The Motherlode, and My Memory Has Just Been Sold

Two days ago,  I googled Jake, a boy who I went to my elementary school.  He didn't have much of an internet presence other than a Facebook account.  When I got to his account, I clicked on his friends to see if there was anyone I knew.  I found Greg, so I clicked on his page.

Greg was the motherlode.  He was friends with about a dozen or so kids who went to elementary school with me.  He was the connector, keeping in touch with people he went to high school with.*  All of these people who I last saw when I was twelve years old magically aged thirty-plus years.  Some looked very familiar, like Lisa.  She looks like she grew about five inches taller and put on ten pounds since she was twelve.  Her thick, dark hair was the same.  I recognized another girl's name, but the woman online did not at all resemble the girl I knew.  Other people had posted pictures of their kids, who are now about the same age as when I knew their parents.  

Greg was recognizable, but still different.  So which Greg is the real Greg?  The one I remember from 1980, or the one on Facebook?  My memory of him--and everyone else--is as if were sealed in a time capsule.  Those kids have never changed to me.  On Facebook, he had a cigarette dangling out of his mouth in one picture, and his bowl hair cut from 1979 was long gone, as his hairline was slightly starting to recede.   While I couldn't look away from my internet stalking session, I was slightly sad that what I remembered all of them to look like was replaced with new internet profile pictures.

I am sure they would say the same about me.

This might be from 5th grade, not 6th.  Puberty was not kind to me, so I'll spare myself the embarrassment of posting those pictures.

* I am too lazy to figure out how to not end that sentence with a preposition.