Molly's Getting Married

    This weekend I will step into a role I will never play again. Ever.  Now I've been in plenty of plays and productions and my parts have been big, little and everything in between, but this role, well this one is a big one.  I will never get the chance to do this again and I am SO honored this beautiful young lady is allowing me the opportunity.....I get to be a "Godmother of the Bride".   Yep, Molly is getting married.  My only link to being the mother of a girl is being married this weekend.   And unlike the old adage that tells me, as mother of the groom.  I will need to wear beige and be quiet when Scott gets married, this role has allowed me to help with the tulle, the ribbon, glitter, spray paint, and glorious trips to Hobby Lobby!  Being invited as she chose her dress was another precious moment.....and I will forever remember that fun morning last summer.  What seemed like a long time ago last August, has quietly crept upon us and this Saturday, June 4, 2016 my amazing Goddaughter will become Mrs. Pirner.  How did this happen?  

     Molly Jo Shanks was born in Aberdeen, SD on June 27, 1989.  I remember being so excited.  There were no Snapchat stories, no texts, or Facebook posts announcing her arrival.  Brian called our stationary phone (not even a cordless one--those were for rich people, not teachers)  probably from some payphone in the lobby at St. Luke's Hospital.  No matter how we heard the news, I remember it being an amazing day.  I had to leave that morning to go pick up Mark at a basketball camp in Huron, so we didn't get to see her right away, but when we did,  it was love at first sight.  If you think she is beautiful now(she is), I can assure you she arrived looking just the same.  

    Molly is the perfect combination of her mother's wit and beauty, and father's wise ways and concern for the common good.  She is kind, committed, and loves deeply.  She believes in kids, worries about those less fortunate than her, cheers for the underdog, and loves a great pair of shoes, literature, and  bottles of wine.  Our hearts have been filled with pride as she moved on to earn her teaching degree and has spent the last three years filling minds with her love of reading and language arts.  She's been a cheer coach, play director, annual staff mentor, and more.  She spends here days with middle school kids (hence, the wine bottles) and her nights correcting essays and planning lessons.  We are so very proud to call her our Goddaughter. She and Tate shared some similarities that come with being the oldest child---some of the tweets they shared involved poking fun at their mothers and our lack of being able to be on time for family trips.  I must admit--they were right about me, and if Melissa contests this, well.....she's lying.  We have good intentions, we just run by a different clock sometimes.  

   

     On Saturday, Molly will walk down the aisle to meet her soulmate--a fine young man named Grayson.  He is a wonderful young man--quiet, kind, funny, charming, and sweet. (And a huge wrestling fan.)  We love him.  He makes her laugh, calms her down when things get rocky, and rolls easily with the tides that all relationships bring. When he proposed,  he had no idea that he would also be getting a Godmother-in-law,  so say a prayer for this dear sweet man.  No one should have two mother-in-laws.....:)   (You're stuck with me, Grayson.  Sorry) 

    When Molly graduated from high school in 2008 I babbled on in a letter.  I still have this on my computer and as I re-read it this afternoon, I found myself wanting to tell her all of these same things as she prepares to take the next step in her amazing life. Ironically in college, she found some amazing friends who just happen to be Winner girls.  (Seriously, who can go wrong with Winner girls?)   I flashed back to all the things that have changed the past eight years....there are faces we will miss Saturday.  Tate and Janet come instantly to mind.   There are places and people who have exited both Molly and Grayson's life, yet have played a huge role in the people they have become.   Life is like that---things are not forever, but the people, places, and experiences we share traveling through life make us who we are....the good, the bad, the funny, the infuriating--all of these things have brought Molly and Grayson to where they are today.   Never forget that....and never forget to take it all in, even the bad stuff.  Grab onto all of it.... for life is short. 

    I am not sure if you still have this letter dear Molly, so here it is again.  A few corrections were made. ( If you have the time to grade it, I'm guessing it's about an  88% for the mechanics, but 100% filled with love.)  I cannot wait to celebrate with you this weekend. You are loved more than you will ever know.  

Dear Molly,

            I have written and rewritten this letter a million times in my head.  Now that it is time to put it on paper, I find myself stumped.  I need to tell you something wonderful or smart or wise….I am your Godmother for goodness sake.  Isn’t that my job?  I am then reminded that you are already all of those things-- a wonderful young lady  with a strong head on her shoulders.  Much wiser than I ever was when your mom and I crossed paths twenty some years ago and this extraordinary friendship between us began.

            I would love to start from the beginning but paper and time would not allow for this to happen.  There is simply too much to say.   Your mom was one of the first new people I met when I transferred to Northern in 1983.  She was a “seasoned” NSU coed—she knew the ropes, the “hangouts” and the day to day things that made life at Northern so much fun.  We spent the first year hanging out during the week and heading out on the weekends.  Narcel was our common bond and we found out we had many similar interests, likes and dislikes and we were both traveling down the road of education, much to our fathers’ dismay.  We were sad to head out for home the summer that May of 1984, but we looked forward to the fall.

            As our years at Northern passed, your mom became one of my very good friends.  We did things that bring laughter to only our ears and memories.  We had many of those “you had to be there” moments that only college kids experience.  We did things we pray you NEVER do, and if you do end up in these moments, neither of us will want to hear about it.  Secretly though, I know we both pray you have those very same experiences and adventures with your college buddies. 

            I was there the night your parents met, shared in their wedding day and watched as they headed out “west” to make real money in Dupree.  ($15,500 a year….big time in 1987,  believe it or not.)  We enjoyed heading out to Dupree and spending the weekends in the brown house.  No matter how many of us showed up, there always seemed to be room in the “expansive” 2 bedroom rental called the Shanks’ home!

            But the most exciting time in our friendship came the summer of 1989 when your parents came to Roscoe to spend the summer with us.  Your dad was working on his administration degree and they were both awaiting your arrival.  As your dad went to class, your mom and I read magazines, laughed, watched “The Guiding Light”, took walks and ate Magic Middle cookies your dad would bring back from Kessler’s in Aberdeen. We were more about the cookies and TV than the walks, but it was probably one of the craziest, laziest Junes I have ever spent.  Your mom was experiencing something new with this motherhood gig and I watched from the sidelines, not ready to begin my journey yet.  We looked at books from the doctor and worried if your mom would make to the hospital in time.  We wondered what would happen when it was actually time for you to arrive….If your mom was scared or nervous, she never let on.  She was excited for your birth and anxious to become your mother.

            What an honor it was to be asked to be your Godparents. It was the first “grown up” thing Mark and I did as a couple.  You were a beautiful baby, Molly.  Dark hair, skin and beautiful, bright piercing eyes lit up your face.  You’re the only person on earth (besides my own boys) who would compel me to hitch a ride home to Roscoe in Donnie Farley’s semi trailer JUST so I could come to your baby shower. (Mark was coaching and couldn’t come get me…only bring me over the weekend. Donnie was my only way home!)

            We have watched as you have grown throughout the years, Molly.  Pictures, occasional visits and a “few” phone calls have kept us in touch throughout the early years.  We always wanted to see you more than time and space allowed.  As I had my own babies and started my own journey into motherhood, it was tougher to see you regularly. Luckily, your mom and I talk “every once in a while” on the phone and she would keep me posted on your happenings.

            As we have watched you grow up from afar, Molly, we have been so very proud of the wonderful young lady you have become.  We are still honored to be your Godparents and pray for your safety each night.  We know you are excited to begin this new phase of your life.  You are ready thanks to your teachers and family and your preparation for this time has been time well spent.  As you head out into the big world, we will continue to pray for your safety and we will look forward to seeing all the wonderful things you will do with your opportunities.

            As much as I want things to be perfect for you Molly, I pray even more that you find a friend like I have in your mother.  No matter how far apart we have lived, no matter what is going on in our lives, no matter our opinions on things, your mom is the person I can hardly wait to tell when things are going good or bad, crazy or sane.  She was there when my dad died, has listened and shared in the miseries of being a “coach’s wife” and understands the craziness of the world I have chosen for myself.  Your dad and Mark have had their fill of our phone bills and the money we’ve spent keeping in touch, but I will look back and know it may be some of the best money I’ve ever spent.  I want you to have that friend, Molly.  That is my prayer for you.  It may sound simple and rather vague right now, but I know you will understand this as you continue to make your way in this crazy world…..

            God Bless You as you graduate today.  We hope you are surrounded always by kind people, a loving family and good health.  Take care and know we are always here for you no matter what you need….We love you, Molly.      

Love, Your Godmother    

            

The Bride and Bonita....

It is a recurring theme as of late--multiple places to be and only one me.  If only I had a plane......or a personal pilot....or both!

My first year in Timber Lake I was assigned to teach a section of third grade.  The split was the result of a large class and I would be across the desk from 15 eager, anxious students each morning.   Changes in the district were common due to the remote nature of the town and I was lucky enough to be one of these new faces who had eagerly signed on the dotted line. I was so grateful to have gotten a position and get all of us moved to Timber Lake that I would have agreed to do just about anything. Well, not physics.  Physics would have been a huge stretch.  Think bigger than huge....that's the word I'm looking for. 

Timber Lake Schools (TLS) is a remarkable place.  Absolutely incredible folks fill the classrooms, kitchens, offices, buses, homes, and desks within the district. They are  humble humans--proud of their community, their facilities, and especially, their kids.  And they should be.  It was an honor to be on staff at TLS and we  met some of our closest friends and colleagues during our years there.  The school was often a starting point for many young teachers, so having a new third grade teacher was nothing new.  But there was also a changing of the guard in the principal's office.  And that, well that was a big deal. 

Mrs. Bonita Ehly had loyally served the district for many years.  First as a top notch English teacher and later as the elementary principal.  She was a force to be reckoned with--honestly, I was terrified of her after my initial interview that April.  My husband had been working there already and warned me she was no nonsense and that her staff and students knew what was expected from them .  She was in charge and if you didn't like it, well, tough.  Mrs. Ehly demanded respect, manners, and punctuality--from staff and students alike.  (  And often took a bad rap for demanding these things.....sigh.)  She loved beautiful clothing, jewelry, and fancy things.  Impeccably dressed and accessorized, she was a formidable face behind the principal's desk for staff and students.  You knew where you stood--AND  where you shouldn't be standing. 

As I was preparing my new classroom one warm August morning, I saw someone standing outside the door..  She seemed to be watching me through the window.  Once we made eye contact, she smiled and came through the closed door.  We had just moved in the day before, and both my house and this classroom were a mess.  I climbed over the boxes and said hello.  Immediately, I remembered who this lady was---it was the lady from my interview, Mrs. Ehly.  She extended her hand and welcomed me to the school.  We engaged in the small talk that strangers make when they don't know what they should be talking about--the weather, the move, how old were my children...all those mindless things that had nothing to do with this visit.  Finally, Mrs. Ehly broke the ice.  I will never forget what she said to me. "Mrs. Senftner, my granddaughter Kasidee is going to be in your class this year and I want you to know just how much I love her."  It was a powerful statement made by a powerful lady.  I think I stammered something about a Grandma's love and Mrs. Ehly continued, "Kasidee is going to drive you crazy some days, but she has a good heart and just needs some extra love and attention.  I want you to know how excited she is to be in your room and I want you to know I am too."  Honestly, I was truly taken back.  I had not gotten the vibe that Mrs. Ehly was that impressed with my interview back in April, so to hear this was a surprise. (Most coaches wives only get jobs because their married to "the coach" you know...I've heard this more than once and it's tough to swallow.) 

I assured Mrs. Ehly that, I too, was looking forward to the challenge of a new school and the students that would be mine this year. I told her I was looking forward to meeting Kasidee and her classmates.  She acknowledged the time I needed to prepare and said she didn't want to keep me, but wanted me to know her visit was purely personal--a grandma keeping watch on her precious granddaughter.  I imagined her newly found retirement was going to take some getting used to.  You don't spend a majority of your life "going to school"  each day and simply stop without some adjustment period.  The excitement of a new school year is forever ingrained in the minds of educators. The rest of the world sees January as the beginning of their new year while most teachers will look to August or September as the beginning of theirs.  I think Mrs. Ehly was both truly concerned about Kasidee and perhaps pondering the fact that this new year was marching on without her....

Kasidee came through the door that first morning with wide eyes and a big smile.  Her long legs carried a slight frame and she towered over most of the other third graders.  She had a sprinkling of freckles and the ever popular short bob haircut complete with a spirited pony tail and matching ribbon,  bouncing on top of her head.  There was an awkward grace about her---she had not yet grown into her arms and legs and I could tell without even having playground duty yet that she was athletic and busy.  (Mark has trained me to scout the playground for these types.... just kidding, but I was right.  She could run and jump! )  To say Kasidee found her desk and chair comfortable would be stretching the truth.n She loved school and her classmates, but the confines of the classroom were her nemesis.  As the year went on, we had a few rough patches--some friend "fights" and I had rules that this beautiful, spirited girl disagreed with (those difficult ones like writing your name on your paper and raising your hand to speak..ha ha)  but she was a joy to have in class.  She worked hard.  She played hard.  But most importantly, she loved deeply and wanted only to be accepted and loved by her friends.  Teachers are not supposed to  admit to having  favorite classes, but I must.  This group was one of my all time favorites. (I continue to hear from them via Facebook and I hope they know how special that is to this old Panther/Gorilla/Hornet, Charger.)  

Kasidee soared as she grew and matured.  Nana, as Kasidee called Mrs, Ehly, checked in with me occasionally.  She seemed to know where to draw the line between grandma and teacher, but loved hearing stories and quips of Kasidee's days.  Mrs. Ehly wore the title of Grandma as a badge of honor and she told me more than once how difficult it had been being both principal and Grandma to the four Traversie kids walking the halls.  I don't know this for sure as we never discussed that, but I think it was probably part of the reason she retired.....her role as a Grandma was entirely more important that any principal's desk. Those four children, along with her daughter Kellie and husband Melvin, were her world.  

Due to a change in administration late in the year, Mrs. Ehly's service was needed to fill in as principal. Of course, she stepped up and took on the role, although I did hear Mr. Seiler had to do a little begging...:)  I was hesitant and a bit nervous.  I had been moved to the sixth grade as they there was another large class needing split into two groups.  I was hoping I would be effective in this new role and hoping the new "old" principal and I would find common ground.  My concerns were unfounded.  Mrs. Ehly was amazing. I  heard from other teachers that she was different when she came back--a bit softer, a bit less worried about the little things, but still brought the same professionalism and polish to the job that was needed and appreciated.  She was supportive of her staff and behind her "tough" demeanor, she truly cared about kids.  She knew an education was needed to reach their potential and she knew when and how to push kids to be their best.  

Kasidee found success in athletics as she grew and matured.  Her class was talented and active and she was part of many great things that happened at TLS. Even though we had moved to Onida,  I was able to see her play a few ball games and every time, I recalled those long legs and bobbing pony tail walking into my room that August morning.  She proudly sported a Charger State Tourney shirt during the girls championship game in 2007 and cheered like crazy. That meant a lot to me.    She also went on to battle back from multiple knee surgeries and played basketball in college.  I know Nana was so proud of her......We received beautiful handwritten cards and letters from Mrs. Ehly after we moved.  Always positive or congratulatory, these cards were an extension of Mrs. Ehly's grace and love.  In an age of emails and texts, written notes are treasures and these certainly were. 

As I write this, Kasidee is preparing for her wedding tomorrow.  As soon as I heard the news that she was being married, I  thought of how much joy this event would have brought to her beloved Nana.  She would have enjoyed the preparation and planning--the dresses, the flowers, the decorations-- all would have brought much joy to her.  I envisioned her shopping for the perfect dress and the matching accessories.  I am sad that Mrs. Ehly is missing this beautiful day. While she is ever present in their hearts and minds, her physical presence will be missed tomorrow.  She met the modern day villain-cancer- and died on April 30, 2011 after a valiant battle.  I can only imagine how much she is missed by those that loved her most.  

I think if Mrs. Ehly were here today, she may have had a talk with the Julian, Kasidee's fiance. I think it would have gone similar to our first conversation.....  It probably would have  gone something like this....
 "Julian, Kasidee is going to drive you crazy some days, but she has a good heart and just needs some extra love and attention.  I want you to know how excited she is to be in your wife, and I want you to know I am excited for both of you." 

Kasidee and Julian--May you enjoy a beautiful day and may you feel the presence of those watching from above.  She is with you....always.  Love, "Mrs. Senftner" 
  

Carl and Buck

There are times I wish I could be two or three places at once.  Last month on a sunny April Saturday was one of these times. Currently, I’m a groupie on the Sully Buttes Class of 2016 “Farewell Tour” —something I would not miss for the world.  These days spent following Scott (and the 2011 Tour with Tate) will always be the best days of our lives.  This tour is slowing down, and I am sad.   Each event this year has been dutifully noted, sighed over, often times cried over, photographed, and will eventually be scrapbooked.  (Hey, a girl can dream can’t she?)  That particular Saturday, had I not been following Scott, I would have been in Winner.  I really wish it would have been possible to be in Winner.

High school activities played a huge role in my life.  I loved it all—music, sports, drama, journalism, student council, and being a Winner Warrior provided me with a vast wealth of experiences, friends, and memories.  My teachers, coaches, directors, and advisors during these days were people I greatly admired.   They were a close knit group and I often baby sat their beautiful babies when they gathered on Friday nights or traveled to out of town ball games.  (And now as an educator, I totally get the Friday night gatherings!)  I fully attribute my chosen career to many of these fine humans.  I admired them.  I wanted to be them.  And I would guess, without them even knowing it, they were a huge influence in my life.  Especially my track coaches Mr. Buckmiller and Mr. Carlson --affectionately known in area track circles  as “Buck” and “Carl”.( Just so they know, I could never call them Buck and Carl. Ever….) They will forever be Coach Buckmiller and Coach Carlson.  Always….

In my present state, I am sure the vision of me running and jumping is a stretch of the imagination for some, MOST of you.  Try to block that image out and just hang with me here because this is about two amazing coaches, not my “glory days”. (Which were not that glorious, but boy, were they fun.)  I was a decent track athlete and loved the sport.  Some of it came naturally for me—I had a little spring to my jump and found a home in the long jump pit.  I had some speed and that led me to the sprinting events, flights of low hurdles, and relays.  Track was a huge deal at WHS.  It was not uncommon to be stacked three to a seat in the old yellow, cheese box bus on meet days.  The bright gold, hooded sweatshirts screened boldly in deep purple with Winner Track on the front, were a popular look in town starting each year in March.  I loved being issued my track sweats---partially for the comfort, partially because it was cool to have a uniform, but mostly because I just loved track.  Being on the track team was big deal to me.  And I attribute that to the older athletes I admired and to the coaches running the program at the time—Coach Buckmiller and Coach Carlson.

I was a constant on the track team throughout my school career.  (I also continued to report each year for basketball—poor Coach Wanner and Coach Spicer.  I’m sure they dreamed of me hanging up my high tops and focusing only on cheerleading in the fall, but I was no quitter.  I loved being a Lady Warrior hoopster, too!)   In eighth grade, as with many younger female track athletes, I was allowed to run some high school meets.  They slipped us into individual events here and there to score points.  Being allowed to travel and interact with the high school kids was a new concept to the handful of us they hauled to the meets.  The sights and sounds of these trips are easily recalled in my mind each spring.  I just loved going to compete in track meets. 

There was a way to behave and compete at track meets and Coach Buckmiller demanded this from us. He was firm, but fair. Expectations were clear and goals were set for each meet.   It was not a day to throw Frisbees or lounge around in camp.  We didn’t have today’s fancy tents or gear, and if it was raining, they hauled the huge football jackets out and we pulled those on over our sweats.  We were there to represent our school and cheer each other on.  And if you weren’t running the mile relay, you best be standing somewhere around the oval cheering on your fellow Warriors who were running the finale.  We were a team and I loved that. 

Now I would be lying if I told you I loved the work behind the sport. The practices were intense, long, and often, gut wrenching----and I was a sprinter. I can’t imagine what those long distance folk were going through.  The infamous 100-200-300-400 climb and the descent back down 400-300-200-100, all set with a timed goal caused much grief and grumbling. (Imagine spending your afternoons listening to the collective whining from groups of teenage girls…)   I can assure you no Warrior boy trackster will forget the “4 Minute Mile” practice—usually held a few days before the regions.  This dreaded event involved running four, 400 meter races under 60 seconds. (The boys didn’t whine, they cursed…..and not always under their breath, which often led to another trip around the all-weather oval.)  But we were always in shape and ready for the season thanks to the two guys in the bleachers holding the stop watches.

On Tuesday I went to watch my favorite shot put/discus guy and his teammates compete for the Chargers.  My other favorite purple and gold team also attended this meet and there he was, my hurdle/track coach—Mr. Carlson.  Coach C. spent a lot of time turning me into a hurdler, and I will never forget his passion and praise for my successes or the times he wanted to rightfully choke me, but kept smiling.   He was a standout hurdler for Canton and went on to SDSU where he tore up the track and the NCC in his day.  I am not lying when I say I bet Coach could still run a flight of hurdles.   He looks just the same as he did when he was putting up with me all those years ago.  I’m happy for him as he gets the pleasure of coaching his grandson—another amazing athlete who I imagine looks just like Mr. Carlson did back in his C-Hawk days.  His oldest grandson winds down an amazing career at Augustana this spring and I know Coach Carlson relished the opportunity to watch him run the past five years.   I hope these current Warrior track athletes and their families appreciate what they have roaming their sidelines.  This man has unselfishly shared his time and talents for over 35 years with kids representing the 57580….To say it was wonderful to see Coach Carlson in action on Tuesday is an understatement.  When I was lucky enough to be coaching track in Timber Lake I would have kids running hurdles and I’d always want to take them to Winner to have Coach Carlson show them something or help them improve.  I did my best to help them, but knew he would have been just what they needed if only we lived closer.  And the best thing about this is I know he would have unselfishly helped them.  That’s who Coach Carlson is….a helper.

Last month, Coach Buckmiller was inducted into the Winner High School Hall of Fame.  He took his well deserved spot in the Hall joining Coach Carlson and others.  Coach Buckmiller was small in stature but loomed large in wisdom and integrity.  He spent his career making the Warriors a reputable track program.  There were titles won, expectations established, and facilities he over saw in his years at the helm of the Warriors.  One of my favorite stories was the time one of my treasured friends overslept on our way to a big meet.  Mr. Buckmiller drove the bus over to her house and Coach Carlson swiftly jumped out and ran up to the door to awaken our much needed relay girl.  As Coach C. was knocking on the door to their home, Coach Buckmiller sarcastically announced, “Can Diana come out and play?”  Those of us on the bus were not sure if we should laugh or not.  We knew he was annoyed.   As we waited, he made eye contact with some of us via the rearview mirror and we saw his small grin.  That was the sign—we could giggle.  And we did.  And we went on to have a great day on the track.   Coach Buckmiller’s quiet, serious demeanor was often misinterpreted by his athletes.  And certainly not appreciated until we were further down the roads we had chosen.  His planning, preparation, and personality were just we needed to be successful and I know most of never told him this….so I am doing it now.  Better late than never as they say…..Thank you Coach Buckmiller.

As I wind up my written ramblings, as a coach’s wife I would be remiss to ignore the lovely ladies that married these two special guys.  They spent track meet weekends alone at home with the children while these coaches spent time with everyone else’s kids.  Lucky for me I had the great pleasure of babysitting and teaching swimming lessons to both family’s beautiful kids so I got to know these fine women.  Melba and Becca—thank you.  Thank you for being THAT coach’s wife—the supportive ones who took care of things at home while the guys were off to meets all over the state. (or fishing….or golfing…)   If there was a Coach’s Wife Hall of Fame you’d be both be in the first class of honorees.

I’m sorry I missed both Coach Carlson’s and Coach Buckmiller’s Hall of Fame inductions.  There is only one person that would have kept me from attending…..and in fitting fashion he qualified for state that day in the shot put.  I think you would both approve. 

Keeping The Faith

Before New Year’s Day 2013, I had no idea how unimportant certain things would become in my world. Stuff that used to keep me up nights isn’t even a blip on my radar anymore. I had no idea how life would suddenly and tragically change and any and all plans you had for your life were erased, never to be written again.   I mean, haven’t we all read those inspirational posters on Facebook how “God is in control” or “There is a plan and you just have to believe in that plan”?  We toss these phrases around as we fill out sympathy cards or messages we share with online sympathy registers.  I know I wrote something of this nature numerous times over the years.  It sounded good. I believe it.  And using God’s plan provided me a solid backup in expressing my condolences to crushed families as they prepared to say goodbye to their loved ones. In my beliefs, which I can assure you have been tested like nothing I can describe these past few years, I do believe God is in control. But to truly live this is an entirely different beast.

And my faith has been tested….a lot.

  

They say that when you lose a child, among the countless things you mourn are the things that “didn’t happen”—the holidays they are missing, the weddings, births and every day events that will never take place…everything.   I can assure you this is true. And this will forever be a part of which we are. 

 I miss my old life….a lot.

And please don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes my heart hurts when I see Tate’s college friends trickling home for the holidays. The engagement announcements, new babies, new jobs, and opportunities-all the amazing things his friends are experiencing right now bring a bittersweet feeling.   As much as I love to see them, they are very important to us and we love each of them for so many different reasons, but their physical presence is a visual reminder that he should be here too.  He should be home from college.  He should be on a Spring Break trip, or watching the Final Four in the family room, or groaning about something I did that drove him crazy (I was REALLY good at driving him crazy—it took very little effort on my part, and I admit I sometimes looked for the opportunity to bother him). He should be crawling in late after a night at the local establishments with his high school friends.   He should be here giving Scott advice (or grief) about his life choices and performances.   His absence was so very apparent in Huron a few weeks ago.  Tate loved to watch his dad’s teams and loved to talk defense with Mark.  He should have been right there on the court at the end, beaming with pride, and cheering for the Chargers. He should be here enjoying life.  And our sad reality, crushing reality actually, is he is not. 

And I hate that…..a lot.

 What I am mourning, as of late, is the fact that Tate should be student teaching right now. Right now, he should be in the midst of a social studies room filled with kids counting the days down until summer.  He should have helped with some winter coaching, possibly even some track, and taken tickets and filled out pages of lesson plans, and scrambled each morning to make it to school on time.  He should be filling out resumes, attending job fairs, and conferring with his cooperating teacher about how he could be improving, getting better, and observing how to do things.  We would have shared stories over Easter, offered advice, and more than likely, had to offer up some cash to get him through the semester.   I looked forward to seeing what he thought of a school setting.  I looked forward to seeing how he liked coaching—not just the X’s and O’s, but the athlete and parent dynamics.  I looked forward to seeing where he would choose to apply for a job.   A small school?  A big one?  Out of state? Would he have wanted to be a graduate assistant?  He had a honorable, amazing group of coaches at NSU—it would have been easy to see him wanting to follow their leads.  There were few people he spoke as highly of as Coach Dosch.  I can easily have seen him wanting to follow his path.  Late at night, my mind buzzes with scenarios and situations of things that will never be.  And that is what is most difficult for me right now. 

And often late at night I cry…..a lot.

I have tried to express how wonderful the people around us were after Tate’s death.  There are truly no words to adequately express or describe the kindness, care, generosity, and love we were surrounded by in the days following our tragedy.  The cards and messages were heartfelt and sincere and provided us with hope and amazing memories.  I read every word in these cards. Every.Single.Word.  From officials, and coaches, and family and friends.  From people we barely knew and from the dear friends who have stood by us on our grief journey.   South Dakota is a really small state no matter what the mileage reads from Buffalo to Vermilion.  The fraternity of educators and coaches who reached out to us was astounding.  One of the cards that brought me, in particular, great comfort was from a family we knew through athletics.  They spoke about how they had watched Tate compete with their son through the years and how they had just seen him at the State-U football game that November. Tate had stopped to visit with the couple. (He had a little of his mama in him!)  This kind man, a school administrator, wrote how after speaking with Tate he had told his wife he hoped to get the chance to hire him as teacher some day.  That was such a comfort at the time.   I have been scanning the educational job listings of late, and wondering where my second generation teacher-coach would be looking for a job? 

And my mind wanders back to that beautiful card…a lot.

On Friday, Tate will be celebrating his heavenly birthday.  If he were here, student teaching, I would have pulled a “Grandma Alice” and ordered a cake or goodies and had it sent to his school.  Maybe for the kids…maybe for the teacher’s lounge (where anything is appreciated and deemed edible, no matter how it tastes).  I would have had a balloon delivered or something equally as annoying.

He would have been so embarrassed…..(Yet secretly pleased, as he loved celebrating his birthday.)

And I would have loved that…….a lot.  

U Hauls, Horse Trailers, Trophies and Tears

      I often write about the wonderful people I’ve met throughout my gift of time on earth….For someone raised by a man who rarely left Tripp County, I have quite a collection of addresses and school spirit apparel.  Mark’s job has taken us to four very different, very unique places and I wouldn’t trade the moving boxes or t-shirts for any amount of money. The people and places we’ve experienced are part of who we are as a family.  A colossal part of who we are....

      I won’t admit that I gleefully packed boxes when these moves were announced because I didn’t.  Every move brought some turbulence, tough decisions, and tears—usually lots of tears.   I remember the first move as if it were yesterday.  We packed up our collection of junky furniture, clothes, and a portable dishwasher into an old horse trailer and threw our large collection of clothes into my old blue, two-door Caprice Classic.  (Mark had arrived in Roscoe with a single suitcase and single bed from his college house.  That was it. He didn’t even have a car at that time.  Partially filling the horse trailer meant we were big time, right?) While in Roscoe, the most amazing thing happened to us.   Alvin and Jeanne Schmitt became our adopted parents—literally.   They took us in, treated us like family, and I’m sure shook their heads in wonder many nights after our visits.  We were young and dumb.   If the walls in their basement could talk, it would be an iTunes comedy podcast selling like hotcakes.  I laugh just thinking about the craziness and stories we shared in their beloved basement. Their door was always open, as were their hearts…not to mention their pocketbooks.  They were generous with their time and money to many people, but especially Mark and I.    I was dreading our good bye, but we bravely pulled into their gas station and said our farewells and made promises to call and visit.  Jeanne and I cried the entire time before heading back to the vehicles.   Mark turned the borrowed pickup and trailer south towards Gregory, and I dutifully followed in the old car, clothes and dishes pilled in all around me.   I sobbed all the way to the interstate. 

     Right after Mark broke the news that he was resigning his Gregory position and moving to Timber Lake, we attended one of his former player’s wedding that weekend. The bride was the daughter of the athletic director, and the family warmly welcomed us to town when we moved.  We looked forward to celebrating her special day.  Mark had just resigned that week and news was starting to make its way throughout town.   The wedding reception was in Dallas and like many of these fun affairs; the empty bottles outnumbered the guests probably four to one.  My ratio may or may not  have been ten to one. As the evening gave way to the early morning, I remember climbing on top of a chair and asking the DJ to play to “Stand By Your Man” and proclaiming (loudly) that this should be the Coach’s Wife National Anthem.  Yes, I was that wedding guest……(Sorry Wendy and Troy)   

     The situation we were facing with this move was that we needed to sell our home and I had agreed to teach music for the year, so we decided that the boys and I would stay in Gregory and Mark would take the Timber Lake job.   I look back now and wonder why I was so confident that I could do this…I can still remember Mark packing up and leaving that August morning.  We were sitting around the kitchen table in our dream house and Tate gave Mark a big hug, smiled, and said “See you on Saturday, Dad.”  I decided to put on a brave face and join Tate in his cheerful acceptance of our decision to be a weekend family.  I sent Mark up the road with a sack lunch and big hug.  Scott was napping, Tate was outside playing basketball on his Little Tykes hoop, and I sat at the kitchen table and bawled.  What were we thinking?   We survived that year and soon it was time to sell our much loved home and join Mark in Timber Lake.  We were excited to be under one roof again, but sad to leave our friends and neighbors.  We had moved up in the world, now able to afford a U-Haul and the amount of stuff had quadrupled…..and the home we were moving into was about one fourth the size of our current home.  As we packed the last toy, stool, and tote into the U-Haul, our dear neighbors made their way over.  The first glimpse of Teresa, Haley, and Zach walking towards us on the sidewalk brought tears, which quickly turned into small sobs.  One of my last memories of our house in Gregory is  all of standing on the broken sidewalk in front of our home hugging and crying in the hot sun.  We were leaving behind some great neighbors and a house we had worked hard to make our own.   We loaded up and like they say in the history books, “Head West Young Man (Family)”.  We were all Panthers now.

    Our time in Timber Lake was amazing.  What our home lacked in space, was easily made up by the people and experiences we shared during our seven years there.  We loved our church, our colleagues, and the kids we were blessed with each day in our classrooms.  Were things perfect?  Not at all, but things were good.  The decision to move was the most difficult thing we had faced as a couple at that time.  Telling our friends and the school that we were moving was really, really difficult.  The job at Sully Buttes was a chance to get a few hours closer to my mom in Winner and offered a new challenge for Mark.  It was another great school for the boys and we looked at this move as another opportunity we needed to take.  We had made life-long friends during our time in Timber Lake and we knew these bonds would remain, no matter where we were having our mail delivered….The community had a wonderful send off for us, and as I started to say something, I burst into tears.  You’d think by the time I had followed this coach to his fourth school, I’d be able to keep it together, but I was a blubbering mess. We were leaving dear friends and a top notch school and we weren’t sure we were doing the right thing, but there we were—moving again. We loaded Chuck Maher’s horse trailer and our vehicles with out growing collection of “stuff”  and we made the trek south to Onida in June of 2005.

    I’ve watched with pride, fear, and sometimes, heartache, as Mark has approached his career of teaching and coaching.  He has spent years to get where he is at today.   Coaching is his passion—the scouting, the tapes, the practices and preparing, are who he is.   His recent success is the TEAM’S success—not his alone. Coaches know you need that perfect combination of talent, ability, effort, and luck to have the season we just enjoyed as Charger fans.  He knows he has been blessed with great talent over the years.  He knows he’s made mistakes.  He knows not everyone is going to like his decisions.  He understands that a parent’s first job is to be their child’s advocate.   He knows these days, with the teams he is fortunate enough to coach, need to be cherished and celebrated for life is short. 

     The trophy-hoisting guy many of you may have seen on television or in the newspapers the past few weeks has not always been on top.  Trust me, I know.  I was there the year he was 3-17.   And the year he was told by the principal that they wanted the program to take another direction—without him.  And the time some locals took a petition around, similar to the church scene in “Hooisers”, to have him removed. (They were unsuccessful—not as dramatic as Jimmy announcing he was going to play, but nonetheless, he kept his job!)   I’ve answered the door to find angry parents wanting to discuss things with him.  I’ve fielded phone calls from mad mamas and read articles about his character and his alleged running up the score. So to see his small grin and that big championship trophy makes my heart smile… because things haven’t always been so golden for my favorite coach.

     What I really want people to know, is that this guy I married a “few” years ago, kept at it.  He kept working, believed in himself and his philosophy, even when he was knocked around a few times.  Coaching changes happen at every level and he understood this.   It would have been easy to quit, stay put, and just walk away.   There are certainly easier, quicker ways to make $4000 than coaching basketball.  And I will admit, I sometimes wondered if all of this was worth it—the late nights, the holidays held captive by practices, and the upset parents.   Was it really worth it?   That coach I call mine, decided it was, and he kept at it.  And he was right.  It has been worth it.  And I’m pretty darn proud of him for doing so because I cannot imagine our life without our coaching friends and experiences.  There is no price tag or tax bracket that can adequately sum up the value of the people we have met along this journey….

     So if you happen to run across this rambling story, the real message here for you young guys and gals just staring out is this: Keep coaching.  Keep sharing your time and your talents and ignore the crazy. And if you’re married to, or dating a coach?    Hang in there….they need you to be there.  Embrace your role as cheerleader, support staff, open gym fill in supervisor, secretary, and keeper of the lucky (navy) shirt.   Enjoy these kids and families and don’t turn it into a competition between “you” and the “team”.   We need coaches and we need coaching families.  Too many great folk are deciding to jump ship….I encourage you to grab a life jacket and jump on….it’s a wonderful ride. 

Remembering Ruth's Imprint

    Nine times out of ten, in my house at least, if you see a properly frosted cake or a pan of bars, it’s probably not for family consumption.  It is “going” somewhere—a bake sale, church event, or more often than I care to recognize as of late, a grieving family.  My boys will ask—“Can we eat this?” and while I should be embarrassed, it’s a fair question.  I do not bake that much—Now, I can whip up a mean casserole, but cakes, cookies, and bars—that’s not my gig so the boys know it’s serious if they see a frosted anything on the counter.  Do not touch. 

   I  remember my mom telling me once (as she headed out the door with  a cake, card and Kleenex in tote) that you get to a point in your life and you realize that many of the people you met when you were younger were now dying and how difficult this time in your life can be.    She told me how tough it was saying goodbye to the friends and family who so warmly welcomed her to Winner when she and dad moved back in 1963.  Mom was a rare transplant to Tripp County--  a  Seattle- native, United Airlines stewardess who fell in love with a USD coed after a random meeting in Deadwood one July weekend.  A whirlwind romance, Justice of Peace wedding in November 1962 followed by a small apartment in Denver comprised their early days as a couple, but the draw of raising a family in South Dakota found them relocating to Winner with my dad’s family business.   Talk about culture shock….talk about true love…talk about the buzz in town when the news that “Bobby Daughters married a stewardess and is moving home” hit the coffee shop and the sale barn circles (you small town folk will get what I mean by “buzz”) ….but my mom openly embraced the Winner community and was affectionately welcomed by my amazing Aunt Birdie and her friends.  She even lived in her mother-in-law’s basement for 10 months….if that doesn’t define true love, well, I don’t know what does.

    Sadly, I’m currently at that point in my life that Mom spoke about.  Many of the wonderful people I met as youngster or younger version of me, aren’t here anymore.  I’m not sure if it’s been a difficult year or that I’m just more aware of this now, but we have been saying goodbye to too many as of late…. family friends, former coaches,  classmate’s parents, co-workers, and acquaintances have been on our minds and their loved ones in our hearts these past months.  And you’re right, Mom, it’s tough. 

    But recalling these folk  has brought back many fond memories….

    I seem to know a lot of people. It’s rare I go somewhere without running into someone I know.  I’m teased about this often and friends will comment, “My gosh, do you know everyone?”  I like to think I come by this naturally as I watched my dear mom strike up conversations with strangers in line at stores and ball games.  And some I can attribute to our career path.   We have taught and coached in some amazing places.  In each of those places you meet the families and friends that are the fabric of that community.  And I would challenge anyone to find better people to hang out with than cheering fans.  This doesn’t mean they’ve always loved the “coach” or his “decisions”, because I can write an entirely different post on that subject…J   But on the whole, fans are a pretty good bunch to hang with….especially grandmas.  Especially Grandma Ruth Taggart…Ruth was a Gregory/Winner/Springview, NE fan extraordinaire with a posse of grandkids  she dutifully followed over the river and through the woods to their many events. And I was lucky enough to be in the stands with her for many of these events.

      Now Ruth had a smile and laugh that could ignite a power plant.  Truly one of the most sincere, funny people I’ve had the pleasure to cross paths with…and most of our travels involved sports and the Gorillas.  Her posse was talented and amazing—both her kids and grandkids alike.  They worked hard, competed, and made you glad to have them on your side.  And with Ruth cheering for you, you were never going to be on the short end no matter what the scoreboard said. 

We were young and childless when we arrived in Gregory and between me teaching in Winner and Mark with the Gorillas, we had plenty of options for games to attend, and we did, often going to events five nights a week.   Mark worked at the Hansen-Andersen camps in the summer and that would leave me solo to wander over to the baseball diamond to watch the local Teener team.  They were good—really good.  And the families and fans were as much fun as you could have in the summer. And did we have fun!

     One steamy, hot, Saturday afternoon in July the Gregory Teener faithful traveled south to Herrick for a regional baseball game.  Like all small town “stadiums”, the seating was limited.  The Herrick folk had staked out the good spots with their vehicles (rightfully so!) and the rest of us filled the bleachers and hauled folding chairs towards the diamond. Remember there were no canvas, fold-up in a bag, cup holder included, lawn chairs at this time.  These were the old nylon-webbed, aluminum framed, folding lawn chairs.   Or if you were really fancy, the plastic webbed, colorful, tri-fold chaise chair we all used when we hit the river in the summer.  These are the chairs I happened to have in the car that warm July day.  And Ruth and I decided to stretch out and watch the game on these yellow and orange chairs. 

The temps continued to rise and water was a hot commodity.  The blistering heat that day ensured that the plastic chairs were sweating right along with the Gregory faithful.   The usual sunflower seed- Diet Coke- bathroom routine was in full force and soon it was my turn to find the bathroom.  As I stood up from the chair, I could hear Ruth giggling so I looked back and soon I was laughing right along with her. (You had to join in as her smile and giggle were infectious!)  There in the yellow and orange woven lawn chair was the imprint of my backside…..now if you’ve never seen that sagging view, consider yourself lucky.  In the middle of our laughter Ruth states, “God, I am going to stop drinking water.  I don’t want to have to get up and look at the imprint I will leave.”  We were howling….the combination of the soft, sagging colorful chair with my backside imprint, a bag of seeds, a Diet Coke, and a baseball game and we were laughing like we were seated at a comedy show in Vegas.  We claimed we would be the last two to leave the park so no one but us would see the sagging chairs.     I never look at one of those lawn chairs that I don’t think of Ruth and smile and laugh.  She was a beautiful soul inside and out.

     On Saturday, the amazing Irish-Catholic, fun-loving gang Ruth and Paul brought to this earth will be gathering to say goodbye.  It will be a glorious collection of grand people who will miss the matriarch of Taggart gatherings.  As for me, I hope the weather holds…because I’m going to sit outside in a lawn chair and think back to all those hours in the bleachers and on the sidelines with Ruth.  And when I arise from the chair---and look back at the “imprint” my generous backside made, I’m going to remember the imprint her generous spirit and laugh left with me.  And then I’m going to laugh.    Because I know Ruth would want me to….. Bless you Taggarts.  You are in my prayers.

Schweitzer Stadium...Celebrating Paul

Most of us remember the pick-up football, baseball and soccer games we played as a kid.  Always in someone's back yard and everyone seemed to know where the meeting space was located.  The games (and rules) were often spontaneous and very competitive--teams were chosen quickly and somehow everyone knew when they were "over" without the aid of a time clock.....pure simplicity.

 

On the magical street where I was raised, we had a few different "stadiums"--we played kickball in our front yard where the route around the bases began at our cement front porch to the crab apple tree to the small slope by the street and finally  reaching third involved getting to a  corner of the drive way.  The Star Light, Moon Light game was always at the Van Cleave house and always started when the sun went down.  We circled their home late into the night until our moms hollered for us to come inside. 

Our dads used to laugh (or maybe I should say sigh) as they watched us wear a beaten path through their manicured lawns. We had great lawns. (When you’re eight years old you think this just happens.  When you’re a home owner, you know differently)    You could literally see an outline of the bases on our front lawn and I know we ruined more than one gutter over at Van Cleave's as we romped our way through the summers. The luscious green grass our dads so carefully watered and clipped each week, were victims of Keds tennis shoes and kick balls.   It was a great time in my life....

My boys were lucky enough to find one of these "stadiums" when we moved to Timber Lake.  It was a gorgeous stretch of soft, green grass and it was right in the middle of what I liked to call the Bermuda Triangle—from the Mettler house, to the White residence, to 401 C Street (our home).  You knew the kids were in that vicinity,  but you may not always find them right away!  The carefully-tended, beautifully-manicured lawn belonged to Paul and Joann Schweitzer. 

Now Paul and Joann were no strangers to kids playing on their lawn—they were veterans having brought eleven children into this world. They had children and grandchildren (and maybe even great-grandchildren) by the time we moved to Timber Lake.    They were busy and active and loving and kind.  Paul was a car salesman and loved to play cards.   Joann was an amazing cook and grandma-extraordinaire.  They were active in their parish and community and just two of the reasons Timber Lake will forever be “home” to us.   And they liked their nice green grass……

I noticed the game on my way home from school one day.  I had picked Scott up from daycare and noticed the Bermuda Triangle gang down the block.  An array of bikes (dropped randomly on Paul’s emerald carpet lawn-gasp!) and a vigorous game of football was in full force.  At least ten kids were running, rolling, and ripping up Paul’s lawn.  I drove by and took inventory of the damage these “football stars” were doing to the “field” and waited for Tate to run home soon.  Surely Paul or Joann would call the game and save this grass.  None of these future Panthers even shared his last name (uncommon in close-knit Timber Lake) It was just a random collection of kids, bikes, and a football tearing up his lawn.  

 Tate came home about forty five minutes later and verbally replayed the game in shades of local KOLY sportscaster Pat Morrison.  I smiled because I knew that feeling of playing for hours with my friends—just a ball, some buddies, and big, beautiful plot of green grass.  Then I mentioned to him that maybe they should find another spot to play because Mr. Schweitzer’s grass was so nice.  I asked him if they had asked permission to play in their yard.  He looked at me like I was nuts. (He was seven, in first grade—that wasn’t supposed to happen for at least a few more years, right?)  He said, “Mom, it’s like the best grass and he doesn’t even care if we play there.  Meagan (Mettler) said so.”  Well, come on Lynn-If third grade, athletic, awesome Meagan said so, then it must be true.  I mean, really, who was I to question the location of the game?

The games continued throughout the following weeks.  We were settling into our new community—learning names, routines, and meeting many amazing new families through our job at the school.  Girls basketball was still being played in the fall so Mark was busy coaching.  School events were very important in Timber Lake—a central hub of activity for the community.  Concerts, plays (extraordinary productions year after year—thank you Bobbi ), and ball games all brought people to town and provided hours of entertainment for those of us lucky enough to be in the stands.  About a month into our move I was sitting by one of Paul’s daughters, Patty, at a basketball game.  She had warmly welcomed us to town immediately, and had been helpful with our transition to town.  I told Patty that I was really feeling bad about the continuous NFL league that was tearing up her folks’ lawn each night after school.  She started laughing, almost choking on her soda.  She called over to her brother Steve as I sat laughing at her response to my apology.  Steve came over and she told him what I had said.  He smirked and said, “We’ve had more than a few laughs about that, Lynn.”  I repeated how I really should just go over and tell the “league” to move off the lawn, but I hadn’t and the lawn was continuing to be hammered on each night.   Patty said she and her siblings had laughed how they were pretty sure that Paul would have NEVER h let his own kids play on his beautiful lawn, but was fine with this group of ruffians running wild on his grass four to five nights a week.   Patty and Steve went on to tell me how he had gone so far to  readjust his automatic sprinkler timers so they didn’t go off in mid afternoon because he didn’t want the kids to have to play in wet grass OR have it accidentally go off during one of the “contests”.  We had a great laugh and discussed how grand children change parents.  Everything is fair game when a grandchild is involved.  I like to think Paul and Joann enjoyed the activity and action that the kids brought to their afternoons….the spirit and joy children bring our lives is often overlooked as we are raising them, but grand children —well they seem to be a reminder of everything good in the world.  And we all need that reminder from time to time.  

I was so sad to hear of Paul’s death this week.  He lost his battle with Alzheimer’s disease.  He had the love and support of his family and caregivers as he did battle and I can only imagine how difficult it was to watch someone you love trapped in the grip of this horrendous disease.  I pray as they begin to celebrate Paul’s life tomorrow they remember how much he loved them all.   I am also sad I will be unable to attend Paul’s funeral Mass at Holy Cross—another place graced by Paul each Saturday night for many years.  You see, the littlest guy to tear up Paul’s grass is on a college visit and I’m accompanying him.  I think Paul would be okay with this, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking of his family as they begin to say goodbye. 

I’m not really sure when the games ended, but the lawn was a popular place for the Senftner boys for a majority of the time we lived in Timber Lake.  Scott begged Tate to let him tag along as he got older, and more often than not, the crew met at Schweitzer Field.  The games got rougher, the bikes bigger, and yet the grass was always a beautiful  emerald green.  That’s how I will always remember it.  And I will never forget the amazing “groundskeeper” that made it all possible.  God bless you Paul…..