My error ... again

If there’s one thing about myself that absolutely drives me up the wall, it is my proclivity for making the same stupid mistake over and over again. It’s not a wide selection of repeated mistakes, you understand. Oh no, gentle readers, nothing that complex. It’s just one.
Year after year, it’s the same bone-headed, self-destructive, dumb-stupid, brain-dead error. In any other area of endeavor, I seem capable of learning from my mistakes and not repeating them. In this one instance, however, I have to be so maddeningly predictable that my incurable idiocy would test the patience of a saint, which I most definitely am not.
What is this grevious fault, you ask? Do I fall victim to some deep-seated personality flaw that causes me to do evil things in the dead of night? Do I frequent dark alleys, seeking opportunities to waylay the innocent?
Well, no. It’s not all that sinister, really. And nobody gets hurt - at least not physically.
It’s just that, every year, I get attached to certain members of the graduating class at Hazen High School, and then get so disgustingly sentimental when they leave. My job requires that I spend a lot of my time around these young people, since the local schools are so important to the community, so there’s no escape.
The bunch who will receive their diplomas at the commencement exercises Friday night are just a little bit different than past classes have been. I haven’t had a kid in school since my youngest graduated in 1998, so there are no family ties involved. It’s just that I’ve been around these guys since they were in kindergarten. They were just beginning their public school education when I started working here.
I’ve seen their elementary school artwork, attended their class plays and other events, watched them sweat over tests and trials, all in a strictly professional capacity, mind you. I’ve been on the sidelines, watching, quietly rejoicing when they succeeded and silently sharing their heartbreak when the things they wanted so much and worked for so hard, failed to materialize.
I know that sounds a bit mushy for a nasty, old curmudgeon like me, but give me a break. Being a father and a grandfather, it’s hard to get out of the habit of caring about younger members of the species.
Now, from a practical stand point, the very last thing a newspaper man needs is to be weighed down with the baggage of emotional attachments, especially attachments to people for whom he has no personal responsibility, and over whom he has neither authority nor influence. That’s where the self-destructive part comes in. From a mental health point of view, it would be safer to spend my free time head-butting brick walls.
Still, I can’t seem to help myself. I suppose I should quit complaining and just go about the business of preparing myself for the next class that will come along and grow up before my eyes.
Before the Class of 2001 gets out of here, though, I just want to say, publicly, to some of them that their growth, victories, defeats, tribulations, joys, jubilations and sorrows have been a part of my life, too.
Guys, I’ll miss all of you. But Josh, Big Al, Jo-Jo and Brandi, you were my special ones, the ones who touched my rotten, old heart.
Thanks for everything.