Diary of a 20-Something

Weekly column by M.M. Cochran

Dawn of the unknown

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When I was at the beach a few weekends ago, I saw college graduates walking around in their caps and gowns, followed by a photographer to capture their happiness of finally being finished.

In Greer, I see teens getting their cap and gown pictures done, and I see pictures on Facebook and Instagram and all over the place.

Masters of the air

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If you know me personally, then you know I’m obsessed with airplanes––specifically, WWII aircraft. And more specifically, the WWII B-17 Flying Fortress––a machine that the Japanese deemed the “four-engine fighter” for its stealth above war skies. Scraped and bruised as the aircraft became during battles, the B-17 frequently returned home.

All but a breath

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First things first: I live in a farmhouse on some acreage surrounded by even more acreage, so there are fields and fields around me, and then mountains behind those.

The scenic lane home

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Last week, I was in the car with my mom driving along the highway and came to a bus that was stopped at our old street.

I grew up on a quaint road in Landrum, and I know every bump in that road, every tree that shades it, and the names of all my neighbors I passed on the way to my childhood home.

If I could go back to those moments

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I spent most of my teenage life involved in my youth group. The group was close-knit, and in the end, we were all friends, no matter the arguments we had, the fights that were broken up, the couples who got together and broke up twice a month. The summers were long and secretive. The winters were dry and fun.

Never been more alive

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Newspapers are dying out.”

“Journalism is a fading career.”

And last, but certainly not least: “Nobody reads the newspaper anymore.”

I’ve heard these things since I started college, was earning my English degree, and sharing that I was going to start my writing career in the newspaper industry.

The thrill of 25

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Since I’ve been in my 20s and in my established friend group of more 20-somethings, I’ve heard the same thing over and over, most of the time in a random sliver of conversation: “Twenty-five was a good year for me.”

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