To The Wheeler Class of ’77

My latest book, Surviving The Smoke Hole & Other High School Accomplishments, has just been released.  Needless to say, I hope all of you and several million more people buy it so I can retire. It is a personal book. At least, as personal as I will get. I hope you enjoy it and it brings you laughs.

A few things.

First of all, it is not a history of Wheeler. It is my history at Wheeler. I don’t mention the football team at all, even though they totally rocked back then. I was going to name the book Eat ‘Em Up, Beat ‘Em Up”, because that’s the only cheer I remember.  I don’t talk a lot about the pep rallies, even though they were all great and I always think about the cheerleaders’ high kicking every time I hear Chicago’s “Make Me Smile”.  I mention in passing Mr. Diffly’s obscene gesture to the members of the sophomore class only because it was so epic. Today, students at elite universities flip out when they see the word “Trump” written in chalk. I don’t remember many sophomores being upset at a teacher flipping them off because they lost a cheer contest.

 

In the forward, I explain there were a lot of people and events I did not mention, but it does not mean those people and events were not important. Like the children of Lake Woebegone, you are all above average.  So if you were not mentioned in the book, it is probably due to my faulty memory, which I discovered was pretty rotten for a history major writing a memoir. 

One thing you learn majoring in history is that memoirs are often used to “settle scores”. That’s where my faulty memory comes in handy because I’m sure there were some scores I needed to settle, but I just can’t remember any. 

(There’s a website called “Rate Your Teacher” and I found a comment about one of our teachers. Really.  It said: “Was not very nice in 1978”.   That’s what I call settling a score!)

Some of our classmates are named. Others were not by their own request. Some were not named due to common sense. There were those not named simply because I couldn't remember their names  Others have been given a pseudonym.  Lisa Randall, who proofread the book, said I should have a special “Key” for our class which identifies those people.   I decided against it because I either didn’t name the person or gave them a pseudonym to protect their innocence and/or my face. 

So don’t ask me to name anybody. Because I’m not telling.

There are some topics not mentioned, like race. Let's face it: just about everybody at Wheeler was white. 

I don’t mention the deaths in the class.  A girl named Sabrina was killed in a car wreck our sophomore year. A teacher committed suicide. Of course, I will always remember where I was when I heard about Steve Tew.   But I don't remember any counselors being sent to the school to help us deal with any grief.  I loved and appreciated Steve. He laughed at my jokes.

All of us remember Steve Leary.

I will always remember him in Spanish class in 7^th grade, picking his nose just to irritate the teacher. The Spanish teacher, a Cuban exile, would always freak out because Steve was a hemophiliac and she thought a finger nail would cut him and he would bleed to death. It would be death by nose picking. They made only one Steve Leary. He passed away in the early ‘80’s.  

One event I should have discussed was the original painting of the Cat Paws on Holt Road in 1973. You would be surprised how much I have read about this event and all of it wrong. I know because my brother was there and he set a Manis Land Speed Record running back to our house when the cops came. 

I do want to acknowledge that for some of our fellow Wildcats, things were not hunky-dory.  One person told me, “To be perfectly honest, I have very few fond memories of high school”.  This individual said, “I hold no grudges and am FB (Facebook) friends with a few Wheeler peeps that were less than kind in those days but I doubt they even remember. Life is too short to hold grudges or assume the behavior of 16 year olds never changed.  Who knew what was going on in their lives?”   

 

One time, during my one brief shining moment (May, 1977), a person made it a point to walk up to me, as I was basking in the glow (of what I thought was) popularity and say, "You know, some people think you are really funny. I think you are sick."  But life is too short to hold grudges. Plus, as John Lennon once remarked, "Time wounds all heels".

We were a blessed generation of kids.   My dad, when he was 13, hitchhiked all the way from East Tennessee to Maryland to look for work.  When I was 13. I had to stand up and actually walk over to the television set to turn a knob to change channels. I think my son would have passed out at 13 if he had to turn a knob to change channels.

Aside from the channel changing bit, we had to made. We were smack dab in the middle of a youth culture. Everything we did was cool. Except for disco. That was stupid and I would like to apologize for it.

All in all, this book is a Valentine to all of my fellow Wildcats.  I love all of you. Some more than others.