Ever get the feeling you were born a couple of generations too soon? I got it again the other day when I brought up my e-mail on the computer and learned I had wasted an entire four years of my life by going to college.

A web site popped up called "Graduate NOW!" offering a "fast tracking diploma plan" that promised "No books. No courses. No tests. No studying." What's more, you had a choice of a bachelors, masters or a doctorate degree "simply based on your current knowledge and life experiences." It didn't give the prices, but it sure must have cost a whole lot less than just the hamburgers I devoured during four years of college living.

Not that I spent an exorbitant sum on earning a diploma. Good old Uncle Sam came through with the fabulous GI Bill for World War II vets like me. It not only paid for tuition and books, but there was a monthly check for $65 that was upped to $75 in 1948. Sometimes I even had enough left over to loan to my spendthrift roommates. When the World War II GI Bill ended in 1954, some 7.5 million GI's had used it for training at a cost of $14.5 billion. It was the best investment Uncle Sam ever made.

As a high schooler, I really had no intention of going to college. Working in the carpentry shop of a lumber company during high school years, I assumed I'd become a carpenter. Returning there after discharge from the Seabees, I quickly changed my mind when one day I crunched my thumb with a hammer so hard I nearly passed out. I suddenly decided to change careers and enrolled in college.

Except for some clothes, there wasn't much to haul off to college in those years. I did have an old hand-me-down Royal portable typewriter. A copy of Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary was an absolute necessity. And then there was my trusty one-speed Hawthorne bicycle from Montgomery-Ward. I bought the bike when entering the seventh grade after saving my money since first grade. I paid $21 for it (disassembled) and added a kick-stand and reflector, wiping out my entire life-long $23 savings.

At college I was rooming in a private home a mile and a half from campus and the bike was a life-saver for getting to classes on time, even in the winter. Few students had cars. For one thing, cars hadn't been produced throughout the war years so they were scarce. One of my roommates was quickly catapulted into the BMOC (Big Man On Campus) status with his 1929 Dodge sedan. To make the 80-mile trip between home and college I nearly always relied on my thumb.

One other valuable item was the clothes mailing case. Never heard of it? It was made of some sort of lightweight material that students used to ship home dirty clothes. Coin-operated laundries were yet to be invented. So off to the Post Office we would go with the case stuffed with dirty laundry. Mom would wash it up, flip the label, and back it would come via Parcel Post, hopefully in time for a Saturday night date.

To make sure that the coeds would not be lead astray, nearly all of them were required to live on campus. The downtown, with its one movie theatre, was a mile away, making dating a little difficult without a car. Many guys, like myself, would usually suggest to their date that it would be a time-saver if she should ride on the bike's crossbar. (When's the last time you've seen this done?) The first time I tried it, I made the mistake of dating a girl named Martha June who was 5 feet, 10 inches tall. Somehow, I could barely get the bike going as we peddled toward town. Nearing exhaustion after six blocks, I finally discovered my problem. Her feet were dragging on the pavement. After a few more similar episodes, I was actually relieved when one day I saw her motoring by in a sporty 1939 Chevy coupe driven by one of the football team heroes. Martha June had mercifully (for me) found someone else.

Graduating four years later, I headed for my first newspaper reporting job. Living a mile and a half from the newspaper office, I pumped my way to work on the trusty Hawthorne and even made my news-seeking rounds about town aboard my bike. Six months later, as the late autumn cold turned to snow, it was time to shop for my first car. After all, I was now making $45 a week and could afford one - at least a well-used one. The rusting Hawthorne was eventually handed off to a neighbor kid.

Fast forward now to a day last month. A neighbor boy was ready to return to college from his Christmas break. Yes, there were many clothes to haul back. But his list also included a lap-top computer with its CD disk burner and hoards of helpful computer programs at his fingertips. Awaiting him in his dormitory room is a high-speed Internet connection. Then there was the color inkjet printer and copier. His standard equipment also included an MP3 player with its 5,000 downloaded rock hits. To hear them better was a Bose sound system. Another of his necessities was a cellular telephone that also takes pictures. And a television set. And a digital camera. All of this was loaded into his very own car.

Do I sound bitter? Do you detect a hint of jealously? Not at all!

If I'd been born some 60 years later and had the funds, I'd want all those things too. I just love gadgets. For instance, I'll let you know that I now own one of those telephones you can carry all around the house. They call it a "cordless phone." And I bet you thought I was just one of those old-fashioned geezers.

Jim can be e-mailed at sponcom@ameritech.net.