All Those Years Ago

In 1981, ex-Beatle George Harrison responded to the death of his former bandmate and friend John Lennon by writing the song "All Those Years Ago." Harrison was famously "over" the Beatles by 1968, ready to chuck the band that had made him famous. But after 13 years, it was evident that the man who also wrote "Here Comes the Sun" had seen the light, and it had warmed him.

This week I've had a similar experience. It's not only my pen that has responded to the death of former teacher and friend Steve Colton, but my thoughts too. I've talked with old friends for the first time in a few years (in two cases its been 18 years since the last verbal exchange). The memories have flooded back. Some are cherished, others confusing, and a few that are just as irritating now as they were two decades ago.

What is most odd is that for a few minutes at a time this past week, I've felt 17 all over again. Though half my life has passed since my senior year of high school, it's almost scary how close it all seems. Yesterday, I asked a pair of my clients (ages 49 and 62) if that phenomenon ever goes away. They eached laughed and said, "No, never."

All those years ago, in August of 1987, I was practicing a short solo that I would play in marching band that fall. My best friends were within 20 yards of me at all times, on the marching band field, in the music department rooms, and out on the town. My academic requirements in the bag, I had only a few classes, and none too challenging. The fall was all about the Linn-Mar Marching Lions -- early morning practices in a thick dew, Thursday night rehearsals, BALM (only a select few will understand), contests on the weekends. By the end of the season as the snow flied, I was laying on the floors of my classrooms with severe leg pain as a result of a herniated disc. I spent my 18th birthday in a hospital bed following surgery. And, just a few seconds later (so it seems now), I was attending prom, graduating with the Linn-Mar class of 1988, and heading to college.

When I met my wife Michelle in 1990, it marked the close of the first chapter of my life, and the second began. The pages that contain the first chapter are musty. Until this week, they had been largely neglected for a long time. Reflecting on those pages the last 72 hours has brought laughter, tears, happiness and regret.

Tonight my friend and fellow trombone player John Roling and I will attend Mr. Colton's funeral. It will be one last evening spent in time-traveling mode. When I wake tomorrow, I expect 2006 to appear, with a fresh page made ready in the book of life for recording new memories.

"Here comes the sun, and I say, it's all right."