I was hit with a certain melancholy as I thought about the beginning of another school year. Our granddaughter starts first grade next week, sixty-four years after I first stepped up into the old yellow Dodge bus and met Mr. L in all his cigar-chomping glory.
But the reason for the melancholy is not as much about reminiscence and the passage of time as it is about hoping the school year goes well for everyone—without incident, without making headlines for all the wrong reasons.
It was just a momentary tinge, an ache brought on by the thought that anymore we need to keep the shields up and be mindful of the next crazed lunatic looking to make a name for himself. I realize the odds are it won’t happen here. But the odds are never totally in anyone’s favor, and this is something no one gave even a second of thought to, sixty-four years ago.
Ah, those halcyon days.
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