I vividly remember the summer of 1968. All hell was breaking loose all over the world. Meanwhile, I was comfortably ensconced in a teenage cocoon. A hormonal bubble. Sixteen and raging. In the spring of my sophomore year of high school, we had moved one contiguous suburb of Milwaukee west—from New Berlin to Waukesha—and I was scheming to hang onto my girlfriend from New Berlin West High School. I finished up the school year at New Berlin, but would enter Waukesha South as a junior in the fall.
Marci and I thought we could maintain our relationship long distance, and made a point of trying to hook up over the summer, to prove to our parents and friends but mostly ourselves that, yes, it could work, damn it. Yeah, right. Not so much. It didn't help that she was leaving for six weeks to work as a camp counselor at Pelican Lake, which was, as we say in Wisconsin, "up north." Couple hundred miles. Three and a half long hours.
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