So, the big pink pile of stucco is just a stone's throw from the local high school. We like this, on accounta the fireworks. Pretty lights... Big booms... Sparkles...
Next year will be the finale; the baby of the family will graduate, and we will be leaving Tumbleweed Junction.
Ordinarily, graduation day would not rock my world, but I had a sharp shock this week. While looking up something else entirely, I uncovered some sobering information. One of my former high school gradmates has gone and become an astronaut. This is a boy who was in most of my classes, but we were never buds or anything like that. Still, it disturbs me.
An astronaut. My childhood dream job. I am a former sixties child. We dreamed of being astronauts. We knew what sonic booms were. We watched the moon landing on our black and white television sets. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, LIFTOFF!
I am very glad that I never went to any of my high school reunions. I can just imagine it. Everyone there would be either a CEO of some corporation, the owner of their own hugely successful business, a famed neurosurgeon, or an astronaut.
And then there would be me. The housewife. Oh kill me now.
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