Forty Year Reunion

In the spring of 1975 I graduated from Scott County High School in Georgetown, KY. That was 40 years ago. They held a big reunion this past week end but I did not go. I have not been to any other of my reunions either so I am certain my absence was not a surprise to anyone. With the exception of one person I have not really kept any contacts with my high school friends. It has been much too long to make any real connectivity now. Besides I work every weekend and I live a lon...g way away. So the time and expense would be much too great for a rendezvous with people I barely know. Besides I am not that good at parties. I had lots of good excuses. So I ignored the invitations and pleas to come to the reunion and decided to let high school remain a distant experience from the past. In recent years however I have re-connected with a few of my classmates via facebook and somehow I got added to a group called Scott County High School Class 1975. The morning after the reunion people started posting pictures and I got curious. I did not recognize some of them. Of the ones I did recognize I was a bit relieved to discover that I had survived the 40 years as well as most of them had. There were 152 of us in that graduating class. I was saddened to discover that 16 of those have died. Surely in this age of modern medicine that is way too many. I mean I am only 58. That is not old is it?

That got me to thinking about the brevity of life. Indeed I have way more years behind me than I can expect to have in front of me. When this life is over there will be a glad reunion in heaven and I plan to attend that one. Indeed God has put eternity in the hearts of mankind. But since life is brief I want to live well and do something of significance while I am here. The British missionary C. T. Studd wrote a famous oft quoted two line poem: “Only one life, ‘twill soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last”.

Laid Out in a Straight Row

Brock and I just got back from a walk in the cemetery. I noted that the graves were all lined up in a straight row. Maybe that is why the heart monitor shows a straight line when a heart stops beating. It occurs to me that I am destined to lain out, flat and still, in a straight row. That is death. Some people suggest we live that way. And some folks do. But since I will have forever to lay flat and still in a straight row I prefer to live with a few zigs and zags and curves and swirls. I choose to do a few things contrary to the norm and explore things out of the ordinary. I want to take a few risks and sometimes just land wherever the wind takes me. I might die sideways or upside down. But so what? There will be someone there to pick me up and lay me out in a straight row.

Thanks, Mrs. Griffin

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Wilma Griffin. We were kin. She and my Dad were first cousins. I was somewhat proud of being related to my teacher. But I was also a bit afraid of her. Though I held our kinship in my back pocket not once did I ever play that card. I had a lot of respect for Mrs. Griffin. Even as an adult, if I were to see her in a family setting I could not call her by her first name. She was always Mrs. Griffin to me. I learned a lot of things in that first g...rade classroom in the basement of East Bernstadt School. I had perfect attendance and made decent grades. But the lessons were routine enough and came easy enough for me that the specifics of them do not stand out. But twice that year Mrs. Griffin stood before our class and made an announcement that left an indelible impression on me. One day she got our attention and told us that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. Later that year she told us that our school would be integrated the next year meaning that we would have black boys and black girls in our class the next fall. I do not remember raising my hand and asking any questions about either of these announcements. I think I had a pretty good understanding of what they meant. I knew they were both big events that altered my world.

Mrs. Griffin died this last week. She was 92. I had not seen or spoken to her for close to 30 years. But in the course of those years my mind has gone back to that first grade class room many times. Yes, teaching is important. Teachers do make a difference. Thanks, Mrs. Griffin.

"Turning Thanks"

On this Thanksgiving eve I am reflecting upon the anticipation and excitement I had for this holiday when growing up. We would get up early and make the two hour trip from our home in Georgetown, KY to my grandparent’s farm near London, KY. I always loved the activities of my grandfather’s farm. Upon our arrival we could find my grandmother busy at work in the kitchen. My grandmother was a wonderful cook. My favorite food she made on thanksgiving was cornbread dressing complete with onions and celery and spices and of course the giblets. For those of you who are unsophisticated, giblets are the edible inner organs of a foul typically including the heart, gizzard, liver and the neck. It’s the stuff you find wrapped up or bagged up and stuffed into the inner cavity of your thanksgiving bird. My grandmother always made the dressing into patties and then baked them and we would eat the leftover dressing patties all day as if they were candy. There was always fruit salad and for some reason my father received the task of cutting up the fruit. Usually we could find my grandfather at the tobacco barn where he would be stripping the cured tobacco leaves from the stalks in preparation for market. I would be there with him, helping, and enjoying the smell and the warmth of the fire in the potbellied stove. Since dinner was usually a little late on Thanksgiving we could get in a good half day of labor and work up a good appetite. Thanksgiving was one of the rare times my grandmother would get out her good table cloth and make use of her good silverware and china. It was one of the few times we had the privilege of sitting at the big table in the dinning room. My grandfather would take his place at the head of the table and we would each take the places assigned to us. My grandfather would then look at my father and say “Larry, turn thanks”. My father would pray and we would enjoy the feast.

This is the first thanksgiving in my 56 years that I will not be able to see or to make a phone call to my father. He will be at a different banquet table that I do not yet have access to. But when I sit down with my loved ones to enjoy our thanksgiving meal I am certain I will remember him when I “turn thanks”.

November 22, 1963

I was six years old. I was in my first grade class room in the basement of the East Bernstadt School in East Bernstadt, KY. My teacher, Mrs. Wilma Griffith got our attention and told us the news. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed. I do not remember much about how the class responded. Nor am I able to get in touch with the thoughts I myself would have had. I just knew that a bad thing had happened. I knew that my folks had not voted for Mr. Kennedy, though I think at least my mother would have liked to. But we were Baptist and in 1960 voting for a Catholic was a gulf that many, maybe most, Baptist could not span. Knowing what I know about the electoral preference of our county the president certainly would not have won the majority among the folks I lived around. Yet even as a six year old I sensed that people liked the president. At least they were intrigued with him. There was something fascinating about a young president with a winning smile and impressive family. It was a beautiful picture. Though people did not understand his background or his faith they enjoyed the glamour that accompanied him. Now he was gone. In one day he was gone, just gone.

This was before the days of the 24 hour news cycle but it would not have mattered anyway. We did not have a television. We got our news from the radio and the telephone and who ever might drop by to talk with us. Everybody was talking about it. The news sank in.

School was dismissed the day of the president’s funeral. My mother out of her own curiosity and probably because she wanted her children to have the educational experience made arrangements for us to watch the funeral. Our pastor, Rev. E. P. Whitt had a television. Pastor Whitt and his wife Sylvia lived in a house trailer in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church. Mother piled all four of us in the car and took us to pastor Whitt’s home. There sitting on the floor in the living room of a house trailer parked in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church we watched the proceedings of President Kennedy’s funeral. Now isn’t that something. A group of Baptist huddled around a television on church property watching a Catholic president’s funeral. Maybe that great gulf between Baptists and Catholics could be spanned.

Interacting with Yesteryear

I visited with my mother Thursday. Actually it is probably not correct to say that we visited. She has Alzheimer’s and has not known me for over two years. But I was there. We were in each other’s presence. The last two times I saw her she lay in a semi-sleep and barely said a word. But today she talked constantly. Some of her words were intelligible. Sometimes she could string 6 or 7 words together in the right order. I sat by her side and listened to her for an hour and a half. I tried to decipher a little of what might be going on in her mind. It was as if a reel to reel recording was being played over and over inside of her. She is part of the recording and she is interacting with the characters and verbalizing her part of the recording. The recording is obviously worn and it skips a lot. And from what I can pick up she changes to different reels at times. I make a few feeble attempts to let her know I am there but I cannot release her from the recording that has become a reality within her. So I give up and just listen. From what I can tell the recording she is interacting with took place sometime in her early adulthood. Once I heard her refer to her two kids. If she just had two, one of them would have been me. Once I heard her cite an antiquated phone # 550-J. I am left to wonder whose phone # that might have been. Finally it is time for me to go. I tell her goodbye. I tell her I love her. I kiss her on the forehead. I leave saddened but thankful. I had not heard my mother groan or moan or scream. I had simply witnessed her interact with a reality of a yesteryear. She seemed content in that reality.

Perfect Attendance

I began my academic career at the East Bernstadt School in East Bernstadt KY. East Bernstadt is an independent K through 8 school district that encompasses the small town of East Bernstadt and a small portion of rural area that surrounds it. All the other schools in Laurel County KY are a part of the Laurel County School District. In spite of a wide variety of pressures East Bernstadt has proudly and stubbornly maintained her independence and has thrived in the process.

My family actually lived right on the edge of the school district but the district was lenient and if you lived close to the line and could catch the bus you could choose to either go to the appropriate Laurel County school, which my case would have been Pittsburg, or to East Bernstadt. My mother claimed that East Bernstadt was superior and when it came time for me to go to first grade she decided that I would go there. My mother made a big deal out of starting school. We went together and bought some new clothes and some necessary school supplies including a red-checkered satchel with a shoulder strap so I could bring my papers home for her inspection. On the first day of school I got dressed in my new clothes, mother combed my hair and we sat on the front porch to wait on the bus. Our neighbor, Mr. Napier, was the bus driver and I would be the second stop and the second student on the bus each morning. When the bus came I put my red-checkered satchel on my shoulder and walked out and boarded the bus. My mother caught the moment with her Brownie-Hawkeye camera. I have the picture to prove it. I was on my way in pursuit of grand academic achievements as a first grader at East Bernstadt School.

The school and the gymnasium were made of brown sandstone. This was of no interest to me at the time but judging from the time of construction and the architecture I am wondering if they were built as part of the Works Progress Administration (WPA). There was one class for each grade at the school and the first grade classroom was in the basement. My first grade teacher was Mrs. Wilma Griffin. I had never met her before but I was told that she was my father’s first cousin which made her my second cousin. Her father and my grandfather were half brothers, sons of the same father but of different mothers. So I guess that made her my half-second cousin or should it be my second half-cousin. Genealogy aside she was my teacher and I was determined to not disappoint so I worked hard and did OK in first grade.

Spring rolled around and I had not missed any days of school. I was working real hard to have perfect attendance. But I got to school one morning and noticed that the glands under my chin were swollen and a little sore. I felt fine otherwise but I made mention of this to Mrs. Griffin and she mentioned it to the principle Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason was afraid that I might have the mumps and he decided to take me home. I got into the front seat of his pickup truck and as the journey home began I started to protest that I did not want to go home because it would mean that I did not have perfect attendance. He said to me “Son, you made it to school this morning. If you are better tomorrow and can come to school and do not miss anymore this will not count against you and you will get your certificate for perfect attendance”. I took him at his word and I told my mother what he had said and the next morning I felt fine. I put my red-checkered satchel on my shoulder, got on the bus and went to school. A few days before the school year was over Mr. Mason came into our first grade classroom and asked Mrs. Griffin how many people in her class had perfect attendance? My ears perked up. She got out her record book and read the names of 3 people and my name was not one of them. I held up my hand and boldly said “Mr. Mason, I have perfect attendance. You took me home early one day but you told me if I did not miss anymore days that since I had made the effort to come to school that it would not count against me and I have been here everyday”. He said “You are right. I remember that. You will get your perfect attendance certificate”. There was an award ceremony scheduled an evening or two after that and I went home and told my mother that we had to go to school that night because I was going to get a certificate. That created a bit of a problem because by this time my Dad had taken a different job in a distant town and therefore he was not home. My mother got someone to watch my younger siblings and we went to the awards ceremony. I remember sitting in the bleachers waiting to hear my name so I could go get my certificate. When it came time for my name to be called Mr. Mason pointed out the importance of perfect attendance and told the crowd the story of my desire and persistence and how I had remembered and held him to his word. The crowd chuckled I am sure. I jumped from the bleachers with a thud and walked up and received my perfect attendance certificate.

That was the only year I attended East Bernstadt School. By the time second grade started we had moved 100 miles away. I think it was probably the only year I ever had perfect attendance. But I have reflected upon that experience over the years and I have often wondered about the value of perfection. Truth is none of us are perfect and that probably does not matter very much. There were more than 20 kids in my first grade class that did not get perfect attendance and I am guessing the got along fine without it. Of those of us who did get recognized for perfect attendance at least one of us accomplished that feat due to a minor technicality. Indeed none of us are perfect and to even get close to being perfect means that someone has cut us some slack and grant us a measure of grace.