December 1962. I'm a junior in high school, and during Christmas break a chum and I revisit the grade school we graduated from two and a half years earlier. Lo and behold, there we find, in our old classroom, our eighth grade teacher, in mufti, along with his wife and daughter. "With a little more effort and attentiveness, Paul can accomplish much more than he presently is," is what he'd written on my report card in 1960. Man, did he have me figured. Check out my then-de rigueur white-socks-with-black-loafers and semi-peg pants. I was bound and determined to at least not dress
like a dork. Self-timer Kodachrome with my new Retinette, its light leak as yet undiscovered and casting a fog on my friend.
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