Nothing like a warm summer evening to revive memories.
Teenage years. Not the best years of one's life, I must say. (Who started that rumour? Someone with a wicked sense of humour, I'll bet.)
Still. Good years. If I had to do them over again - well, I'd rather do them now, when I have a far better sense of who I am, and far less anxiety about looking stupid.
And a warm summer evening now brings back memories of those years.
Footlong hotdogs, fries, and some awful-tasting drink called a "Golden Glow".
Plastic tables under outdoor fluorescent lights, soft ice cream cones, listening to the tape cranked in the nearby pick-up truck.
Lots and lots of laughter. Cool breezes.
Friendships you never, ever forget, even if you don't know where the friends are anymore.
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Weird, isn't it, that Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson both died today? Farrah wasn't much on my radar as a teenager, but Michael was. I wasn't personally a huge fan, but you couldn't not know who he was. One friend with the single glove, who was totally in love with him - makes me laugh. I wonder where she is now, presumably hearing this news at the same time I am?
