What I mean to say…
I recently attended my sixty-year high school class reunion. While making the three-hundred-mile trip across the state to the small farming town where I have not lived for the last forty years, I kept asking myself, “Why? What do I expect?” I only maintain contact with two of the forty-two members of Reardan High School class of 1966. I have no relatives there; the three cousins who had been in school with me have also moved away. Since my brother’s death a decade ago, the family farm is now owned and occupied by strangers who, fortunately, are restoring it after years of neglect.
The weekend began on Friday with lunch at a restaurant in one of the two local Tribal Casinos. Of the six women in attendance, I was the only one who had entered the school district as a ninth grader—the rest had twelve years of school together and talked about shared experiences of 4-H club, learning to twirl batons, attending church, and living on neighboring farms. As the conversation drifted to plans for the next day, the head of the planning committee began reviewing the details of the parade and program portion of the class lunch to follow.
I listened as she made judgmental comments and unfounded speculation about why people had not responded to the invitation, or why they had NEVER come to any class reunion. I gently suggested that it would be interesting to hear what was drawing people here, now. She said there would be time to “share what we have been doing since leaving high school.” Since many of my classmates were living in the farmhouses where they grew up, still attended church together, and saw each other frequently, information sharing seemed unnecessary. I made several suggestions — “maybe it would be interesting to share how growing up in a close-knit rural setting had formed us,” or “what were the highlights from our high school years.” Did we have favorite teachers? Funny stories to share? What was the worst thing that happened?
Saturday morning, thirteen of us climbed onto a utility trailer, sat on cold metal folding chairs in sixty-degree temperatures under cloudy skies, clutching coats with every gust of wind, waiting an hour to move into place for the six-block parade. From start to finish, we were back at the school in fifteen minutes and were joined by spouses for a generous catered lunch.
After handing out awards to those who had traveled the farthest—from New York—been married the longest—58 years—married the shortest—2 years—had the most grandchildren and great-grandchildren—maybe 11 or so…had the most jobs—more than I could count—I won the award for having been married the most times—4!
When the sharing of “what we have been doing since leaving high school,” began, I heard half a dozen versions of “I-went-to college (or joined the service and went to Vietnam), got married, had several kids, worked on the farm, or taught school, or became a nuclear scientist (seriously), enjoyed/disliked my career, had a good and interesting life, retired, and now spend time traveling/cruising/going-south-for-the-winter, and love my children/grandchildren/greatgrandchildren.” By the time I was called on to speak, I easily could have said—“Let me explain about being married four times.
“I left high school and went to college. Two years later I got married to an Army officer who was headed to Vietnam. We had two daughters. He was killed in August of 1972.
“I went back to college, and got married in December of 1973 to a veteran of the Vietnam War. We never managed to heal from the ways the war changed us. After our divorce, I went back to college.
” In 1983, I got married again to another former Army officer, who had spent four years stationed in Germany before leaving the service to attend seminary. I finished my bachelor’s degree, and with husband number three’s support, I went to seminary and was ordained a United Methodist Pastor. I spent twenty-seven years serving churches, got my Doctor of Ministry Degree, and retired to provide full-time care for that husband, who then died two and one-half years later from kidney disease and heart failure.
” In 2019 I married again, this time to a law enforcement officer (who graduated from WSU, like several of you did). We spend our time together traveling, gardening, reading and writing, and, thanks to Covid 19, I have made more than forty quilts for children, grandchildren, step-grandchildren, friends, several charity auctions, and numerous foster kids.”
Instead, I went off script. 1) I did not want to repeat the litany of success; 2) I was certain no one was really listening or interested, and 3) I found myself needing to articulate something of greater substance.
And so, I said, “Listening to your stories, I keep thinking you should write a book, which, by the way, I did.” What came out next reminded me that I am primarily a non-linear thinker but a good storyteller. I immediately felt self-conscious about what may seem like self-promotion, and overwhelmed by emotion, but kept talking, wanting others to hear my story.
“When I retired from active ministry, I enrolled in creative writing classes. I kept rewriting versions of my first husband’s death in Vietnam. Two different writing instructors and a circle of fellow writers encouraged me to continue the stories. Fatefully, shortly after being widowed for the second time, I was contacted by Colonel Rich Debany, commander of the Springfield, PA American Legion. There was to be a Memorial Day Celebration honoring William G. Chandler, my first husband and father of two of my children, 47 years after his death. He explained that since none of Bill’s family remained in the Philadelphia area, we were hard to locate. Thank goodness for the internet. He gave me the details, assuming I would not come. When I mentioned the event to my daughters, we decided we all needed to go, especially Bill’s two grandsons, one of whom is his namesake. As Colonel Debany and I had many conversations over the months before the event, I realized how deeply I had buried my grief, how determined I had been to move forward and raise my children, and how quickly I had had to grow up. I had never told the stories of our devotion to each other, and what we had planned for our future together.”
By this time, I was fumbling over words, waiting for some affirmation that I was seen and understood by the people who briefly knew me, who may have had similar experiences of loss. As I talked about the book revealing bad choices I had made, everyone laughed, and I feared I embarrassed my husband. I needed the conversation to go deeper, to hear from others about those first years of growing up and away from home. It wasn’t going to happen. My voice shaking, I concluded that I had no “people” in the area except for my high school classmates.
What I meant to say was I was working out the answer to my own question: “How did that small community form me? Why did I come back?”
Leaving for home, we drove past the place that shaped me, still in my heart.
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