The Class of '74

37 years ago, we all graduated from our local high school and then went our separate ways, many of us never to see one another again, or so we thought. Like so many other self-absorbed young people, we had just finished four years of high school together, but, in so many, many ways, apart.

We were jocks, geeks, pretty girls, majorettes. We were band kids, writers, loners, pariahs. We were thespians and debaters. We were bad kids, quiet kids, kids who blended into the wallpaper. We were girls who were fast and boys who were weird. 

And we had nothing in common with each other, beyond the tight little circle of friends that each of us moved in. In fact, we had so little in common with one another that many of us went through four years in the same building, sometimes in the same classes or even the same homeroom, without saying a word to each other.

About each other, yes. But to each other? Absurd.

Until recently.

We have coalesced as a class, as friends, thanks to the wonder of Facebook and the persistence of one classmate in bringing us together. In addition to maintaining a class website, Bob (geek, loner) also maintains a Facebook page through which a number of us have met for the first time or reconnected again for the first time in many years.

Like many other high school groups, our class meets every five years for a formal reunion. But thanks to FB and Bob's nudges, our class meets more often at a local eatery for what someone (probably Bob again) dubbed a "mini reunion." There is a flow and ease to these events. They are little things. A few drinks, some eats, some talk, and everyone disperses.

Simple.

I made it to my first mini reunion last night along with Warren, who graduated two years ahead of me (and who so patiently sat through the evening). In addition to the locals (and we are many), Friday night's mini reunion featured out-of-staters Tonya (majorette) coming in from New Jersey (a not infrequent occurrence) and Kate (thespian, literary magazine, dancer) coming all the way from California back to Delaware, Ohio for the first time in a quarter century.

I was there for the first hour or so, listening to the talk, chiming in occasionally. What I mostly did was watch and marvel. Some of us were poring over old yearbooks. Others were catching up on "what have you done since" the last time they last saw one another. Kate opened her bag and pulled out "the German dolls," small, now well-worn figures she and her girlfriends had played with for countless hours in grade school. Judy (rebel) breathed out reverently, "I remember these."

The last classmate I talked to before leaving last night was Mark (jock), who was sitting on the other side of the table. I can guarantee that Mark and I (band kid, geek, writer) never exchanged one word in four years of high school. Mark surprised me by asking me how my health was and listened very carefully to my reply. He then told me his father died several years ago of multiple myeloma, which is the same cancer I have.

Little connections. Big connections.  

Warren and I left early on, as we knew today held community work. The mini reunion went on long into the night, with some going home and others joining the mix as it rotated to different venues. Tonya and Kate were two of the last standing. I know that because I met them for coffee this morning before hugging them goodbye.

In 37 years, our class of 1974 has gone so many different ways. Some of us are teachers, some of us are small business owners, some of us work in government jobs. Some of us are retired already; some of us are hoping just to hang on in this shaky economy until we can retire. Some of us have had multiple careers. Some of us are parents, some of us are grandparents, and some of us are the happy owners of cats. Some of us have been married more than once, some of us are still with the one we said "I do" to many years ago, some of us never married at all.

We are so different, and yet we are so alike. All of us have a common thread that we didn't realize for the longest time. We share a common past that connects us in ways we would have laughed uproariously over 37 years ago. 

When I look back on those long ago years, I sometimes flinch, I sometimes laugh, I sometimes shrug. My high school years were goofy, horrifying, wonderful, or just plain weird, depending on what hour or day or week you pick. And you know what? So was everyone else's.

I know. I heard it last night.

A Journey, Part 4: Of Flannel Boards and Sunday School

As I have written before, I am on a journey. As of today, I am on day 28 of 40 reading Rick Warren's A Purpose Driven Life.

Reading that book has caused me to examine my beliefs and my faith more deeply that I expected. I have found myself reaching for other books about faith and spirituality, seeking paths others have traveled before me.

Two books I read recently have moved me deeply: Telling Secrets by Frederick Buechner, and a work I just finished, The Spirit of Food: 34 Writers on Feasting and Fasting Towards God, edited by Leslie Leyland Fields. In the days to come, I plan to write more about The Spirit of Food. I just finished it last night and want to start it all over again. As I emailed Leslie this morning, I am uplifted, I am deeply moved, and I am hungry!

A third book that I would add as having moved me deeply, which I read last fall and plan to reread again in coming weeks, is Every Day is a Good Day:  Reflections by Contemporary Indigenous Women, edited by the late, great Wilma Mankiller. (It is very interesting to note, as I link back to my post about Wilma Mankiller, that I titled it "Journeys.")

All of these works, and others, are helping guide me on my journey.

This current path has been an interesting one. I am not always enlightened by Rick Warren's writing. There are sections that I disagree with, sometimes strongly. It's not a perfect fit - it's not even a comfortable fit sometimes. I just finished several chapters about churches and the need of believers to join and invest themselves in a church. Those are issues that I struggle with for lots of reasons, starting with my upbringing in the land of flannel boards.

This is not my Sunday School class, but this is a 1960s era class that looks a lot like the ones I attended as a child and about which I write below.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to grow up and teach Sunday school.

Not because I was particularly religious, but because I wanted to use the flannel board.

I loved flannel boards. I would sit spellbound in class while Mrs. Sunday School Teacher would tell a Bible story and press the characters onto the board as she recited the tale.

(A sociological note: This was the 1960s. Sunday School teachers were almost always "Mrs." The only unmarried Sunday School teachers at our church were the two adult daughters of the minister. In their case, their unmarried state was so engrained in us that they were always known as "Miss," even after one of them went and got married. "Ms.," of course, did not yet exist.)

There was a box of flannel pieces to use on the flannel board. Some pieces were characters, some were animals, some were scenery. Sometimes Mrs. Sunday School Teacher would press a palm tree onto the board so we would know it was Galilee and not Delaware, Ohio she was talking about as she told us a story. Sometimes she'd pick up Jesus and press him right onto the board while she told us all about the loaves and fishes.

That always seemed a little chancy to me, handling Jesus so casually. 

Once in a great while, if you sat really, really still and didn't whisper to Kristi Barber sitting next to you and you raised your hand without shouting "Me! Me!" when she asked a Bible question, Mrs. Sunday School Teacher would let you put a piece on the flannel board for all to see. But that rarely happened (and you never got to press Jesus up on the board).

I know why, too. The flannel board was so much fun that Mrs. Sunday School Teacher didn't want to share it.

Not all of the Sunday School teachers used the flannel boards. Maybe our church didn't own that many. Perhaps some of them thought flannel boards were a bit silly.

Miss Lois (one of the two aforementioned daughters) didn't use a flannel board. She taught the nursery room (3 year olds and younger) and was famous for having the only straight line of silent children following her into the sanctuary for the Sunday School closing service. She didn't use the flannel board because she was too busy teaching the little ones how to sing "Jesus Loves the Little Children" in their infant voices. Besides, there were no children colored the four colors of the song to press up on the flannel board. Only shepherds and disciples, all of whom looked remarkably Caucasian for being Israelis.

(An observation: It took me a long time to realize it was fear of Miss Lois, not fear of God, that made those little feet walk so neatly and silently every Sunday.)

As we grew older, Sunday School got more serious. We moved into catechism age and set aside childish things like flannel boards and simple songs. Our Sunday School teachers were now male and we spent our junior high years being taught in Sunday School what we had already supposedly just memorized in catechism class.

(Another  sociological note: This was the 1960s. After you got to 7th grade, the Sunday School teachers were all married men, often church deacons or elders. Maybe the Church Council, which also was all male, thought a man's firm hand was needed to control a group of wild teenagers.)

In eighth grade, I got into a serious argument with Mr. Sunday School Teacher over the doctrine of transubstantiation. When he said that the communion wafer and wine literally became the blood and body of Christ, I came back with "so if I take communion and then immediately have my stomach pumped, you're telling me they will find human blood and flesh in me? And if that's the body and blood of Jesus, why doesn't someone get their stomach pumped and analyze it?"

Eighth grade was not a good year in Sunday School.

Fortunately for me, due to a lack of willing male volunteers, all high school students were consolidated into one class taught by Mr. Springer, who was a ray of sunshine and free-thinking in an otherwise buttoned down, conservative congregation. We had a lot of leeway in his class to discuss religious freedom, religious doubt, and current events, all of which were more pressing in our minds than the three attributes of God.

If Mr. Springer had used flannel boards, his pieces would have included drive-thru churches (for those in too big a hurry to stay), "Sunday Pills" (for those who were looking for an easy way to get their religious "dose" for the week), and a crowd of young people looking for more meaningful ways to worship, including those that weren't Lutheran. In those days at that church, that was practically the same as announcing you were a communist and moving to Moscow.

(Another observation: Even though Mr. Springer was a church elder, I think there were some in the congregation who saw him at best as a troublemaker and at worst as a reprobate.)

It has been a long time since I have seen a flannel board, but they are still out there. Google "flannel board" and you will get over two hundred thousand hits. For a price, I could purchase my own flannel board and my own box of pieces. If I were feeling particularly plush, I could buy several different sets and let Jesus feed all of Noah's animals with loaves and fishes. (Not saying I would - just saying it could be done.)

But in my heart of hearts, I know it wouldn't be the same. I'd need to be sitting on a hard, wobbly wood chair, wearing a scratchy petticoat under my dress, my head sore from a night of sleeping on curlers. I'd need to have an offering dime clutched in my fist while we all sang "Jesus Loves Me" in off-key voices that were as wobbly as the chairs on which we sat. I'd need to have Kristi sitting next to me.

Kristi's been dead for many years now, killed in a hit-skip auto accident when she was a young mother. Mr. Springer is dead, too; he is buried very near Warren's parents and I think of him when I am visiting them. I don't know if they still sing "Jesus Loves the Little Children," with its Crayola colorings of the world. I don't know if the flannel boards of my childhood still exist at the church, perhaps tucked into a closet somewhere.

I do know I'm on a journey, and I'll be on it long after I finish A Purpose Driven Life in a few more weeks. It's a journey of hope and of love, of faith and of searching, of seeking and of finding.

Sam Has a Birthday This Weekend

I wrote about my son Sam when he moved to Oregon in early April. Sam is still out there, looking for work, living in a house with four other young adults, including his brother Ben. He turns 19 at the end of this month. This will be the first time ever that I have not spent at least a portion of his birthday with him, so this post is in lieu of baking Sam a birthday cake.

Sam has made for some great parenting moments over the years. There was the time when Sam was young - five, perhaps, maybe six - and he and Keegan, a year younger, decided it would be a good idea to throw rocks at Mrs. Roof's storm door. Mrs. Roof, who lived down the alley, was elderly and largely housebound. They tossed rocks until they broke the glass, then fled to their respective homes. I was not home when Mrs. Roof called to complain, but the story related by Sam's father was that when asked if he knew anything about Mrs. Roof's door, Sam denied any knowledge, then suddenly shouted, "I did it! I didn't know what I was doing! I'm crazy! I'm insane!"

Then there was the time that we took a lengthy car vacation from Ohio to California and back again, visiting a number of national parks along the way. The last stop, before barreling back to Ohio, was the Grand Canyon. Sam, who was eight that summer, marched up to the rim, looked at the spectacular vista spread out before him, then promptly turned around and sat down with his back to it. When I asked him why, Sam looked up - angry, homesick, on the verge of tears - and shouted "All you've done on this vacation is show me rocks!"

He refused to look at the Grand Canyon again.

There have been other moments as well: watching him tune his cello by harmonics when he was only six, because he could hear the tones so well, and then watching him put the cello down and refuse to play it ever again at age 11 rather than bend for the strings teacher who would not bend for him. There was the eighth grade science fair where he pulled off a Superior solely on the strength of his knowledge and ability to talk through the topic, having extrapolated data based on only one experiment. There was the one and only prom he attended, as the sophomore date of an older girlfriend, for which he groused and grumbled his way into a tux, posed for the mandatory pictures, then came home hours later exclaiming "That was a blast!"

My friend Katrina recently wrote me: "How is it that when you write, you make even problems with your kids sound poetic?"

How indeed? Probably because I exercise poetic license and exorcise the worst moments. There have been many; Sam and I have had more than our share of just plain awful scenes.

I am fortunate in that I was given a gift by Sam that changed the course of our relationship and kept it from unraveling entirely. Sam at sixteen was in court-ordered counseling; I participated in a family group independent of Sam. Sam's counselors decided he would benefit from a joint session. At it, one counselor asked Sam which parent he thought he was most like? Without missing a beat, Sam said "my mom." The counselor who had worked separately with both of us immediately said "I agree."

I had been sitting there expecting to hear "my dad," as every battle I struggled through with Sam reminded me of his father, who I had divorced after many long and difficult years together. Every time Sam and I crossed swords, I would see his father in him and my defenses would go up.

And here was Sam saying, so easily, "my mom."

Sam seeing what I couldn't - the similarities between us - made me take a long look at Sam, at me, and at our relationship. Life did not become idyllic, but our relationship changed permanently for the better. I started to see Sam for who he really was, rather than see in him motives and attitudes that belonged to someone else, and I learned to trust him and his emotions in ways I could not have before that moment.

We wouldn't have come as far as we have - either of us - without his revelation.

When Sam was a little boy, he once had a perfect day. Sam had kindergarten in the morning, and something exciting happened there - maybe an assembly or maybe just a great kindergarten day. Afterwards, his father took him to the grocery store when they were giving away lots of food samples, which Sam sampled liberally. Walking back to the car, Sam spied a penny on the pavement and scooped it up, exclaiming, "man, is this my lucky day or what?"

My birthday wish for my little boy all grown up is that he have a life full of lucky days - and that he never lose the ability to recognize them when they come along.

All Our Daughters

I returned late last night from four days in Chicago. It was cold, windy, rainy, and glorious.

I spent the time in ways I had not anticipated before leaving. The short version is this, for those who read my post last week: Lindsay and I did not go chasing down the ghosts of the 1893 Columbian Exposition (although Warren and I were lucky enough to catch sight of a small piece of it - a ticket booth - in, of all places, Oak Park). Lindsay and I did walk for miles on Friday, after we finally met up. (This is not an exaggeration. We walked from the Congress Plaza Hotel to Buckingham Fountain, then along the lakefront to Navy Pier, then to the Tribune Tower and back up Michigan Avenue to the Palmer House. That's 4.4 miles, for those of you counting.)

There were many great Chicago moments, despite the cold and the rain. I attended two days of the national conference of the League of American Orchestras, where I heard and saw some amazing performances and I participated in some impassioned roundtables about the value of music. Warren and I had a wonderful walk around Oak Park our first night in town, followed by a late evening League reception in the stunning new Modern wing of the Chicago Art Institute. Just walking through the Impressionism galleries en route to the reception was celebration enough. While waiting for Lindsay on Friday, I had the tremendous luck to arrive on the University of Chicago campus just as commencement was ending, which means I got to see and hear the bagpipe recessional while all the bells of Rockefeller Chapel - no small assortment - pealed.

But the lasting memory of this trip will be my Saturday morning with Lindsay and Stephanie and the wonder and delight of seeing the adults our daughters are becoming.

I use the phrase "our daughters" loosely, because I have two sons. My experience raising girls, until very recently, has been largely vicarious. But it has been a rich vicarious experience over the years. When it comes to Lindsay and Stephanie, I have known them since their childhood as both were classmates and friends of my older son, Ben. I have known Lindsay since she was five, Stephanie since she was seven. I have been fortunate beyond words to watch them navigate childhood, adolescence, college, and, now, young adulthood.

Stephanie moved to Chicago last year, after graduating from college. Lindsay had let her know we were coming to the city; Stephanie joined the three of us Friday night for a concert at Millennium Park and dinner afterwards. We had so much fun talking that she suggested Lindsay and I meet her Saturday morning to see her neighborhood farmers market and share a cup on coffee.

Stephanie lives on a quiet side street in Lincoln Park on the north side, not far from the lake. From the bus stop, you stroll down a tree-lined street filled with late 19th and early 20th century Chicago-style apartment buildings. Her apartment is in an early 20th century yellow brick with the original interior woodwork still intact. We arrived to find Stephanie's cousin Susannah, who was in Chicago for the weekend. (I have known Susannah for many years as well, and she too had turned into a young adult while my back was turned.) Despite rain, we headed off to the farmers market, several blocks away. We walked and talked; Susannah and I discussed sustainable local agriculture (of deep interest to us both) while Stephanie and Lindsay caught up from when they had last seen each other.

Susannah had other places she needed to be, so she left as the three of us made our way back to Stephanie's apartment. It being lunchtime, we all eschewed a proper meal for Molly's Cupcakes instead. Over cupcakes and milk, the three of us talked for the next two hours.

It was a wonderful give and take, primarily between Stephanie and Lindsay, of where they are in their respective lives and where they see the future going. Stephanie talked about the adventures of being in pharmaceutical marketing, of being young and single in a city as vibrant as Chicago, and of her hopes and dreams. Lindsay, who has taken a year off after college and is presently deciding whether to attend graduate school or start a career, spoke of the soaring feeling of being young with so many choices laid out before her, and of her hopes and dreams. School, where to live, travel, salaries, dating, jobs, careers, marriage, children, lifestyles now and in the future - everything was offered up for conversation.

I watched them light up, grow serious, or break into laughter while they talked. It was one of those beautiful and glowing moments that shimmer and hang in the air.

It was two hours before we all realized we still had other obligations for the day. Stephanie hugged me hard, thanking me for coming to see her; she and Lindsay made plans to meet later.

Lindsay and I grabbed an El downtown so she could get her car and I could meet up with Warren and head back home. When we got back down to the Loop, we hugged goodbye. Lindsay was excited about what the evening held with Stephanie and her friends; she thanked me for inviting her to join us in Chicago and show her a slice of the city. I thanked her: she gave me a gift by sharing my favorite city with me.

As Warren and I headed to the Skyway, I tried to convey the magic of the cupcake lunch. I was talking so fast my words tumbled over themselves, relating my wonder of hearing these two sing a beautiful duet of youth and hope and Life. I have been turning it over in my head and heart ever since, trying to capture it on paper and knowing I am only putting down fleeting glimpses.

You had to be there.

Both Stephanie's and Lindsay's moms are longtime friends of mine. I am writing each a note telling them what they already know: that their daughters have grown into beautiful, thoughtful, bright, funny young women. They are filled with the dreams and talents and hopes that I would think all of us would wish for all our daughters, indeed, for all our children.

I have been blessed to be a small part of Stephanie's and Lindsay's lives and watch their transformation from girlhood to womanhood. I cannot wait to see what their futures hold.

Sam

I learned today that my younger son, Sam, is moving to Portland, Oregon, on Monday. I learned indirectly from my older son Ben, who posted on his Facebook wall: “my brother is moving out to Portland in a week, daaaammnnn.”

Good morning.

Sam called me about four hours later, relieved to learn that I now knew. We spent the next two and a half hours together running errands related to his moving: shipping off his computer, having his bike boxed for shipping, signing over his car to me, talking through the various small pieces of the big move. There were tense moments, funny moments, and many moments where I was too choked up to speak.

I am sitting here twelve hours later with a mother’s conflicting feelings. On the one hand, Sam is almost 19, has been working fulltime since he was 17, and has been out of the home and living on his own with little parental help for the past six months. Moving to Portland seems the natural next step: spread the wings yet a little more and try something new. Ben lives there and their father is in an outlying community. Initially Sam would live with his dad. So it is not as if Sam would be totally alone and without a family network. It was clear from Sam’s discussion today that he has given a huge amount of thought to the logistics of living with his dad and finding work. I am pleased and proud of him.

On the other hand, besides the sting of learning about Sam’s move secondhand, I am sad and dispirited tonight. My younger son—my baby!—is moving 2500 miles away.

In some versions of A Christmas Carol, Marley describes the third spirit to Scrooge as “more mercurial than the rest.” That is Sam in five words. A million and one memories of Sam have filled my mind and my heart all day long. I have watched my son struggle with wild mood swings, his parents’ divorce, and depression. At times he has made lifestyle choices, including dropping out of high school and getting a GED, that have made me cringe. But each time he has struggled, Sam has come back stronger and wiser and another step closer to adulthood. When he moved out of the house and into an apartment last October, I told everyone I knew that he had made a smoother transition to being independent than anyone else I had ever known. He was ready then and he is ready now for the next step.

When Sam was in 7th grade, he went out for track and ran hurdles. Sam was slender and fast with great form, and he usually led and won his heats. Once he caught a hurdle and went down, only to get up, bloodied and clearly hurt, to finish the race. Afterwards, Sam sat alone for the rest of the meet, full of pain and rage, fighting back tears. Not until we were walking to the car did he lean against me and cry. That is Sam: finishing the race, struggling on his own, and then turning to his family for comfort.

Come Monday, I will take Sam to the airport, hug him goodbye, and wave until he disappears down the concourse. There will be tears, of course. There will also be satisfaction in knowing he is prepared to tackle this new adventure.

I have seen Sam fly over hurdles when he ran track. I see him flying now.