Newspapers, Nostalgia, and Yesteryear

On a recent rain-soaked night, with the babies tucked tight in their beds and nary a thing on the TV, I put off the home gym 3000 and disappeared into the basement for some long overdue organization of stuff. By stuff, I mean anything and everything that my family has acquired over the last ten years that is currently not in use. Some of the items are outdated, (i.e. the old electronics, remotes, stereos, etc.), some of the items are unnecessary by purposes of passé home décor or overstock, and some of the items are type specific be it seasonal clothes or items from my eldest daughters past. Mixed in with all of these boxes, however, are nostalgic items from my past.






With my motivation high, I plunged into myriad boxes, containers, and baskets in order to separate the junk from the treasure, the past from the present, and the his from the hers. I began by eliminating certain items that had no value at all. Who needs cat toys with no cat, electronics ten years out of date, and old college papers anyway? Once all items of no value went into the garbage, I still had a mountain of stuff in which to contend. Since most of what was left was not for me to sort, I decided to concentrate on what was mine. This is where my evening got off track.





Isn’t interesting when one’s thoughts turn nostalgic?

Suffice it to say, we all have a box or two with random elements from our past which we have kept for unknown reasons. I am no different. I have a couple boxes that I get into from time to time, when the moment presents itself, for no specific rhyme or reason. My boxes include old UK basketball magazines and newspaper clippings regarding our late nineties greatness, a coin collection, pictures and trinkets from my travels, bad poetry, random writings and letters, and a litany of other items from past experiences. These items define where we have been and what we have accomplished, tucked away in personal time capsules of sorts, for recollection in moments just like these. What else did I have to do anyway?





There was one small box, however, that night that I decided to open once I had looked through all the usual boxes. It was a little box, one that was half opened with old hospital scrubs sticking out. Obviously, this was not one of mine. Upon closer inspection, and under the pastel green scrubs serving as the lid, was an old newspaper. I immediately knew what it was. An hour later, I put it away.

What I found that night is why I love waxing nostalgic. Hidden away in a box of hodgepodge was a newspaper dated May 31, 1994. The front was decorated with pictures of classmates, the heading read Tates Creek Masthead. What I had unearthed was the final edition of my High School Newspaper for my senior year complete with 16 pages of senior wills. I started to read.





In a way, I had forgotten all about senior wills. Who knows if they are still done in 2009? With newspapers folding at monumental rates (The Rocky Mountain News being the latest to close its presses) perhaps seniors are writing senior blogs, sending their notes via text message, or emailing their wills to all their friends by bulk mail. Either way, I lost myself in nostalgia, reading the cryptic offerings of friends, and wondering what it all meant. As I perused numerous entries of publicized inside information, a familiar feeling came over me as if I was reverting for a moment to a youthful time. I was holding a tangible relic of the past; an anthropological goldmine of youthful meanderings, sculpted friendships, and lessons learned, and through the musty fragrance of the past, I could feel the presence of certain events just like I was there.





I didn’t write a senior will, but if I did, I suppose it would feel something like this:

I, Grant Frame, of conspicuous mind and inconspicuous body do hereby bequeath the following…to my friends and family, a fortune cookie, a ball peen hammer, a left hand thumb, a pan of chocolate, Crazy Bob in Aqua Ville, 32 points, grease lightning, water wars, lemon squares and a host of other obscure inferences, references, and recollections.

For an hour, on that rain-soaked night, under the guise of sorting stuff, I felt like the kid I remember but rarely see anymore. Still, in remembering events long since forgotten, I dusted off the past, explored the present, and peeked into the future all in the simple turn of a newspapers’ slightly yellowing page. Wouldn’t it be sad if all newspapers were replaced with digital outlets? In tomorrow’s edition, they just may be. “Extra, Extra, A.J. Stewart Quits the Team…log in and read all about it.” How ‘bout it Creekers…Just a thought!

Who is Paul Smith?

Paul Smith was waiting patiently in a partially covered bus stand shrouded in used newspaper and empty coffee cups for the next downtown express. His daily routine led him to this uneventful bus stop every Wednesday and nothing was different about today. The skies were fair, the sun danced from cloud to cloud, and the people bustled…if you can attribute bustling to people. Just like always. In and out of car sounds, oily road smells, and distant rumbles, Paul sat, legs crossed, book in hand, pretending to flip the next page of Atlas Shrugged for those willing to look up and take notice. No one did notice however, and as the 105 pulled into view, a line began to form, front to back with little issue or excitement. Just another Wednesday, you might think.

A young lady in her late 20’s filed in behind Paul, book in hand as well, although not near as pretentious as Paul’s, slightly brushing him as she fumbled through her purse. Something about her touch caused Paul to take notice, turning quickly to glimpse his line companion. The woman, plain and simple, just smiled as Paul returned his glance forward, focusing on the diminishing queue of people.

The bus was crowded and when Paul reached the two black steps, he grabbed his fare from his hip pocket and boarded, tossing his change in the automatic collector and nodding at the man behind the wheel. The driver, somewhat distracted, noticing Paul was the last passenger, pulled the door lever and waited for Paul to sit.

Taking his time, Paul sat near the front, next to an intellectual in his early 40’s. Not the best seat for a single man looking for random encounters or at least female conversation, but since Paul was in the mood to read, it really didn’t matter who he counted as his seat mate. The roar of the bus engine signaled their departure and through the bumps and jerky motions of the city bus, Paul turned the next page of his book.

The ride on the 105 had become routine as had the wait, the boarding, and the ultimate departure. Everything in Paul’s life was orderly. His days passed like well scripted manuscripts in which nothing was left to chance. He did entertain the idea of spontaneity from time to time but it had no part in his life, not really. He would rise in the mornings and retire in the evenings with accomplishments in work and folly but they were all part of a master plan. What Paul didn’t have, however, and what consumed him was the search for a significant other, someone who would complete the model of a man he had crafted. Someone who had eluded him at each bend in the road of life.

With the bus in motion and the passengers locked into their respective routines, a subtle hum below their seats will ignite a series of events that will change their lives forever. Nothing will ever be the same. Not for Paul or for any of the 105’s 65 passengers. As lives are cast again and again, Paul must conquer his biggest fears in a test of both physical and philosophical fortitude in order to answer life’s most compelling questions and fulfill his purpose.

What consequence does but one instant in time have on us all? Join me in exploring the nature of time and the gravity of life through the eyes of Paul Smith and the 64 other passengers on bus 105. This is not an idle Wednesday in Portland, Maine, it is a reckoning. All aboard!

Albert and the Woodchuck...Shattering Shadows and Other Tom Foolery

Yesterday morning, amidst a maddening crowd in western Pennsylvania, a small rodent named Phil was whisked from his cage and made to gaze haphazardly at a horde of people who had gathered for Groundhog Day festivities. Through the throngs of absent minded revelers and top hat wearing handlers, Phil’s shadow cast itself upon the ground like a great net of disappointment, thus revealing to all those who believe in groundhog folklore that winter will last for six more weeks. Yeah that’s right, six more cold and frigid winter weather weeks. Aren’t we lucky?




What I find interesting about Phil and his prognostications have nothing to do with his ability to foretell the weather and everything to do with the rate in which he sees his shadow. For instance, if I were to tell you that every year, as we awaken on February 2 there is an 88% chance that Phil will see his shadow, would you even fain surprise when, like clockwork, it is revealed that old Phil as seen his shadow yet again? Probably not, yet that is the rate in which Phil, the proverbial seer of seers and prognosticator of prognosticators sees his shadow, 98 times in 112 years of performing this monumental feat. Suffice it to say, even Vegas would not bet on Phil’s ability to predict an early spring as even in his 14 predictions of early spring, he has been right only 36% of the time. Perhaps the laws of statistics do not apply to Phil but year in and year out, we celebrate a day of foregone conclusions and utter ineptitude on the part of this pudgy and predictable woodchuck.





On a lighter note, I wonder if Al Gore and his global warming alarmists feel cheated each year when Phil sees his shadow. I would suspect an early spring would spell global warming much easier than that of a long and mostly normal winter weather season. Yet even as the snow falls and the ice rains, somehow, global warming prognosticators have convinced us all that no matter what the weather brings, it is due to the invisible phenomenon of global warming. Epic snows, global warming. Early spring, global warming. Freak snow storm, global warming. Too much rain, global warming. Too little rain, global warming. I guess we really should be happy to have an answer for all of the world’s weather regardless of warmth or lack thereof.







Perhaps Phil can take notes from the modern day prognosticators in which no matter what the prediction is…it is what was forecast in the first place as no one really wants to get caught up in the details anyway. Assumingly, all we really need is another meritless holiday and reason for celebration even when the information we receive is nothing more than a best guess by a bunch of nincompoops with a little glitz and glamour to boot. Move over Punxsutawney Phil, Algore is gunning for your gig except in his grand scheme and epic design, everyday will be Groundhog Day. Isn’t that dandy?





This just in…winter will end when spring begins…on March 20, 2009. (Global warming will end when the prevailing political winds blow in another direction). Oops, never mind…I just saw my shadow…six more years of global waywardness and absolute lunacy. Just a thought!