Last night I started watching the show “Freaks and Geeks”. While it wasn’t my decade (the show takes place in 1980) it did a damn good job of bringing back the awkward moments of high school and junior high with a hint of humor. It amazes me how much some things have changed and how little have others. Time offers testament as to our true personality, differentiating between action brought on by a place and action brought on by the core of self.

I’m definitely more willing to tear up (or try to) a dance floor with a partner but still find myself hesitant to ask for a hand on occasion. I’ve found more lasting friends and far better understand what loyalty means yet I still seek to stay on the good side of as many in my community as possible. And while I’m a far cry from the star of the show or one of the cool kids I am very happily set to be the man that I am. Maturity and age, over ten years out from those days… Funny how they don’t seem all that far back.

There’s a strong bout of nostalgia floating in my head, a feeling I can almost, but not quite, grasp that contains the better memories of that time. Moments of laughter, sitting with a crush in the catwalk of the theater after a rehearsal; of watching the sunrise from the rooftop of a farmhouse after a party; of the school - silent and empty save our sleep-deprived mayhem at three AM returning from a speech meet; of the bus rides and late-fall afternoons of cross country tournaments… A want to return to the choir room, late at night after a musical, to sit and tell stories and dig up old songs; for the walks home with giant mugs of horrible cappuccino and philosophical discussions under the bridge; for rain-walks; for abandoned-barn dreaming time with my first love; for late nights staring at the stars, laid out with friends on the hoods of our beat up cars; getting kicked out of conferences in Minneapolis; the awkward party moments that lead to truth; the hopeless crushes; blundering dates with my first girlfriend; the great unknown innocence we tested daily; the run of the art department; the feeling of invulnerability paired with abject fear. I never did find complete confidence, never did get rid of the wariness of my peers and the cool kids, but I had a damn good time regardless, learned some lessons, walked with my head high, look back with laughter, and would gladly relive it in a moment.

Basking in memories of the easy days of high school, I decided to tear into some more history - digging into a pile of letters I’ve been intending to respond to. Forgotten to me was the depth of history in the box full of letters - not just correspondence but job applications, notes of past-future dreams, small gifts from good friends, a few pictures, and forgotten memories from the last five years of adventure. So much too, of that adventure…

Old letters are a drink, heavy-laden, prone to remembrance, nostalgia, and the good intentions of unwritten missives. I need not drink any red wine to feel that warm buzz-mix of love, regret, and hope. I only need open a box full of rag tag paper and penned scribbles.

The box (a Chaco sandal box - for my like minded friends) holds the story of the major loves of my life - a touch of each, missed in the packaging up of memories at the end of a relationship. It holds the ebb and flow of friendships, the birth, near-death, and healing of several over time. My family, extended and close, is carried as well, a strong note of the letters I’ve yet to write to my grandparents, my parents, my brother, and my sister.

It’s the same feeling (or very similar) to the nostalgia for high school - wonderment at the life I’ve led thus far, at the bizarre, the amazing, and the painful. The urge to not let it go, the understanding that it has passed, and the shit-eating grin for the sheer, maddening joy of it all.