Not a Springsteen fan, but a guy can't cut 200 records, or however many he has made, without hitting a note with you at least once or twice.  "Glory Days" is one I do like, but not because I used to have such glory in the day...in fact, it is just the opposite.  I had no glory to speak of in high school.  I was fair at basketball, a little better than fair at baseball, too skinny for football, and because of heavy smoking by age fourteen, track was a no-go.  Not good enough or motivated enough to make any of the school teams. 

I could blame it on moving around a lot.  That would only be partly true.  I did move around but I also just wasnt' a jock.  Or a chess club guy.  Or a thespian.  Or any other extra-curricular- stuff-guy.  It didn't appeal to me to be involved in anything on-campus, school-related, or exertion-oriented after school.  So...no glory there.  I got fairly good grades without a lot of effort and  occasionally a "soc (pronounced soche)" gal in my social studies class asked me for some help with schoolwork...that was as close to "soc" as I ever got.  "Soc" was what we called the kids who were a little better off than average, dressed better, hung together, and got most of the "glory".  My freshman year was the year that "surfer" became another caste in school.  The uniform for Soc was a pair of pegged slacks, pointy-toed shoes, a pin-striped shirt with a button-down collar and a very narrow tie.  Surfers wore white levis that were too short by a few inches, striped shirts or Madras plaids,  and a Pendleton wool long-sleeved shirts worn as a sweater.  Sneakers were not allowed in school but the surfers got away with boaters or those woven- leather thong sandals that had tire tread for soles.  The rest of the school wore black, white, or green levis...no blue jeans...hard shoes or boots....no sneakers....shirts with collars, polos or dress shirts.  Soc hair was "clean cut" or a crew or a flattop.  Surfers wore their hair  bushy and longer.  After a few years the boundary between "soc" apparel and "surfer" apparel kind of blurred.

For girls it was a little less specific.  No shorts or pants,  only skirts and blouses or dresses.  Flats, heels, pumps...I don't know about girls' shoes but the rules were clear...no sneakers there either.  The skirts were knee-length, nearly, pre-mini, and came in all styles.  Short wasn't the thing then, tight was the thing.  Sometime in those first couple of years the "sack dress" became the big deal.  Hair for girls was teased, piled into a "beehive" or ponytails. 

The only thing that gave me even the slightest bit of cool was the fact that my Dad, the Chief, bought a brand new '55 Chevy V-8 in October of '54.  It was Forest Green, two-door with a door post, three-speed standard transmission and in 1960 it was one of the most popular cars in America.  And the Chief was more than generous with its use;  by the time I could drive to his satisfaction (about age fourteen), I was allowed to drive it as much as I wanted.  But in spite of the prevailing myth, I never got a date because of what I drove...in fact, I never picked up a girl while cruising, hanging out, or in any other way we all believed we would.

A lot of my classmates had known each other since grade school.  They grew up together, shared experiences, teachers, and  lunches, and went through the ebb and flow and swirl of relationships for years.  I didn't.  I was the stranger in a strange land, always a new kid, unfamiliar with the history that went into all those relationships.  I was not, still am not, the kind to jump into the middle of things and make myself a part of everything.  Just the opposite,  I kept quiet most of the time.  I tried to fit in, mostly for camoflage, so as not to draw fire.  I did have a couple of girl friends, one girl was pretty long-term, in an on-and-off kind of way, but I really didn't date that much.  Not neary so much as I would have liked.  The world of teenagers around me swirled and whirled through their social strata, their sports, their dates, their drag races, their "surfin' safaris", and all the rest that Southern California had to offer.  Every now and then I felt like a part of it,  but mostly I felt like a spectator. 

In 1964 I joined the Army and left, just two months after graduation.

In 1984 I was stationed at Fort Ord, CA.  One of the former high school cheerleaders was heading up the committee for the 20th anniversary.  She sent out letters to the members of the Class of 64 asking for updated information and the committee put together a volume II of our yearbook.  I was surprised to see what had become of my "classmates".  Vietnam got a few of them, car wrecks and drugs-of-choice got a bunch,too.  The sixties were rough on kids.  I feel lucky to have gotten out alive.

Now we have Facebook and Classmates and other "social media" and you can find your old friends and classmates and catch up on old times, new times, and stuff.  When I look at some of the pictures of those folks who are brave enough to post them, I am amazed at how old they look.   Again, the sixties were rough on kids in a lot of ways.  Then there's the mirror.  Sigh.

I haven't been to any of the reunions.  I have always thought that I would walk in and no one would know who I am...or was.  Judging from the pictures that I have seen, I probably wouldn't recognize all the "stars" from back in the day.

Up to now, this piece has a real similarity to a pity party.  Not so, lets re-visit the Boss.  The folks he sang about were "grown ups" who spent their evenings in the bar re-living the days when they could "throw that ball by ya" or whatever glory they could claim.  But they haven't grown past that.  The achievements they made in high school are still the high point of their lives.  They rest their pot bellies against the bar and re-tell the story of the game winning pass or the three-pointer-at-the-bell and get a free beer or two from admiring fans who remember it well. 

So much has happened in my life since May 14, 1964.  And I want my kids and grandkids and their kids to know about those things.  I am stuck in the sixties...and seventies....and some of the eighties...not to re-live a time of greater glory, but to chronicle my life and times and all the neat stuff that makes me smile.  The cars, the dogs, the kids, the antics, and absolutely the very most important part of my life, MamaCharlie.  That's where my "glory" lies...and I wouldn't have it any other way.