For my eighth-grade graduation at what was then a brand new Immaculate Conception church, the venerable Msgr. Edwin Bradley delivered the address.
    Thirty of us, standing, sitting and kneeling stiffly, listened as the archbishop’s No. 2 representative regaled us with the notion of leaving the past behind and reminded us that “commencement” is not the end, but the beginning.
This is war . . . or at least it’s competition.
Wednesday’s Optic contained a resolution/confession/regimen involving managing editor Dave Kavanaugh, who described the ordeal of trying to whip his body into shape overnight.
    An Optic photo which sticks in my mind after several decades concerns a group of Highlands University football players who had taken a walk to Whorton’s Food Market in order to get weighed.
    It was in the fifties, around the time the Cowboys began taking football seriously and recruiting across state lines was becoming the norm for intercollegiate athletics.
    “The first shall be last and the last shall be first.”
    One wonders whether that Biblical promise came about as consolation for those of us whose last names occur late in the alphabet.
    Late last year, an event occurred which we wouldn’t wish on anyone. It was a minor car accident. Our car has long since been repaired. We don’t know the status of the other car.
    A young mother watched as her daughter played with a dozen elementary-age girls in a park next to her house.
    Deciding it was time for her daughter to come in for the evening, she hollered, “ASHLEY!” Immediately five girls appeared at her porch. “No, I was calling Ashley Kaitlyn,” the young mother explained to the group. Hearing that, two of the girls left.
    It’s the start of a (school) year. Picking up my grandson and namesake from school today reminded me of the newness of the season. Therefore, it’s time for an end-of the-month clearance.
    Three students turned in their homework, but only two of them signed their work, so the anonymous contributor misses out on the extra credit.
    A couple of weeks ago, readers were challenged to work out a solution to the following situation:
    Where did the sunshine go? We’d ask that question after being escorted out of the Serf theater following visual and aural intoxication brought on by sitting through three runnings of the same film.
    Martha Johnsen, long-time radio personality, once mentioned that every time she enters the San Miguel County Courthouse, a flood of memories returns. She noted that the building has a certain odor, and, as I recall, she speculated as to whether the smell came from floor wax, disinfectant, paint or other source.