The year was 1982. We danced to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” album and watched “E.T.” on the silver screen. John Belushi died and Prince William was born. We exercised to Jane Fonda video tapes and never missed watching “Dynasty” on TV. Gas cost 91 cents a gallon and a stamp two dimes. We were spooked by the Tylenol scare and held our breath as the recession began.
It was a year of promise and pain, of sweetness and sorrow.
But it was OUR year.
We were the Class of 1982, and we were ready to take on the world.
Ray (Yearbook post)
To a nice girl I got to know better in the last year. Good luck at all future attempts.
Ray didn’t have many friends. He was a little backward. When you spoke to him face to face, he would never look you in the eyes. He always looked at the floor. That absolutely drove me insane. I hate when people don’t look at me when I talk to them. But I understood that Ray was a little different so I tried to cut him some slack.
Ray was a gifted artist. I sat beside him in history class and he spent the entire period drawing. Mostly, he drew comic strips but he also sketched stuff he saw in class – like the wilting geranium in the clay pot sitting on the windowsill.
I tried to peek once to get a better view, but he covered his work with his arm. He didn’t like sharing his drawings. Probably didn’t want people to make fun of his work. That’s why he was mortified one day when The Palmer-nator (aka Mrs. Palmer) caught him drawing in class.
The Palmer-nator walked back to Ray’s desk before he had a chance to stash his work. She grabbed it and held it up for everyone to see. It was a sketch of her. Ray slid as far down in his seat as he could. It was the last time he drew in history class. I always thought that Ray drew because it was his way of expressing himself. I wonder if he still draws.
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