That Little Voice Inside
by John Nye
I first want to clarify that I never volunteered to write an article for our reunion home page. Michele pressured me into this task with the threat of being a one man clean up committee after our get together in July. The fact that she asked me to do this is either a sad commentary on what the ravages of time do to ones memory or she sees this as a way to get even with me for some prank I pulled on her during our junior year.
To help validate my concern with her request, and to help my fading memory, I consulted the 1962 and 1963 Modules. Just as I expected, none of the pictures in the English section revealed my photo. The best chance of finding my photo would be in Study Hall, fighting with Oxley over the National Geographic with the pictures of naked natives. Another validation for my perspective came from my loyal and loving wife of 36 years (Rita Guthier, Class of ’64) was her spontaneous comment; “Yes, the first name that jumps to my lips when I think of original composition is John Nye”. Also, if any of my classmates jumped to that conclusion, they either have me confused with another John (our Salutatorian) or have been on the sauce for too many years. Now, I am not saying I was the worst English student, but I do recall Ms. Humbarger’s comment after reviewing one of my papers. “John, is this for our English class or should it be directed to your foreign language teacher?” Oh well, here goes my attempt.
“That little voice inside”
I remember asking Grandpa Nye when I was in grade school, “What do you think I should do when I get older?” He responded, “Don’t worry, a little voice inside will guide you.” Oh, how time validated his wisdom.
I have mixed memories of high school as I am sure most of you do. It seems that time of my life was full of contradictions and confusion. There was the transition from building model airplanes with Bill Priddy and Paul Rider to getting a “real” job stocking shelves and working at Bechsteins. I still laugh when I think of the customer who returned a pound of hamburger after finding Rita’s class ring within. I recall the fun of shooting hoops with Oxley and Hite over at Jim Bell’s house. Who could ever forget the fall changing of the colors on your cords (from Freshman to Senior) as you made the laps around the second floor? And then there was Crazy Kramer threatening to jump out of the window even though he was on the first story. There were also the trips to Bill’s Barn in Middlebury, Ohio for that god awful 3.2 beer. Of course, I can’t forget the countless hours spent at the Swing In with the boys on one side, girls on the other. Of course, how could anyone not remember the endless cruising up and down Jefferson? When it came to having a good time, the little voice inside me was very loud. Perhaps I shouldn’t have listened so often.\
The voice of reason was sometimes overridden by the voice of rebellion. I can only imagine the frustration of the teachers trying to impart knowledge when you have that part of your brain tuned out. Of course, there were subjects that you loved and those classes ended too quickly. There were decisions that seemed fun at the time that resulted in expulsions and having to face “Hawkshaw” with Mom to get reinstated. Thanks to a wonderful Mom who didn’t “squeal” to Dad, so I am still alive today to write this article.
After reviewing the demographics of our class members today, I surmise that we are a typical group. While some of us chose to stay in Huntington or in the tri-state area, others chose to go far beyond. A few of us gypsies like Rita and I were only happy moving around the country every few years. For us, home was wherever the company sent me.
Looking back, I am glad I did listen to that little voice. I have had more fun than is probably legal and while mellowed, never totally lost that rebellious side. When the Grandkids come down from Dallas to visit, I realize how truly lucky I am.
I hope all of you were lucky enough to hear your little voice and it brought you much success and happiness the last 40 years.
Copyright© 2003 John Nye
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