song: After You're Gone
Album: Infamous Angel Iris Dement Sheet Music

There'll be laughter even after you're gone.

I'll find reasons to face that empty dawn.

'Cause I've memorized each line in your face,

And not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me.

I'll miss you.

Oh, how I'll miss you.

I'll dream of you,

And I'll cry a million tears.

But the sorrow will pass.

And the one thing that will last,

Is the love that you've given to me.

There'll be laughter even after you're gone.

I'll find reasons and I'll face that empty dawn.

'Cause I've memorized each line in your face,

And not even death could ever erase the story they tell to me.