It’s hard to believe, from my vantage point atop an accumulation of seventy-seven years, but it’s a fact, and I’ve got the documentation to validate the assertion.

I was issued a passport back in 1947 and encouraged to emigrate and try buying my own groceries.  Hugh broke my Blue Willow plate and my Garret Snuff glass the next day after my certification was shown to him.  As Charles, that Dickens, wrote, “It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.” or something like that.

With little ambition and far less ability I joined the Army and started knocking down big money right off the bat.  The perks were three meals a day and clothes without patches on the knee.  I also mastered the art of smoking, drinking and gambling.  I thought about chasing the gals once in a while, but with those vices to support I didn’t have the money for such idle pursuits.

Once I accumulated a stripe or two and honed my dice shooting and poker playing expertise I widened my horizons and began to admire the girl crop, but I was three years shy on years to commit matrimony.

In 1950 I was back in Comanche County and in the Inactive Reserve, and took up with a little gal over Dublin way and we entered into the dating game, but she was only fifteen to my twenty, so matrimony was at the bottom of both our lists of things to do.

Welsir, as fate would have it Harry Truman got all hot and bothered about the behavior of Korea, so he asked me to come back and give military service another shot.  They erased the “in” in inactive and I began desperate negations with that Dublin gal.  We tied the knot in October and her parents, and mine, agreed to the partnership.

As always, I’ve deserted all efforts to divulge the remarkable inspiration for this here column, but I’m working my way around to it.  You’ve about suffered enough, and you will be astonished at the revelation of a fact that will bring consternation and astonishment.

You may recall that I admitted my age of 77 years back at the start of this diatribe and that number is important in making a revelation.

It’s hard to believe, but there is yet a living, breathing school teacher who contributed credits toward my graduation at De Leon High School.  I believe that instructor to be the last surviving tutor of the graduating class of 1947!

I will not tell you his name, but you’ll probably need a clue to help in the investigation.  The clue is hereby respectfully submitted and here ’tis.

He will be leading the group in rendering the fight song of the De Leon Bearcats.  And, of course, Evelyn Locke will play the piano.  This act was inaugurated back around 1947, and has not missed a lick since that beginning.

That’s a fantastic string of encores.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is 333 W. Ayers, De Leon TX 76444.

You can e-mail me at chupp@charleschupp.com.