November 28, 2021
This weekend I went out with a few guys I grew up with. Guys I’ve known since kindergarten. We were back in our town for the Thanksgiving holidays, so the local bar, which is owned by an old friend, was on the menu.
I had only seen these guys a handful of times over the past decade or so. But, minus some new grey hairs and changing physiques, every time we’re together, it’s like no time has passed. We catch up on current jobs, families, and bad habits. And inevitably at some point, it’s storytime.
These are stories from way back in the day. Small town stories built on the big imaginations of teenage kids. These are the kinds of stories you don’t want your mom to find out about. Stories I might not remember if it weren’t for a few beers at the local bar. These stories remind me of a younger version of me. They remind me of where I came from. The kinds of stories you wouldn’t trade in for the world.
We’ve all come a long way in the 20-30 years since many of these were written. And we’ve all written new chapters on our own. But those old stories still rest in our core. And when they got retold in that bar, those younger versions of ourselves were there too.
If you haven’t done it for a while, call up an old friend or two, pour a couple drinks, and remember where you came from. You’ll be happy you did.
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