The Yearbook
A few of the faces, staring up at me, are old
friends. I have known them since childhood. Others I
met in grammar school or church or on various athletic
fields in the tight-knit, Irish-Catholic community that is
South Buffalo, New York.
Their faces are unlined and smiling. The vigor
and promise of youth looks up at me engagingly. Each
picture, in the well ordered photo gallery that is my South
Park High School yearbook, is a small window that looks
out upon a universe all its own.
When I look through the tiny window of the
photographs, I see an entire galaxy of memories and life
experiences. Each of these young people is now a mother,
a father, a brother, sister, aunt, uncle, work-mate or one
of a hundred other roles laid out for us on the stage of
life. The world was our oyster then and we thought that we
were invincible.
Through some of the windows, I recognize the
faces and the scenery. I have walked those streets with
these people and shared their families and lives over the
span of thirty years. It is that long since last we sat as
students in the venerable educational institution, on South
Side Parkway, that we know as South Park High School.
But, it is the others that most intrigue me. Who
is that well featured young face and why didn't I take the
time to get to know him or her in school. True, there were
almost 6oo of us in the graduating class. But, that is no
excuse. I wish I had taken the time to get to know them
all. How much richer my life would have been. Each of
them has thoughts and talents and ideas that I think I
would now find fascinating. Not knowing each of them is
my loss.
Through a few of the windows, I see the high
canopy of a steaming jungle. Fine young men, like Tim
Nightingale and Bobby Smith, never came back from the
far battlefields of Southeast Asia. Their loss, and the joy
that they might have contributed to all of us, momentarily
saddens me. But then, I imagine an infectious grin on
these photos and I remember the warmth and humor that
once blossomed there. They, and the others that have
fallen along the way, will always be with us, permanently
captured in the full vigor of their youth.
The kaleidoscope of memories spins faster now
as a whirlwind of classrooms, teachers, pep rallies and
athletics events swirl by in a fine mist of "the red and the
black." "Dear Old South Park", I muse. Scrooge only saw
three ghosts, I see hundreds. God, were we ever that
young and carefree? It seems like so long ago and far from
now.
Many of the names have changed as the girls
married and raised families of their own. Others have
wandered to the far flung corners of the earth. I hear of
them every now and then, as some precious tidbit of
remembrance is passed along by a former class mate, in a
chance meeting in a parking lot or store. "Do you
remember Billy, or Suzie or Jean?" will be the entree to
some story that will summon back for us, momentarily,
those wonderful days of long ago.
When ever I hear of some achievement or award
by one of ours, I feel proud of their success. The sight of
a name or face in the news or on television, brings me
warm thoughts of how nice that person was and how well
deserved is their success. These kids all came from blue
collar, working-class families and had to climb their way
up the ladder one rung at a time. They deserve their hard
won successes. I hope that they are happy, with their
families and friends, in their chosen lives.
I wonder too if they look often through the same
windows that I do. Do they see my young face looking up
at them? I wonder what impressions I created on them so
long ago? I hope they were favorable. Sometimes we can
be insensitive and hurt people without even trying.
Time, I think, is a wonderful rose-colored filter.
I have only good memories of these young faces. The
laughter, the excitement, the expectation, I can see it even
now in this fading gallery of youthful photos. I am glad
that I held onto this yearbook. It is a link for me of many
memories that I never would have summoned forth
unaided, by the picture windows of my youth.
Joseph Xavier Martin
