Jerry Smith

West Maple

Franklin

What can I say about life after Groves? Is it better? Hardly.

High school, while seemingly fraught with strife and angst at the time, was a veritable walk in the smoke-filled park compared to this insanity we call "grown up world" (At least that's what we call it in my sessions).

Let's face it - things were a hell of a lot easier back in 79. Forget being a parent or trying to scratch and claw your way up the ladder of success or evading your taxes. Even a high school kid today has it hard.

"Who should I get to ghost write my college entry essays?", "How can I effectively cyber-bully that stuck up bitch that turned me down for the homecoming dance without getting busted"?, What photoshopped version of this semi-naked picture I took of myself for my boyfriend should I secretly give him so he can put it on my Facebook page?"

It must be overwhelming. For us it was, "what hotel should we stay at for prom?", or "can we safely go back into the Big Boy considering we've dined and dashed the last three times we were there?" or "How many reams of paper should we waste printing invitations on my dad's copy machine (and handing them out with impunity to anyone who wants one) for the monumentally illegal party we'll be throwing while he and my mom are out of town for the weekend? The one featuring actual bartenders, pre-mixed drinks, a serving tray full of freshly rolled treats courtesy of the late Dave Crawfis, house-funded gambling and the use of private rooms for the unprotected hook ups that will invariably take place against someone's better judgment"? "Do I really want to be in Tweeter's "Beep" when it finally tips over on the way out of the parking lot"?

Yeah, things are different alright. And while life is no Friday night party at Lynn Lebarabara's house where pretty much anything goes and we can all feel free to wantonly destroy the place and let Lynn deal with it on Saturday morning, there is much to wake up and be thankful for, not the least of which is waking up, period. I'm really not here to whine and complain. After all, I have two incredible kids, a career I'm reasonably proud of and a totally cool blue scooter that gets 100 miles to the gallon.

But there's more than that. Much more. Because each day, after I get up, I can face myself in the mirror, remember I can't see anything, including the mirror until I put my glasses on, pop down four Advil and 7 other pills that I have to take every day so I don't die, take a deep sigh and say to myself, "thank god I still have all my hair".

Granted I'll never know what it was like to start adulthood as one of the Geico Caveman like David Newman, who I'm sure felt like a Bigshot because he could buy beer for us at the Cracker Barrel in 7th grade without being carded, and because he managed to convince girls like Gale Hirs, Sherry Dryer and Nancy Forbes that he and Robert Segal were somehow more "mature" because they they shaved twice a day and knew every Clapton song. And sure, its not pleasant being compared to Rod Blagojovich and Bobby Sherman by jealous, petty people who are probably just pissed off because their insurance doesn't cover implants.

But seriously, have you looked at the profile pics some of them have been foolish enough to post? I haven't seen that much skin on the heads of these guys since Noel took us to the Zoo Lounge on 8 Mile on mud wrestling night (before the guy started firing the shotgun into the ceiling).

It's sad, in a way. At least I'm assuming it is, since I have no way of knowing for sure. But when I look in that mirror, especially if its before I go to bed and the Ambien is starting to kick in, its not all that hard to picture myself in 1979, a scared, slight 18 year-old, wondering what kind of man I'll be in thirty years, whether I'll even live till I'm 48 (and beat the over/under), or, more urgently, how Margret Porter will respond if I try to make out with her when Carolyn isn't looking at Gale's party tonight (i was a pretty deep thinker back then, but you have to stay grounded).

And I realize in those moments that for many of my peers and fellow alums, several of whom reside in Chicago and, sadly, are among my closest friends to this day, there simply isn't enough wine or Ambien to convincingly lead them to believe they are looking at anything remotely resembling the fully fro'd or otherwise finely-coiffed, lightly feathered and blown dry stud they fancied themselves to be 30 years ago.

Thank god, even as we fast approach our sixth decade, I can only imagine the horror.

(Wow! I wrote that 5 years ago and stand by every word!)

In the spring of '78, about 300 Grovites stayed for a week at a crappy little motel a block off the strip in Fort Lauderdale. I think there were 60 or 70 guys in my room alone. Much of what happened when we were there is unmentionable, partly because none of us can remember, and partly because the statute of limitations on certain crimes has not yet run out.

One night/morning at about 5:30, Jeff Goudie, Brad Watson and I were playing catch with a frisbee on the very wide road that fronted the Motel.

Traffic was non existent. Most people were passed out in their rooms or, in some cases, on lounge chairs near the pool (including Candy Stone - see above), and it was actually very quiet and peaceful. There was as security guard who spent at least some of his day monitoring us during the early evening, but even he was done for the day.

At some point one of us noticed an approaching car several blocks away, in the direction of the Swimmer Hall of Fame, where I suspected back then there would someday be a statue of Scott Tyler in the lobby. The car was moving pretty slowly, so we stopped and waited, and watched. As we all stood there waiting to resume play, the car appeared to veer slightly as it got nearer.

Any doubt that we were imagining either the veering of the car or the car itself were soon laid to rest when the car eventually veered far enough that it collided with a row of (perpendicularly) parked cars. Like dominoes the cars crashed into each other until no less than 4 of them were damaged or destroyed outright - five including the one that started the process - and then it was "eerily" silent. We looked at each other, too tired to do much in the way of physically reacting, but awake enough to meander toward the car and check out the driver. It was a guy, probably in his twenties, and it appeared as if he might have been under the influence of something or somethings. (I'd go with ludes).

Realizing this, and, yes, noting that, despite a gash on the forehead and a banged up leg, he was surprisingly intact despite the rude awakening, we did what any kid of decent upbringing would do - we told him the cops would be there soon and that if he was carrying anything that might get him in trouble he should probably give it to us for safekeeping. He was already in trouble of some kind, I think we all agreed on that, so why add insult to injury? We were there to help him, and in that regard, he was lucky, we told him.

If memory serves he debated the merits of our offer until we actually heard sirens, and then he came around, feverishly emptying his pockets and rifling through the glove box for contraband, very successfully as it turned out.

Not more than 20 minutes later the poor fella was in the back of a cop car headed to the station (or the hospital), and the smashed cars were left for someone else to clean up (and for the owners to discover) in the hours to come . Still not ready for bed, we played catch a little while longer and enjoyed the sunrise.

The name of that motel was the Birch Patio. A few months ago I was in FL and drove by to see if I recognized anything on the street. And there it was, the same sign that greeted us 35 years ago, illuminating the same spot where we played catch. I took some pictures until an old security guard came out to see what I was up to. I explained, and he told me he had been working there since the late seventies, when he was in his 30's. He said the years all sort of blended together in his memory and I tried to imagine 35 years of that week being played over and over.

I still love playing frisbee, and have a collection of about 20 of them, mostly from different places I've been over the years. The oldest is the one we played with that day. In the proceeding days a car ran over it on the street, and cracked it. We tried to "weld" it back together with a lighter, but somehow failed, so the three of us signed it in magic marker and officially retired it.

Only now, all these years later did it occur to me - we may have forgotten to give that poor guy back his valuables. Hopefully Brad still has them.