50th Class Reunion

“Remember the time on the band trip to Oklahoma and we girls ended up hiding some of the freshmen boys in our room so the band director didn’t catch them wandering on the girls’ side of the hotel?”

“I recall one of the times I got in trouble was a summer night when a couple of us were walking the streets of Petersburg and lost track of time; our parents were on the verge of calling the sheriff when we finally arrived home.”

“Can you remember how silly we were, buying a pack of Winstons  ‘for my uncle’ and driving out to a country road where we could smoke and not be found out?”

“Remember the time I took the car without asking while my parents were out of town for the day ~ I took a corner too fast and slid into a muddy ditch at the edge of town. Had to walk to somebody’s house and call my dad—things were kinda frosty at home that night!”

“There was that time we all drove up and down Main Street the last day of school, having water balloon fights to celebrate the beginning of summer.”

Anecdotes like these will abound when we have our 50^th Class Reunion one month from now. While we were a small class from a small high school in a small town (small wonder we have managed to stay in touch with each other!), we made up for our smallness with a lot of heart. Many of us grew up together and sat through twelve years of public education side by side. We went to Sunday school together, suited up to play high school sports in the same locker room, marched in band together through snow and West Texas sandstorms, and dragged Main in our second-hand cars throughout high school, racking up countless miles but going nowhere. We joined forces through 4-H projects, FFA livestock judging competitions, FHA meetings, three act plays, band practice, and countless athletic events.

Go, Buffs!

Most of our parents were able to spare the time to be room mothers, PTA volunteers, and band boosters. They supported us with hours of their time, waiting in the car for us to finish band practice or following the football bus to yet another out-of-town game. They bought Girl Scout cookies, FHA bake sale items, and Christmas trees to fund our Senior Trip.

Our teachers were a hardy lot, working long hours for low pay to put up with our cocky attitudes and rebellious streaks as we made our way through adolescence. By and large, they were willing to see past the childish pranks and hormone-driven drama to the potential buried in each of us. Determined to save us from ourselves, they persevered until we had safely walked across that stage and grasped the diploma that certified we were ready for adulthood (whether we really were or not).

Few of our parents are still around to see us pass this milestone, but a handful of our teachers are, and some of them will be at the reunion to reminisce with us. We have all gone our separate ways these last fifty years. Marriages, divorces, children, grandchildren, careers, successes, failures, joys and grief have all been parts of our collective journey. We may be very amazed to reconnect next month and hear what diverse paths we have traveled after having had such a commonality in our childhood.

As teenagers, we judged our value by the following:

If:

·      we were popular in high school (whatever that meant)

·      we made the honor roll

·      we got more detentions than anyone in the class

·      we put the most points on the scoreboard, or warmed the benches instead

·      we made a career as an attorney standing in the courtroom or we spent our years working for the Sanitation department . . .

None of those benchmarks define who we are today. They may indicate how we responded to the pressures we faced, or what decisions we made based on what was expected of us. We may have made life decisions because of our own faulty view of our capabilities or who we thought we were. Who we are where it counts ~ the way we treat others, how much kindness and generosity we extend to our family and friends, and whether we are fulfilling what God created us to do ~ that is what defines us.

Put aside any uncertainty, timidity, or insecurity to which you might cling, and make your plans to attend the PHS Class of ’66 Reunion.  Come remember the youngsters we were fifty years ago. Plan to laugh a lot. Celebrate the remarkable upbringing and education that our families, our school, and our community provided for us to make our start in life.

We want to see your face on the weekend of August 19-20! 

This replica of the little car I drove in high school sure brings back memories!

Spontaneous Hospitality

Since I promised my cousins I would write more stories about the family history, I recently recalled a tale that most of my cousins don’t know. (For non-family readers, you might still find it entertaining.)

My dad was the youngest of eight children. In the 30s and 40s, most of dad’s siblings settled in a fairly small geographical area that covered perhaps a hundred square miles of Texas. But my Uncle Marvin was always the exception to the rule . . . whatever the rule might be.

Marvin might be considered a middle child in the sense that he arrived about midway of the eight children. I confess I didn’t know him and my aunt Grace very well because they did not live nearby as most of the other uncles did, but he was consistently full of fun and laughter when they came to visit. They seemed to move around a lot, so it was a little difficult for me to keep up with where they lived at any given time. They didn’t visit our part of Texas very often, and we generally did not know when they were coming ~ they just seemed to show up, and the whole family would gather ‘round for a good visit while they were here. You could always see the delight in my grandmother’s face when “her Marvin” was around; her face beamed with that warm twinkling smile that radiated pleasure at even the smallest things in life. She found great delight in the arrival of this one son who seemed to be more prone to wanderlust than the others. And his brothers delighted in him as well, because he came with compelling stories of adventures and experiences from other places that captured their imaginations. He was so warm and full of fun that I found him mesmerizing as well.

One particular memory stands out, and I now find it absolutely stunning that we made this particular trip, but you can’t make this stuff up!

Uncle Marvin and Aunt Grace were living in a rather barren part of New Mexico near Farmington in the late 50s. They ran a trading post near Blanco that catered to the nearby Native American Indian population. As I recall, there was either a Navajo reservation nearby or at least a large population of Navajo Indians who had settled in the area. Most of them, amazingly, still lived in teepees. The trading post was probably the only store within many miles where they could buy basic supplies.

We knew my uncle Marvin was running the trading post but none of us had been there to visit. My grandmother had not seen him in a long while, so my dad volunteered to take her for a visit. To be fair, it’s entirely possible Marvin and Grace did not have a telephone at that point, so it might have been difficult for us to contact them first. But we would certainly have been able to drop them a note to ask about coming to visit. Strangely enough, we did NOT do that, but chose to drop in on them unexpectedly instead!

You have to understand the family dynamics to appreciate this decision; my mother was not one to drop in on folks, and was extremely conscious of not imposing on other people. She taught us girls to be considerate of others and unobtrusive. My dad’s side of the family, however, believed “the more the merrier” when it came to guests, and the doors were always open. It was a running joke in our family about the Martin relatives who popped in unexpectedly, sometimes at the most inconvenient times. It wouldn’t have mattered much except they often arrived at mealtimes and my mother would be scrambling to find enough food for the extended family. So you can see that dropping in unexpectedly on someone was definitely not her style, but dad and Grandmother did not seem to think it odd at all.

This particular summer morning, my parents packed the car and Grandmother and I settled into the back seat for the drive to New Mexico. We arrived late afternoon around 4:00 and parked in front of the trading post. It was then that the brilliant idea came to my dad to send me in like the Trojan Horse. Uncle Marvin had not seen me in quite some time, and as a growing eight or nine year old I had changed a lot, so Dad thought Marvin would probably not recognize me. I was sent inside to “ask for directions” and was to act as if I didn’t know my uncle and see if he recognized me. Then the others were to follow after a bit and surprise him.

As a very shy little girl this did not sound like a good plan to me, but I didn’t have much time to make my objections. So I obediently walked toward the screen door of the store, my ponytail swinging in the New Mexico wind. I made my presentation and as suspected, Marvin did not know me, but valiantly attempted to give me directions. I tried to play the part of the lost traveler, wondering when my folks were coming in to rescue me from my embarrassment.

Mom and Dad finally opened the door and walked in behind my Grandmother; what a surprise for Uncle Marvin! He was absolutely shocked, but enjoyed the joke as much as anyone. He took us through the store to their living quarters in the back where we “surprised” Aunt Grace as well.!

Looking back to that event with adult eyes, I have to wonder at our audacity. Not only did we just show up and surprise them, but there was no hotel or restaurant within many, many miles, so Grace was left to find a place to bed us all down and cobble together food for everyone; I think we stayed a day or two, so they not only showed us hospitality, but we potentially interrupted whatever plans they might have had. I cannot remember any details of where we slept in their tiny apartment in the back or what we might have eaten. But I do recall that it was a time of stories and laughter, as it always was when we got together with any of the Martins.

Ever afterward, when I was around Uncle Marvin, he would laughingly recall the time I came into the store and he didn’t recognize me. It became a good family joke, and I laughed over the memory of it as much as anyone.

Some of you readers may also have people who continually pop into your lives without warning and disrupt your plans. I sympathize. I am enough like my mother that this has been a hard thing for me to learn to endure. When I lived in the Dallas Metroplex, it was seldom an issue because folks there are not too prone to just spontaneously show up. I could be fairly certain that my friends would not be likely to drop in without calling first. Moving back to the small town of my childhood has changed that, and it is not uncommon to find visitors on my front porch, knocking and sometimes just opening the door and walking in! For the most part, it no longer bothers me, although if someone showed up as we did at Uncle Marvin’s place, suddenly needing a place to stay and meals for a few days, I would probably come unglued. Still, as I look in the rearview mirror of my mind and recall that trip, I don’t remember feeling like a burden. My aunt Grace may have lived up to her name and just did the best she could with the situation without letting on it was truly a burden for her. Somehow, though, I think she and Uncle Marvin were probably more unflinching and unaffected by the sudden visit than I would have been.

Marvin, like his seven siblings, grew up when the Texas Panhandle region was still a frontier. There were not many settlements around, and they were generally far apart. My dad told stories of his childhood, describing how common it was for strangers passing through the area to stop at his family’s farm and stay for supper and spend the night. His mother typically prepared extra food, knowing it likely that someone else might be joining them for a meal. I suspect there was an unspoken rule that if a visitor or family came by, the children knew the drill about where they were to sleep so someone else could have their beds. It wasn’t a question of if, but a matter of when. These stories bring to mind a verse in the New Testament book of Hebrews: “Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” (Heb. 13:2, NLT version)

The pioneer mindset of my grandparents prepared my dad and his brothers to practice hospitality ~ to be ready to share what they had, to be flexible enough to change plans to accommodate someone in need. How I need to learn and re-learn that lesson! I am a planner, an organizer of my time. And once I get my plans made, I am sometimes a pretty formidable wall, reluctant to alter my course to adjust to a change in circumstances. But as I remember the laughter and warm conversations at the Blanco Trading Post that summer, I am convinced that I need to remember this one thing: people always trump plans. People are more important than things, or schedules, or to-do lists ~ although I may still find it difficult to give up my brand new pillow if you show up tonight needing a place to lay your head!

A Legacy of Caretakers

While this isn’t true of everyone in my family, we do have a history of being a people who know how to take care of one another.

I distinctly remember when we brought my maternal grandmother into our home to live when she needed continual care. Grandma lived with us for probably a year. She was bedfast, on oxygen, and needed constant care, so we welcomed her into our tiny house and my mother cared for her every need until she died peacefully in the back bedroom of our home. I was just seven years old, but the sacrifice my parents made for her care made a deep impression on me.

My other grandmother lived in the same community and we saw her often. She never needed the kind of continual care that Grandma did, but I do remember how my dad dropped in every day to check on her. He was a devoted son and she knew she could depend on him.

When my mother was in her 60s, her older sister required some extra care and there was no one else to manage it. My parents arranged for Aunt Velma to have a daytime caregiver, but they checked on her every day for years. They helped manage her care and her personal business until she died.

My mother began having some significant physical problems in her late 70s. Although my dad was still working part-time, he eventually quit his job to be home with her because her doctor appointments and the demands of keeping a household going required more of his time. She gradually deteriorated to the point where she could not care for herself, and was unable to do the many things she had done all of her life.

Mama was always very involved when my sister and I were growing up, volunteering to be room mother, band booster, PTA officer, Girl Scout leader, Sunday School teacher, or whatever job needed to be done. She was an excellent cook and a great housekeeper. But she also loved doing creative things, and kept busy with sewing and craft projects. Yet after seventy-something years of service to others, Mama had come to the point that she could hardly do basic things for herself. 

Although my dad was several years her senior, he was a natural caregiver. His father had been ill when he was just a boy, so he learned how to care for people who couldn’t care for themselves, and with practiced ease he stepped into that role of making life more comfortable for his bride. Daddy devoted himself to her care, which not only meant doing things for her comfort but also managing the everyday cooking, cleaning, and shopping. I never heard him utter a word of complaint, and he always seemed to find joy in doing those things for the woman he loved. 

All these memories flooded my mind last week when I learned that the wife of a cousin had died. When you hear their history, it bears a close resemblance to stories I already know from my own DNA, tales that are clinging to my own branch of the family tree.

Harvey’s beautiful wife, Helen, started down the Alzheimer’s road twelve years ago, and as is often the case, it was a slow, gradually descending path. I know it must have been heartbreaking for the entire family. Despite the pain of watching Helen deteriorate, my cousin Harvey became singularly devoted to his wife . . . not just devoted to Helen’s care, but to HELEN!

He took her out to eat; he took her on trips to the Oregon coast. He staged family gatherings for her birthday and other occasions. He took pictures of his beloved wife and posted them on Facebook with captions like “my beautiful bride”. He pointed out things that would give her pleasure, such as the beauty of a sunset or a bird fluttering outside her window.

Harvey was under no illusion about the way the disease was taking her away from him. There was no denial of reality. He simply chose to make every day a happy one for her; he determined that she would have a safe, peaceful place, surrounded by happy things, with a minimum of stress and fear. It was surely a costly choice for him, but it was indeed his choice. And now that she has gone to be with her Lord (after walking beside Harvey on earth for sixty years!), she is healed of the ravages of Alzheimer’s, healed of body and mind. And she will now know, in a way she did not comprehend over the past few years, what a sacrifice of love Harvey made for her. Harvey is a prime example of how our family cares for one another.

A dear friend of mine shared with me recently that she is teetering on the edge of a decision to assume a major portion of the care for her aging mother. But unlike Harvey’s decision to care for Helen, this one carries an even heavier burden . . . for this friend expressed that her mother has not been particularly kind or loving to her all her life. As she related her plans to me, my friend described how the words of Scripture call her to this sacrifice: “I am to honor my father and mother, and to give Mom good care in her later years is not only the humane thing to do, but the Christian thing. I would want to show kindness and wish good care for anyone else in her situation who needed it; why not for my own mother?” And that, too, is a legacy of faithful caregiving.

Many of us are either currently facing this decision, or will be soon. May God grant us all the grace and mercy to live out the Jesus principles of caring for one another with love—not simply because it’s our duty, but because it’s the right thing to do, the loving thing.