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Since March, since China, my trips have taken me into the past, no Delorean required. A couple of weeks ago, I revisited the Adirondacks I knew when I was 7, accompanied by the best music, the best adventures, the best family dog.
Then last week, I mentioned high school. I touched lightly, like a ballerina landing a huge jump so quietly because she has the light bones of a great hawk. I didn’t go into any serious detail, because most of my readers have been to high school and already know how the details add up.
I wish all of us could have gone to the Adirondacks instead.
“But I liked high school!” some of my readers might say. “I met the love of my life there and won a lot of trophies.”
Well, I didn’t. I could never have been one of those incredibly lucky people, even if I had grown up here in Los Alamos, which arguably has a much better high school than the one I attended, which didn’t even have an orchestra, and at that age I still really liked my violin, my useless violin that nobody ever wanted me to march around playing at a football game.
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