On our way to our mother’s house for thanksgiving, my brother completely surprised me by stopping off the highway and driving us to the only school we ever attended together.

There is was, almost exactly the way we’d left it in 1974. The only notable changes were the new principle’s name and photograph, displayed outside her office, and the multi-purpose room was renamed the multi-use room.

We were amazed at how much we remember about our time together at this school.

Mr. Wiener, the principle at that time, was outed against his wishes and fired for having a love affair with the 6th grade science teacher.

We both had Mrs. Wright for 4th grade.

I stood in the spot on the playground where I first played Boys catch the Girls and remembered the warm smell of mustard grass. I remember my heart-wrenching love for Karen Monsen coming to a premature, and abrupt end in the very spot where I stood.

I grabbed her, and whirled her around. She stared into my eyes. I smiled and began to move in to kiss her. That’s what you were supposed to do when you caught the girl.

“Eeeew!” she said in her romantically squeaky voice.

I was crushed. My friend Mario, the French boy with the shaved head in the era of children with hair past their shoulders, and a sweater which smelled of pee, said “Forget her. There will be others.” And rubbed my shoulder softly.

I didn’t think there would be, but we went off to play kick ball anyway.