Here Come the Sun

The times of the late 1950’s to the end of the 1960’s interwoven with my friends and family input my memory files with treasures that some may never know, they were mixed in a giant melting-pot called school. In 1965, June 17th to be exact, I graduated from West Bridgewater High School.

Many, such as my brother, Chris, and I began the matriculation at Sunset Avenue school, a short walk out of our back yard, through Snell’s field, the woods containing an old rusting silver water tower and onto the edge of Sunset Avenue’s rear field. The field was full of hard ground and rocks, and we played football and baseball there. For baseball, we often failed to field enough for two full teams, so we used a special rule which stated if you batted right-handed anything hit to the right side of second base was a foul ball, and vice versa if you were a southpaw. Second base was a purplish looking and uneven rectangular almost triangular rock that stuck up just enough to trip any unsuspecting first through fourth graders not paying attention. I believed, deep inside, that this geological misfit had come to earth having fallen off the rocket ship that crashed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947.

Advancing to my next school, the Spring Street school on Spring Street (dah), I did fifth grade in two parts. First part was taught by Mrs. Estabrooks. She had some physical problems and had to leave halfway through the year, but not before I stepped to the rear of the class, where, while she sat at a kid’s desk, I proudly rattled off my times tables through the 12's. The second half of the year, taught by Miss Johnson, finished unremarkably. The Spring Street school field held true to its Sunset Avenue predecessor minus a rock for second base. The school facility was very different, however. Linked together by several corridors, a group of modular pods, each with its own sunroof or moonroof. once again, fed my belief that if aliens were looking for a service station, this was the place.

Next stop was junior high school, which was held in the outside wings of the West Bridgewater High School. Here we were trained in the habits of high school routine. We switched rooms after each class and used the same sports facilities at the gym and outside fields. We would look but could not touch the upper classman, interfacing only when approached by them. They were, from my view, the defenders of Mt. Olympus and, in sports, my heroes and heroines. I believe we were to learn and act by the examples set by these maroon and white (fight fight) gods and goddesses. In a couple of years, we were walking their walk and talking their talk. For me, sports gained me, and a few others, early entry, but only in the field or on the court. In the scared halls, we returned to mere annoyances underfoot, plebes, with no worth.

I've learned, all these years later, that the happy times I remember from high school was not happiness for everyone. For many there are negative recollections, of bullying and being left out of certain groups. Also, unrevealed home issues cancelled out good school memories, makes me sad that things beyond my control stole times that should have been happy for everyone. Of course, unless someone tells you there’s something wrong, how would we know? Looking back, I feel I should have had a keener sense of some of the injustices. It was easier to bury myself in the making of a 15-foot jump shot just to hear the swish, than someone else’s problems.

My early life, other than family, was school oriented, but mostly fixed on sports. At home, we listened to an old Emerson radio, a pastel greenish color, set on the kitchen stove and listened to for special sporting events. Red Sox games, Rocky Marciano's heavyweight victories and Brockton High School basketball games with Mike Bernard and Steve Sarantopolous to name a few. Special and clear, the memory of our Forrie Broman and our West Bridgewater High School team at the Boston Garden Tech Tourney, doing us proudly.

Stepping up to high school produced new challenges for us and new heroes as well. After graduation, sports were very well represented, but also business and teaching arose. Many more went to work, raised families, became policemen and served our country in the military.

Unlike our examples of the late 50’s graduates, we entertained ourselves with our own shenanigan’s. Among these, lighting the fourth of July bonfire ahead of schedule, having a bomb scare called in during finals week, messing with our rival school's football field before the big Thanksgiving Day game. to name a few.

High school dances too, where we guys stood around trying to select a girl to dance the night away with, but only rushing in for the last dance. Thank God for those going steady, or no dancing would have happened at all. As high school dances faded into history, wish I had all those .50 cent pieces spent on Nancy Bradford Ballroom dancing, (NO PUMPING). The music and dancing began changing, the Beatle’s and others, like Sam the Sham and the Pharoh’s and The Dave Clark Five set our matriculating bones into many directions at the same time; can you say Twine Time or Wooly Bully?

We went everywhere to dance, even to our rival, East Bridgewater High School, the times were, indeed, changing. As designated driver, I had a 46 DeSoto. It was rusted out and heavy with exhaust fumes, a bunch of us, "that’ll be a quarter please", headed to East Bridgewater High School to see and dance to a local group, The Rocking Ramrods. Freezing outside, all the windows were wide open, and I had to use the ice scraper on the inside of the windshield because, it seems, everyone had to breathe at the same time which frosted all the glass and metal inside the car.

This was a memorable dance as my brother wanted to meet a certain EB cheerleader, he found attractive. We were there to dance and enjoy the band. To my good fortune I met and enjoyed the company of Marilyn Woodard, beautiful and also a Blue & Gold cheerleader. We danced and enjoyed the night, laughing while watching her friend and my brother. Dance cards filled, it was time to re-enter the smog-mobile and head home. In our 70's, Chris and I remember the night fondly, and part of our many good old days.

That DeSoto got us to the Rexicana Ballroom and a chance to"Louie Louie" the night away with "The Kingsmen" and slow dance with Marshfield girls to "Ferry Cross the Mersey" with "Gerry and the Pacemakers". As many things do, the old DeSoto succumbed to the rigors of time. I sold it to a family friend, Bill Murphy, for $10.00, the same price I bought it for two years earlier. The dances slowed and then ended. Vietnam became the daily news. Then major drug problems, bringing death on a red horse, stretching to this day. Peace for me, so far, were those days of playing baseball, riding bikes, scoring baskets. Sadly, leaving us slowly are those heroes, those knights in maroon and white satin, some warriors and some wildcats.

What the future holds for today’s matriculating students is written in Tweets, DM’s, blogs and technology I don’t always understand, but take my advice young folks, learn to breathe, keep feeling for those less fortunate, think kindness first, remember your family and friends.

As for the world, I would respond with the words that our great teacher at West Bridgewater, Mr. Thomas Peters adamantly made us remember, under penalty of death. A quote from George Santayana, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it”.