The older we get, the more we think about our past. I think that’s a natural tendency and common to everyone. Maybe we could call it human gravity. We are drawn back. It’s a force we can’t escape or avoid. It just happens.

I’m just guessing here, since I don’t have a PhD in thinking about old stuff, but I would think most of us would choose to think about those things we term as “the good times.” Otherwise, we would call them flashbacks instead of memories.

I think a flashback has the connotation of something bad, like the day you decided to take on the school bully because the prevailing reasoning was that he put his pants on just like you. The part you did not consider was that his pants were much larger, so the act of putting them on “one leg at a time” really had no fit in your rationale. Hindsight is always 20-20, especially after the swelling goes down.

In the past couple of years, I’ve been touching base with some of the old gang. And by gang I mean a close circle of friends who just hung out together in a sense of camaraderie. We didn’t have secret handshakes, matching jackets or tattoos that identified us. A few of the old gang have passed on. But their memories of our associations will live on.

It got to the point that the only time I was seeing any of my childhood compatriots was at funeral visitations. So I made the comment at one of these visitations that we should try to get together sometime when someone hasn’t died. We’re working on that concept now.

The other day I dropped by an old school I attended. It’s way out in the country. Today it’s being used as a community center. It’s made out of heart pine so it has staying power. It was there long before I attended, and I would bet it will be around a long time after I’m gone.

I pulled into the school yard and turned back the dial. I could remember specific conversations and specific moments in games we played. I vividly remember the day we were playing paratrooper, and I sprained an ankle jumping off the top doorstep. I should have hit and rolled like Randolph Scott  told me to do.

I remember the woodburning (or coal, depending on what was available) heater. I recall the high ceilings and the blackboards. They actually were black. Later they became green and then we called them chalkboards because calling them greenboards sounded silly. I could take you to the very spot where, during a spelling bee, I was called on to spell “acquiesce.” 

And the smells. I can remember the smell of brand new denim jeans at the beginning of the term and the smell of the lunchroom. 

Right over there was where the outhouse stood. We had one city boy who had never used an outhouse before. We had to explain it to him. He was a bit arrogant. So one day we locked him in the outhouse. And we got a paddling. I guess that would have been considered gang activity back then. 

I don’t consider this to be “living in the past.” At best, it’s just visiting.  I think it’s a way of taking our bearings. Some may call it “taking stock.” Maybe it’s therapeutic (another word I pondered in that spelling bee) in that we adjust our perspectives on life. We dwell on the good and try to learn from the bad. Sometimes we write songs about it all. And whether we can sing or not, we all have that song. Even if you can’t carry a tune in a five-gallon bucket, you can sing in your head … and in the shower.

Quite often this is what my breakfast club does. We share memories. One morning we concluded that we all went to different schools together. And we put peanuts in our Cokes.

(Dwain Walden is editor/publisher of The Moultrie Observer, 985-4545. Email: dwain.walden@gaflnews.com)