Two weeks ago I attended my grandson’s high school
graduation in Denver, a gloriously beautiful ceremony held in the Red Rocks
amphitheater—an incredible piece of work that God chiseled out of a
mountain-side and a venue more accustomed to holding loud and unruly rock
concerts for 60,000 fans rather than the 3,000 proud and sober parents and
relatives attending the ceremony for the senior class at Green Mountain High
School.
First of all, I was surprised—and deeply impressed—that
the ceremony could be so awesome and inspirational. (Of course, how could it
not have been with Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” blossoming from the school’s
60-piece orchestra.) But at least six of the top students gave speeches that
were anything but dull. The comeraderie was real and enjoyable. And the weather
was perfect for the thousands of cameras in the audience ranging from those
taking cell phone snapshots to $10,000 Nikons seeking masterpieces.
But I don’t think I am alone in admitting that
graduation is a time for allowing for some selfish pride as we remember our own
graduations, compare them, and, perhaps for the more fortunate among us, lean
back and revel in them.
During the Red Rocks ceremony my mind wandered back
to high school and my own graduation. World War II had just ended. Half the
senior class was Jewish and a couple were going to the new state of Israel to
work in Kibbutzes. Most of us had been
together since elementary school, including Mavis Nathan who had been sent to
us from England to avoid the blitz. As president of the senior class I had to
give a speech, the opening sentence of which I remember to this day but not one
other thought or word. Just as well—I’m sure it set a new standard for
triteness.
Some jokers in the class started singing what they
called our class song, which (I am not kidding here.) was Maresy Doates. (“Maresy
Doates and Does Eat Oates and Little Lambs Eat Ivy. A kid will eat Ivy, too”)
Please do not question me about this runaway pop hit and its lyrics—their
ridiculousness bothered us just as much back then. This ‘song’ soon gave way to
the more sentimental “On the Sunny Side of the Street”—far more appropriate to
our futures.
When it came to relationships we were saying goodbye
to friends and opening ourselves to future considerations. My girlfriend and I kissed
goodbye and although we were going to colleges in neighboring states we agreed
to stay close. (We didn’t.)
The only thing I remember about my Midwestern
college graduation was driving afterwards to South Dakota to meet the parents
of the beauty queen who was to become my wife in a marriage that would last
forever. (It didn’t.)
Later I received my masters in journalism from
Columbia but missed the graduation ceremony entirely. All the guys were being drafted into the
Korean War and we were urged to grab a job and get some experience before
reporting for duty.
Comparing my own graduations to ceremonies happening
today, the thing I miss most was the spirit of the times. In the late 1940s and
early 1950s there was a feeling of relief in the air plus a genuine
appreciation of freedom and government and everything that our flag stood for. Our
nation had emerged victorious in the most horrible war in the history of
mankind. Maybe we didn’t appreciate it
fully as we marched down the aisle but it was there—believe me. And all of our
futures looked even brighter than the words pouring from the mouths of the
guest speakers.
I wish I could say that about the ceremony I
attended two weeks ago. I’m sure that more than one person in the audience
shared my feeling of loss and dismay regarding the nature of times we live in. As
for the rest of all of you happy young graduates who are perhaps better off for
not realizing what you are missing—and to my own grandson—dig in and best of
luck.
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