Andy Young: Looking forward … and back

By Andy Young

“You have the power to change the world, whether through grand gestures, or quiet moments of compassion,” RSU 21 Superintendent of Schools Dr. Terri Cooper told Kennebunk High School’s Class of 2025 at the school’s sesquicentennial (150th) graduation ceremony earlier this month. She later added that the day was “not an ending, but a beginning.”

For me her message rang both true and eerily familiar, because the previous day I had attended the reunion of my own high school class on the 50th anniversary of our graduation.

When I heard several months ago that the Class of 1975 was going to get together, I wasn’t sure I’d attend, particularly when I learned the date was the day before the commencement ceremony at the school where I’ve taught for the past 23 years. It’s a lengthy drive to where I grew up, so I’d have had a reasonable excuse for begging off. But after learning attendees would be coming from, among other places, North Carolina, Texas, Virginia, Colorado, Missouri, and California, well, being reluctant to make a mere 470-mile round trip from Maine sounded pretty weak.

Thankfully name tags had been provided, which was fortunate, since most of my erstwhile classmates had been frozen in my mind’s eye as 18-year-olds. Five decades of living can radically change a person’s outer shell; they’ve definitely altered mine. There have been other less noticeable physical changes in our chronological peers as well. I quickly lost count of our class’s collective number of joint replacement surgeries.

At one point I found myself renewing acquaintances with a circle of six people I had ridden the morning kindergarten bus with – in 1962!

There wasn’t nearly enough time to touch base with everyone I wanted to, even if I hadn’t gotten lost on some local back roads and arrived 45 minutes late. Each attending alumnus has lived (and is living) a unique and remarkable life.

I heard about personal and professional successes and setbacks from teachers, bankers, social workers, lawyers, and accountants. I visited with widows, widowers, divorcees, couples who’ve been wed for 40-plus years, and individuals who’ve never married. A significant number of attendees still reside around where we grew up; including at least one who lives in the house he was raised in.

Some Class of 75er’s have children nearing 50 years old; others have multiple grandchildren, and at least one has three children still attending college. Nearly all have lost parents, although I did learn of two still-extant mothers-of-classmates (ages 99 and 98), along with a 95-year-old dad. An unlucky few have experienced the excruciating pain of losing a child, but in the face of that unimaginable tragedy discovered strength and resilience they were previously unaware that they possessed.

The level of energy in the room that afternoon was high, although maybe that was to be expected, since those living less happily most likely passed on coming to the event. Perhaps another reason for the positive vibes: not one person, or at least no one I interacted with, uttered a word about politics.

I found myself counting my blessings the next afternoon. Not everyone gets to go to a festive high school graduation and a 50th class reunion on the same weekend.

The Class of 2025 is full of eager young people who can’t wait to start making their mark on the world, be it through grand gestures or quiet moments of compassion. Which, oddly enough, is exactly what the remaining members of the Class of 1975 are still aspiring to do as well. We’ve just got a little less time remaining to make our impactful contribution(s). <

Insight: Gone but not forgotten

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Not long ago, I wrote about people who unexpectedly re-entered being a part of my life after a prolonged absence and that got me to thinking. What about those people who unexpectedly left being part of my life and never returned?

U.S. Air Force airmen serving on a Reforger exercise
deployment in Germany in 1978 included, from left,
Ed Pierce, James Smith and Mike Hodges.
COURTESY PHOTO 

In some of these situations, I probably will never find the answers about what happened to them as too much time has passed and despite being resourceful, I’m afraid I will never know.

Airman First Class James Smith served with me in the U.S. Air Force in Germany from 1977 to 1979. He was without a doubt the wittiest and funniest individual I’ve ever known. “Smitty” as we called him was from Los Angeles, California and was a radio operator for our unit.

From the first time that I met him, I liked him, and he made me laugh heartily. His humor wasn’t the type that made fun of other people’s looks, appearances or physical traits, instead he found laughter in everyday situations.

He was adept at pointing out humorous aspects of daily life and as many of us, including me, had recently completed Air Force Basic Training in Texas, and he often found humor in the lingo or expressions used by Air Force Training Instructors at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas.

Almost 50 years later, I can remember “Smitty” telling me a story about learning to march in formation with his fellow recruits during basic training. When he missed a step, “Smitty” caught the attention of the Training Instructor. He said he told the instructor “I’m sorry.” The Training Instructor then growled at him saying “I know you’re sorry. That’s why I’m screaming at you!”

“Smitty” made everyone laugh, from the unit commander to the lowliest airman, and he uplifted us all during a time when we were far from home and needed something to smile about.

On the day he was departing back to the United States as his tour in Germany was up, he stopped by my office in his dress blue uniform and shook my hand for the final time. He told me that he needed to go back to the radio operator’s trailer for a second because he had left something there that he wanted to take on the plane with him. While in the radio trailer, another radio operator grabbed a fire extinguisher and sprayed it over his dress uniform as a joke.

The last time I ever saw “Smitty” he was frantically brushing white fire retardant off his uniform before catching his flight home. I never saw him again after that incident in October 1979 and I left Germany myself for an assignment at The Pentagon in Washington, D.C. the very next month.

I’ve tried looking for “Smitty” as best I could, but James Smith is one of the most common names in America and it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Rick Walsh was in my first- and second-grade classes at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School in Brighton, New York in 1959 and 1960. He was quiet and reserved but a good student and his desk was across the aisle from me. We both liked reading comic books and playing kickball. Rick also happened to be the first kid I knew who had a crew cut with his head shaved except for a small tuft remaining in the front of his scalp.

He always took a place in front of me in line when we were going to the school library, outside for recess, or to the school lunchroom. We both brought our lunches every day from home and sat together every day during lunchtime.

We were each advanced readers and in third grade in 1961, Rick and I were both reading Hardy Boys mystery books. When I finished one, I’d pass it on to him to read. After each of us finished a book, we would sit in my garage and discuss it and talk about who should play the part on television. Walt Disney had made some of the first Hardy Boys books into a serial presentation for TV’s “Mickey Mouse Club” in the 1950s but had stopped doing that by the time we were in third grade.

I would tell him that I thought Paul Petersen, the young actor from “The Donna Reed Show” should portray Frank Hardy if they ever made a new “Hardy Boys” series. Rick disagreed, saying it should be Tim Considine from “My Three Sons,” who had played the role in Disney’s 1950s adaptation.

One day in January 1962, our third-grade teacher, Mrs. Wahl, told our class that Rick had suffered a severe diabetic attack and that he was in the hospital. The class all made Get Well cards for Rick, and I was elected to take them to his bedside at the hospital. My father drove me there and we found Rick was in bad shape. Rick’s father said that he would not be able to return to school and that he would require insulin injections for the rest of his life.

I never saw Rick again and to this day, I don’t know what became of him.

We lost touch, but he’s not forgotten. <