A note to a few high school friends

(You know who you are) 

We went to school in Trumbull… twenty minutes from Newtown, Connecticut, during a more innocent time (although our parents might raise an eyebrow at that statement).

Fights were rare, and when they happened, they were fought with words, and sometimes fists.  If any of us had touched a gun it was likely a BB gun or a .22 rifle for 'plinking' cans and bottles in the woods.

We used to drive up to Newtown in the summertime to swim, camp and occasionally water ski at Lake Lillinonah.  We'd sometimes stop on the way up at a little shack called 'Ray's Liquor Locker' to get a cold sixpack or two… or we'd go to a quiet little towny bar near the town hall there where they didn't 'card' high school kids who wanted to share a pitcher of beer on a hot evening… so long as we minded our manners.

Now, my friends, we're all over 50, and have mostly forgotten about those summer trips up to Newtown.

At least until this past Friday, that is.

When I think back on Newtown of the late '70s, I think of quiet; of old trees and older houses… and a flagpole planted right in the middle of Main Street, letting all who visited know that patriotism is central to the town's self-identity.

Nearly every time I take my family back to the US for a visit, I make time to take a quiet ride by myself up to Newtown.  I tell my wife (and myself) that it's to browse the consignment and antique shops (which, in part it is). 

But I also like to drive alone through the leafy town and surrounding countryside because it is a rare chance to revisit an unspoiled setting of my youth that hasn't been paved over or developed into sprawling malls. 

And it is a reminder of what small town New England is… or was.

It's funny, you know.  We thought we understood everything back then; and that the grown-ups understood nothing.

It turns out we were right. 

Because I'm a grown-up now… and I don't understand anything.