Attention Class of 1961! With that blue flier brought the shocking realization my 40th high school reunion will be held this summer.

Those of us born in 1943 came along before TV, FM radio, Frisbees, contact lenses, credit cards, artificial hearts, yogurt, day care centers and e-mail. In our day, time sharing meant togetherness, not computers or condos; a chip was a piece of wood; software was not even a word; gay meant mirthful.

That is why I’m reminded every now and then about the language barrier between me and my journalism students at the University of Maine. They were born 20 years after I graduated from high school.

They don’t understand the clich?, “You sound like a broken record.” They never had a record player, eight-track for tapes, or even an Atari. They were only 11 when the Soviet Union broke apart and probably do not remember the Cold War.

They have no idea how to use a typewriter, and they figure answering machines and remote controls always have been in every household.

It should come as no surprise then that we fail to communicate once in a while as if we’re talking in tongues the other cannot comprehend. That became quite apparent to me early one November morning when I stood before a group of students whose eyes were still caked with sleepiness. The day was overcast, cold, and quiet; and my class was the only one meeting on the fourth floor of the building at 8 o’clock.

“Good morning, UMO,” I yelled from the lectern to get their attention. I got it.

But they didn’t. They’d never seen that movie about Vietnam; in fact, they knew little of Vietnam. They’d never seen Robin Williams in that role; in fact, they’d never heard of “Mork and Mindy” either.

They had never heard the little old lady’s line, “Where’s the beef?” So it made no sense for me to ask that question of them after reading their early news stories, which I found lacking. These people are so young they think popcorn has always been cooked in the microwave – an appliance none of my classmates could even envision. But then, we couldn’t imagine Styrofoam.

In another course, I once referred to “Dragnet’s” Jack Webb, who dissuaded people he interviewed from wandering off on detailed tangents. “Just the facts, ma’am,” Sgt. Friday would reiterate to bring back the focus. It is crucial to teach young journalists to stick to the facts, but to use a black-and-white TV show as a reference point dates me as if my petticoat were showing.

I’m learning to watch what I say and to find the right words that will close the generation gap. These students don’t have to know I prefer “Charlotte’s Web” to the World Wide Web.

Or that I will never – for the life of me – understand one of their favorite terms: “virtual reality.”