North of Boston
THEY ain't much happened sence the last riting. Long last June my daughter phones from the University of New Hampshire where she is a junior being exposed to an educashun and asts will I pick her up when she gets out of her last final around five.
I drive to her sorority house and blat the horn. She leads me in and sets me down in the living room whilst she packs.
Two young females in shorts and sweaters are curled up ou a divan writing letters. Another in dungarees and sweat shirt is stretched out on her stummick going over her notes for tomorrow's final. I beat my gums with the House Mother while daughter lugs down all the gear that a female accumulates during a college year and loads same.
She says good-by awl around. We exit. Out front three or four cars are being loaded. A tanned Diana in short shorts and white sports halter top is setting on her bike and kidding with a character that looks football. The sun slants through the elms and the chimes cut loose.
Just before I press the commencer I say to her "Take a good look all around and file it in your memory. Right now you're glad that the school year is over. Yet already you've got a little warm glow of anticipation for next year and the gang coming back as seniors. But a year from now you'll be busting up for good. Them chimes will be playing the same tune that is, the same for folks that dont understand—but for you they'll be. playing a blues in a minor key and the refrain will be 'Time to go time to go time to go' and it'll rip you all apart. For you there can never be another bunch like your own class just as for me there can never be a bunch like my own."
She didn't answer for a long minute and then nodded "I know just what you mean thanks."
We drove home in the long light that lay on the green fields and filtered through the tall pines. Stopped for sandwiches and coffee and plugged our nickles into the juke box — she picking her new tunes and me my old ones. I do wisht one or two of you fellers could of ben along. You might of liked it.
