I still remember that May of 1969.
Thirty years have passed since that time.
Each year passes faster than the last -
Remember three years when your lot was cast.
Carefree days - at least for the most part;
Vietnam, draft, college, affairs of the heart.
All were pieces of a much larger world
That seemed far away as BSS caught the next curl.
And there we were under boughs of pine
Listening at lunch to music "So Fine."
Wondering how we would do English lit.
And how could we cover up that latest zit.
Remember the eighteen lines of Chaucer's Tale;
Mrs. Henson listened, never saw us pale.
"When that Aprile with the sure'as sot'ta
The drought of March had pierced to the ro'ta".
And so forth and so on ad nauseum.
Remember words spooned in like so much pablum.
Each year building on last year's classes,
Preparing us to leave and join the masses.
Remember French Elementary, grades five and six.
Two levels of learning, escaped without licks.
Can't talk much about the folks at Austin.
Bowie was my home for three - didn't we always win?
Amazing how time blurs this looking glass
Without yearbooks, don't remember scores past.
Does it really matter that some things blur
I think not - the best memories still stir.
Remembrances of Buffalo Belles and Big Bill
Bowie Buffs, seventh grade and how still
As the speaker came on in November of '63,
A President lay dead in the land of the free.
Eight, nine, ahh - finally came the big day
Grade ten - 3 more years and we'd be on our way.
Football games, drill teams, marching band,
Pep rallies, homecoming - remember how grand.
That was '67 - move ahead one year
Finally looked old enough to buy beer.
We were all encouraged to pick a path
For life and career - I was worried about math.
Time moved on - days passed too swift;
New smell on campus you could tell with a sniff.
Drugs were used by only a few
Or so we thought - no one really knew who.
That culture was brought home when we got a look
At the funny, profane and infamous '68 yearbook.
What imagination, remember - "I can't finger that out."
"Get that ball." "I hope, I hope" A hoot - no doubt.
Finally, for me at least, I started the "BIG" Year.
Nine months more and I'm out of here.
Just one more group in a line so long
Sixty years of groups - so many strong.
World War II, Korean War and Vietnam
Claimed class mates with bullet and bomb
Planes, trains and cars claimed some
Of all those that graduated, their diploma won.
Scattered we were in the years to come
Lost touch with most, kept in touch with some.
Reunions were great to see ya'll again
Until we saw the list, so many gone in a span of ten.
Gotta move on - you can't go back
Why not, we asked? You don't know jack!
Busy lives continue but we need this time
To reflect on friends and events - it's not a crime.
To each who's left I say "Remember French High"
Closed only in name but not in our mind's eye.
The porch out front, parking lot full of cars
When not together we are alone under the stars.
But we have a chance to remember those years
Smiles, laughs, frowns, even a few tears.
Look around, hold on as you reach for the sky
And remember the glory days we still call "French High."
Written by: Randy Rice - class of '69
Memories of a Buffalo Beau © 1999