Skyline High School
Skyline High Class of 1973
Welcome to the Skyline High Class Of 1973 web site. We have now celebrated our 40 year class reunion. It was fantastic to get together to celebrate and see how we are doing. From what we observed, we are doing quite well, thank you very much.
This is the official website for our Class. To join (it's free!), click 'Classmate Profiles' at left and locate your name. It only takes a few minutes to update your profile. If your name is not on the list then hit the 'Contact us' link and let us know and we will add your name. It's a two-step process: 1) you'll need to join first before you can 2) see profiles of other class members or send secure messages to other registered alumni.
'Classmate Profiles' is a secure online directory that only logged-in '73 alumni can view. When you update your profile, you make choices about privacy. Email addresses are required but will never be displayed; only a 'send private message' link. You'll receive a welcome email after you 'save' your updated profile.
As promised I have attached another great literary piece from one of my ever growing favorite authors, Steve Davis. This essay is so real it is truly funny and entertaining. Thanks Steve.
Lessons Learned on Summer Vacation
When one is a mental nomad, one is not always aware that time is passing. Living life as a cerebral pigmy is not always a bad thing. It’s November and I’m still wearing shorts and t-shirts in an attempt to forestall winter. I’m perplexed, and wondering where the summer went. I can account for each day of it, but not the whole of it.
All the grandchildren are back in school. It seems so quiet.
As a grandparent, the annual ritual of delivering children on the first day sun-browned and solar-bleached to their classrooms never seems to get easier. As a parent, it was always a cause for celebration and couldn’t come soon enough. As a grandparent, we are always reluctant to share custody with the education system. I’m a veteran bystander to many hard moments on the first day of school.
Because school started earlier, so did autumn, proving that fall is not regulated by the calendar. I love the harvest season, even though it forces me to adjust my circadian rhythm from vacation standard time.
Ordinarily, I live my life in tranquil tedium and devoted sobriety, peacefully belching during digestion, severely beyond the reach of deep thoughts or novel ideas. But lately I’ve been experiencing a nagging desire to have a breakout moment.
So, our family took a series of road trips this summer. Talk about malfeasance in grandparenthood! But it seemed like a good idea at the time. However being cocooned in an enclosed container traveling at 80 m.p.h. down a freeway with pre-pubescent adolescents for extended periods of time makes me wonder just why we don’t eat our young. It actually affects the lungs, like a suck of immense force and duration. But any grandparent who braves such an adventure and survives, learns a lot. It’s predatory knowledge. So learn from me…
Here is what I learned this summer:
- Facial coding is critical. I learned very quickly that when the grandchildren begin to look bored, it is only a matter of minutes before they are fighting like Philistines. Now, I’m not averse to the shedding of a little blood now and then, but not on the leather seats of my new car.
- Solutions to Sibling Carnage:
- Don’t hurl empty threats that have lain fallow since the last family trip, without the remotest possibility of exacting consequences. My personal and most impotent favorite: “I’m going to stop this car and leave you at the side of the road and you can just walk home!” However, as every grandparent knows, empty threats are the prized conduit of faux authority. And faux authority leads to anarchy and ultimate overthrows.
- Point out that the aforementioned culprits have all just bartered away their birthrights and any dream of an inheritance…grandpa’s dirty socks! (Note to self: Next time, try donning an African war mask while issuing this threat.)
- Appeal to the better angels of their nature by reminding them we are a “forever family” and then bleat vulgarisms at decibels greater than their tantrums. I have it on good authority that the cosmos completely absolves any grandparent who mutters harsh language on family excursions. (Note to self: verify the “good authority”)
- Blow vuvuzela horns until ones eyeballs are bulging, veined and cavernous, hoping the annoyance threshold sends them insane, and they are forced to seek silence in compliance.
(FYI - My new favorite word: “vuvuzela”)
- Speaking of facial coding, we have all learned from experience that when Elsie goes red, then white, then blue in rapid succession, she is not being patriotic, she’s nauseous. So we pull over, grab the emergency emesis bucket and pray the projectile actually hits the intended basin.
- I also learned a lot about music. It has been said that music calms the savage beast. I would suggest that it depends on the music. After extensive periods of time listening to the current hits, I am now very well acquainted with Pink, One Direction, Imagine Dragons, Katy Perry, Lady Antebellum and Kelly Clarkston. Don’t get me wrong, I like today’s artists. But a steady diet of “My life would suck without you,” can actually produce polyps. Really. I believe Hippocrates declared that fact as an immutable law of anatomy hundreds of years ago…he was also a grandfather at the time.
So, knowing that music can be therapeutic in treating mental illness, enhance mood and calm agitation, I suggested some old-fashioned rock ‘n roll, maybe even something mellow like Simon and Garfunkel or James Taylor, or Carol King, or how about The Beatles. The ensuing protests were louder than a Donald Trump rant.
The grandkids were making exaggerated gagging gestures in hunched bundles, and putting garlic around the windows of the car to ward off evil. They feared a protracted discussion of “the good old days,” and the accompanying stroll down memory lane. Then they’d text comatose emoji’s to the sibling or cousin sitting next to them and sarcastically remark that they were “diggin’ it” or “feelin’ groovy.” There seemed to be something going unsaid here.
I tried my own facial coding, but a smirk looks absurd coming from a grandpa who suffers from muscle memory loss and facial crevasses as deep as the Grand Canyon. I had the distinct impression they could look at my face and calculate the half-life of plutonium simply by counting the wrinkles and dividing by my belt size. They looked at me like I was primal man squinting at extinction. I’m sure they were expecting death rigors at any moment.
It was the classic clash of generations. I could barely refrain from shrieking…”Back in the day…” Job has nothing over on this grandpa.
Learning absolutely nothing from these long distant road trips, and in a state of moronic optimism, we took the gang to Cedar City for the annual Shakespeare Festival. Surprisingly, our biggest challenge was convincing the tribe that Shakespeare and I were not classmates at Skyline High School.
We had seats on the front row, and I lit candles, sang Gregorian chants and prayed that the grandkids wouldn’t belch the National Anthem with their hands cupped under their armpits while making simulated flatulent noises. Causing me to pull out the fuzzy puss Groucho Marx glasses. Astonishingly, they did not do anything that was socially unacceptable, or couldn’t be explained away by an undeveloped frontal cortex. It was all good.
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