When Adelaide asked me to write a little something about missing you Plant high grads I had to admit I had thought about you all a few times during the last 54 years. There's a little empty space that forms when we venture away. Those of you who remained close to home have it filled at all times. That may be a little sentimentally expressed, but, hey, stay with me. If Adelaide wanted tough and to the point she would have asked one of the guys.

When I've gone to reunions it has been a real exercise for the memory. It's easy to recognize those with whom I keep in touch (The Internet now helps a bunch.): however, I feel remiss in not recalling all of you. At the fiftieth a sweet lady came up to me and told me how much she had enjoyed my singing at Wilson. I had a very short career that was over in ninth grade. I'll never forget singing at an assembly "Again,--- this couldn't happen again."

When I finished the audience called for an encore. I wasn't prepared for that! The backstage advisor suggested I repeat the same song. So I sang that very popular song of the time "Again---this couldn't happen again." Everyone laughed, and we had a good time with it. Thank you to the lady who reminded me of that. That kind of memory lapse wouldn't have happened if I had stayed at home.

In contrast our children were raised in Southern California where they have established the long time friendships. Our youngest son has his office here in the town where he grew up. He sees former classmates, (They must be at least 55) old coaches and teachers. Just the other day he was telling me latest news about Coaches "Hoss" and "Dog" Murphy. Another son who is a coach and teacher in high school was telling his class some tale about being a kid in Chatsworth. A student went home and told her father. The father had played little league baseball with him 37 years ago before we moved south. Her grandfather who had been president of the league, called John and reminisced. Our daughter lives 45 miles south of us. Her neighbor is the younger brother of a high school classmate.

Our oldest lives in New York of his own volition (strange person). Oddly enough he has run into friends and acquaintances from our little Villa Park on the streets of Manhattan. But everyone passes through N. Y. sooner or later. Even so, he is missing the random connections that his siblings can take for granted.

There is a depth of understanding in the memories from the past even if we are operating within our own misconceptions. It's a comfort zone. Those of you who live close to Plant know what I mean. These ordinary stories are common to you. They're special to me because they are very, very rare in my personal experience.

And will the lady with the incredible ear for talent please drop me a line?

Clarinel Wolfgang-Stamos