Corny? Yeah, but you never forget it

Some things don’t change.

My baby girl graduates Tuesday, which makes me one of those veteran parents who’ll look at the little kids at family gatherings and say, "It all goes so fast." My parents have said it, now it’s my turn. Trite but true.

If you think high-schoolers have changed much in the 29 years since I graduated, here’s a test: Guess which salutations are from my daughter’s yearbooks, and which come from her father’s or mine. (Answers are at the bottom of the column.)

1. "I am glad we got to be friends this year! U. R. so sweet &amp I (heart-shaped drawing) ya!"

2. "You’re so sweet, cute, etc. that if you change I will hit you."

3. "Since you told me to keep it clean I guess I’ll have to lie."

4."Aren’t you glad driver’s ed is over?"

5. "I’ve got news for you, Linda Williams thinks you’re great."

6. "We’ll always have Spanish class."

7. "How is your mouth with those rubber bands and metal braces? After all that, you should be beautiful."

8. "See you next year. And drive on the streets, not the sidewalks."

9. "I hope you have a fabulous summer. Have your people call my people, and we’ll do lunch!"

10. "Well, we didn’t get the band together, but what the hell?"

Not much difference, is there? Through the ages, yearbook squibs have stayed goofy-sweet, not unlike the almost-adults who write them.

But some things have changed since my class of 1972 marched to "Pomp and Circumstance." Parents now need a week off to juggle the activities swirling around graduation. And today you need cash, and plenty of it, for school-sponsored grad-night parties, once-in-a-lifetime dresses, keepsake pictures, etc., etc., etc.

Too soon, it will all be over.

The other night, after her baccalaureate service, my daughter’s dusty old car was parked in front of the house. I sat on the porch in the twilight looking at the little Ford Tempo I drove for 10 years before my girl started driving. It used to be navy blue, but the paint is in distress. It has dents not worth fixing.

Inside the car, which is cluttered with cassette tapes, empty water bottles and the granola-bar wrappers of many a school morning, was hanging her white graduation gown.

It sounds corny — it is corny — but the sight of the battered car she’ll leave behind when she goes to college and the spotless gown inside it crystallized everything I’d been thinking for days.

It’s all there for her, a blank canvas on which she can create any future. I graduated on a Sunday afternoon without much fuss. Know what? We should make a fuss. Crossing that stage Tuesday, my graduate will cross a threshold. Even when she’s home, my baby girl will be gone.

Still, I’ll know my daughter for all my life. I can’t say the same of all her friends. The cabal of buddies will scatter to the four winds. The best friend, the one I call the beautiful Maria, will be at Boston College, far from my California-bound daughter.

Heaven knows when I’ll get to see Maria again, or Grace, her witty and wonderful red-haired mother. From the day we met, we clicked, Grace and I.

At a gathering at school Thursday night, Maria threw her long arm around my shoulder and said, "You and my mom will have to have lunch," and Grace quipped, "We can talk about you girls after you’re gone."

I’d love to have that lunch, but I can’t bank on it. Some friendships don’t weather time and distance.

So there is cause to get weepy, even as we dress up and wrap gifts and sip punch and nibble little squares of cake decorated for the class of 2001.

Somebody the other day — not just anybody, it was Herald columnist Kristi O’Harran, who has survived this graduation drill several times — asked me, "Aren’t you sad?"

I thought about it. Am I sad? A little, more than a little if I’m honest.

Really, though, I’m green. Envy, you know. I’m jealous.

I get my beat-up car back. My daughter gets the wide-open future. Who, at midlife, doesn’t wish to do it all again?

1. My graduate’s yearbook, 1999

2. Mine, 1969

3. Her dad’s, 1970

4. Mine, 1969

5. Her dad’s, 1969

6. My graduate’s, 1998

7. Mine, 1969

8. Her dad’s, 1970

9. My graduate’s, 1998

10. Her dad’s, 1971

Contact Julie Muhlstein via e-mail at muhlsteinjulie@heraldnet.com, write to her at The Herald, P.O. Box 930, Everett, WA 98206, or call 425-339-3460.