There are times — as there have been so often — in the course of so many, many years, when I can still see them, even through the murky mists of memory.

And I can remember when it all started. It was, I’m fairly sure, during late fall or early winter, 1960-61, that I had pedaled my bike way into and across town — Regensburg, Germany — from my post at Fort Skelly to the German military Kaserne (I can’t now recall its name) where the gymnasium was located that was shared by both German and American soldiers.

During good weather months, I enjoyed running on the track, and during basketball seasons, when all the units on our post played their basketball games, I went there regularly.

One late afternoon a sergeant was helping out, sort of, with one of the AYA (American Youth Activities) teams. There were a lot of American kids who lived on post with their families back then, and competitive games with youngsters from other American military posts were provided.

It seemed to me, that afternoon, that the good sergeant really didn’t know much about basketball, or coaching. He was not averse to me helping out. And that was the last time I saw him at the gym. Somehow or other word got to some “higher ups” (Do you think having two sons of the battalion commander, and a son of the battalion adjutant, had anything to do with my becoming involved with the AYA program? Do you think?) and I was asked to coach not one, but both age-group teams.

Thus began my connection with the AYA. I also coached the little league baseball team two years, and opened and was on-site supervisor of the AYA Center, on the post, where the older kids liked to gather on Friday and Saturday nights.

My afternoons and weekend evenings were exempt from duty — well, duties that didn’t absolutely require my presence — and I loved it. That was the beginning, the epiphany, not to be overly dramatic, that pointed me in the vocational direction of becoming one who worked with youth.

And those are many of the memories that visit me yet to this day. I can’t remember most of their names, but I can “see” them.

Add to that the hundreds upon hundreds of young people I’ve taught, and coached, over so many years since those AYA days in Germany, and I know how truly blessed I have been.

I remember. And I sometimes wonder if those kids, from so long ago, remember the auburn haired young man who shared those good days with them.

I will always “see” them as they were then — those in Germany, in Pantego, in Washington, in Manteo — young, vibrant, full of vigor and vitality. Full of life.

I remember.

APROPOS — “A man’s real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.”

— Alexander Smith (1863)