Listen to the music

Dolores came down from the attic with a handful of albums from a collection of hundreds and the suggestion that we should get rid of them.

Dylan. Van Morrison. The Allman Brothers. The Stones and The Dead.

I couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning Linda Ronstadt and Emmy Lou.

I do not have a record player. I will not play them again. They are probably warped and certainly scratched, worthless to anybody including me.

Still, they remind you of a song that takes you back to seventh grade, when things were just getting frustrating but were simpler. The phone was in the kitchen so you spoke with Guy Colvin, Charlie Dick and Dan Statz in code about your next act of civil disobedience: to publish what we considered satire about St. Mary’s School on my brother Jim’s mimeograph machine. We got called in to Msgr. Sweeney’s office and were told a red letter would be placed in our files that would stick with us wherever we went.

Branded. Marked with shame.

What the hell. Might as well be rebels without a cause. Richard Nixon was found to be tricky during the Watergate hearings of 1974. Who can you believe when Gen. Westmoreland lies on CBS News? We evacuated from the roof of the Saigon embassy in 1975. Boys born in 1957 did not have to register for the military draft.

The songs were about freedom. Free to be. Free love. Richie Havens at Woodstock improvised and just chanted the word to make a name for himself. Free bird. Let your freak flag fly. Even Bread had a song called Freedom. We packed the Cobb for Freedom Rock Band, FRB.

We were freed from school to seek it out on our own, that being the American Way that we were steeped in, and to put to good use that good Catholic education.

We acquitted ourselves fairly well.

Charlie Dick became a teacher and labor leader in Minnesota named Charlie Maternus.

Guy Colvin became an accomplished welder, hunter and fisherman with tales to tell from his Varina double-lot estate.

Dan Statz left us too young after blazing an astonishing trail of daring-do with a wild blonde mane flowing from his Yankees cap.

Marty Case wrote a book about how White men screwed Native people through treaties. It was short. I read it. Amazing work. I wrote a book, too, about Storm Lake the same year. Not bad, two published authors from a class of 44.

Carolyn Veehoff turned into a damn good lawyer in the Twin Cities. She and Marty regularly meet in bars. Margaret Scott was a witty librarian. Rick Robel coached boys from tough backgrounds in Minneapolis. Cathy Toohey owns a Burger King, so top that! John McDermott could sell ice cubes to Eskimos. Ron Sippel worked the trading pits in Chicago. Patty Witham calls and teaches square dancing. Randy Summers looks good in a Roman collar. Ann Landgraf nursed people to good health and good cheer, and she left us too soon.

None of us did serious time. A day or two in jail, maybe, but who can remember all that? We meant nothing by it. Simply the Schmidt beer talking.

We done okay.

We stayed in touch, and tried to stay true, with each other. We had a good class. At least we must have some redeeming qualities. Our former teacher and priest Mike Scott of San Diego, Cal., showed up to be with us. We are flattered because we may have appeared obnoxious 50 years ago. We wear a more distinguished look today.

So much has changed. I came back to Storm Lake in 1990 following hitches at newspapers in Algona, Ames and Mason City. It was in the midst of a transformation from mainly White to majority immigrant. Wages are relatively lower. The Pastime Tap now is a Mexican restaurant. St. Mary’s High School graduates a dozen students. The Sisters of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary are retired to the motherhouse in Dubuque — they were amazing teachers, for the most part, judging by the results present in this room.

A kid can still ride his bike from here to Truesdale without a care in the world. It also is more likely that the kid will not be able to stay, and will shove off in due course. You hope they take some of the best of Storm Lake with them — a place that welcomes strangers and doesn’t care that much about what is properly and solely your business. “I said, hey, you, get offa my cloud!”

You can hear a place in your mind’s ear that can keep you square with things. It evokes the time we spent together trying to figure it all out. I should get rid of those stupid old vinyls. One of these days.