30 for 30--Happy 30th Birthday Tate Benjamin

 

In a perfect world, today we would be celebrating all things Tate.    But as we are reminded daily, in so many ways, it is not a perfect world, and Tate is not here.  Thirty years ago today, after the world’s longest pregnancy, Tate Benjamin Senftner made his long-awaited presence. This day brings a whirlwind of sadness, fond memories, and regrettably, an empty feeling of all the things that he’s missed.  The things that we’ve missed…Today is difficult day. 

To say Tate was a sports crazed fanatic is an understatement.  He simply loved everything about athletics and competing.   I have written often of the notebook pages filled with brackets, formations, plays, potential match ups, Final Four stats, playoff power points, and of course, original plays he would draw up. In a tote in the basement, one of the things we treasure are his Wolves Football notes.  Pages and pages of scout plans and potential game situations.   I know just enough to know an enormous amount of time goes into preparing for games each week—at every level, but especially the college level.  I can decipher a few plays, but it is pretty much like me reading Italian. ( I’m Czech and Irish)  But I love to look at it.  Just seeing his neat, precise handwriting, I smile at the happiness all these symbols and X’s and O’s brought him.  Even as little boy, he loved to write things down.   Color a picture?  Of heck no. He hated coloring.   But making lists and writing things down was something he greatly enjoyed. Tate was drawn to watching scouting film with his dad, or sometimes riding along with Mark if the games were close enough to get home at a reasonable time.  As he got older, he liked to discuss and debate with his dad about various defensive and offensive strategies.  They were often on the same page, but not always. 

ESPN (one of 3 channels our television is acclimated to landing on most days) produced an incredible series starting sometime around 2007 I believe.  Tate loved watching these in-depth episodes about various sports figures and historical events told from the athlete’s point of view.   There were shows about rivalries and big games.  Episodes exposing scandals and behind the scenes happenings in sports history.   Even as little boy, Tate wasn’t into many cartoon characters.  He liked Rugrats and some Power Ranger action now and then, but animated movies and shows were not his thing.  He loved shows with real people.  (Barney was one of his favorites! ) He was drawn to history as he grew older and loved newspapers and sports magazines.  Facts, statistics, and biographies of sports figures intrigued him. 30 for 30 was right up his alley.  I can only imagine how much he would have LOVED the Michael Jordan series “The Last Dance”.

As humans we all have stories to share.  There is a 30 for 30 episode that exists in all of us.  Conquering a fear, surviving unimaginable events, the simple joy of our day to day lives, living through challenges, new jobs, broken dreams, and amazing celebrations—all a story waiting to be shared.  There are sad stories too—of loss, illness, disappointments.   Not all the 30 for 30 episodes were feel good stories, but all gave the viewers an inside look at humanity.  And mistakes.  And losses. And victories.  And life.  Regrettably, Tate’s 30 for 30 would more than likely focus on his death.   He was so much more than the manner in which he died, but regrettably, many will only remember his heartbreaking decision. And I hate that.    A kind, beautiful young man struggling with life all while hiding behind a beautiful smile.  Tate’s decision will never make sense, but it does not change anything about the life we were honored in sharing with him.  To know he would be 30 today hurts. To think back on everything he’s missed—good and bad—is numbing.  To have been given the great gift of being his mother is one of my life’s greatest blessing.  I miss his earthly presence every second of every day.

So, on this difficult day, I am going to choose to think of all the joy Tate brought to our lives—his laugh, his welcoming smile, the competitive drive that introduced him to so many amazing people, coaches, and places, his kind heart, and his kind soul.  Tate had an incredible gift of meeting and greeting others—his welcoming nature helped him gather many friends in his short life.   His story, while entirely too short, will be forever shared by those that loved him most. If you are reading this, I hope you knew him.    We probably each have something we remember that would add to the fabric of his 30 for 30 episode.  Some funny events, some frustrating ones, but hopefully he left something with you that you will never forget. 

If you stumbled upon this, never forget—The world needs YOU.  You are someone’s entire world.  Reach out and let someone know you are hurting.  I assure you people truly care.  We need you here. 

PS  And Coach K…….let’s get this done this weekend.  GO DUKE!!!! (Tate and I watched his first Final Four in the hospital in 1992!   I like to think he was born to be a Duke fan.  His dad and brother, not so much.  )

Thanks Coach

    

          A few weeks ago I received a text from a friend telling me some very sad news.  It was right before my classes started and I looked to down to read the message.  It stopped me in my tracks and some tears started forming in tired eyes.  The bell was about to ring, so  I put my phone in the bag and headed down to class ready to channel the energy entering the room. Concert season is upon us and when you’re a music teacher (Technically a music minor with a teaching degree…) you have to make use of every second you get with kids.   We sang Christmas songs in preparation for our big night and despite the joy coming from these young musicians, I could not get the text and nor its message out of my mind. 

       As the day went on, my phone continued to buzz with text messages from people sharing this news.  It was being shared on Twitter, and Facebook, and the newspaper websites with a variety of emojis depending on how you felt about the news.  As I watched this story make its way through the social media realm, it continued to bother me immensely--both as a coaching spouse and as someone who greatly admired this guy.  I spent my lunch hour combing through Twitter and responding to folks who were as shocked and saddened as I was by the news that had resonated from the Barnett Center this morning….There was going to be a new football coach at Northern. 

      Tate first met Coach Tom Dosch his senior year sometime in February 2011.  He and his dad took a trip up to campus and were invited to meet with Coach Dosch about a chance to walk on with Wolves Football.  He was not heavily recruited, but Coach Dosch had invited him up to campus and Tate was interested in seeing what he had to say.  He had already planned on going to NSU to study banking and was starting to look at scholarship opportunities and all the things that go with enrolling in college, so this was a perfect chance to line some of these things up for the coming fall.   I look back now and just shake my head.  We were clueless about many of the processes and things that needed to be done. 

            They returned home and I asked how things went.  Both of my guys said it went fine.  They had offered him a chance to come walk on and join the Wolves and he was going to do so.  Tate told me he liked Coach Dosch and that he was very friendly and had a really deep voice.  I was getting no information and it was driving me crazy.  I asked Mark how it went and he said, “Fine. If he wants to try to play, they will let him.  It’s up to him.”  So much for a delightful, detailed description of their day on campus.  Both of them had practice that afternoon, so the trip was quick.  They had no time for my questions or my concerns.  #BoyMomReality

            During March Madness, the Chargers were fortunate enough to earn a berth in the State B Tournament held in Aberdeen at the beautiful Barnett Center.  Tate’s team went on to knock off the undefeated, top-seeded team in the opening round.  This will always be one of my favorite games and memories of Tate’s short life.  I still remember sitting there watching all of this unfold and how excited we were.  (Conversely, I do NOT remember a lot of the rest of the evening/early morning though for if there is one thing we Charger fans enjoy, it is a state tournament in Aberdeen or Huron. J )  While we were heading down to the court level, giddy with excitement about our huge win, I looked over saw Mark ahead of me talking to a gentleman wearing an NSU polo.   When I caught up to Mark, I asked him who the gentleman was he had been talking to and he told me it was Coach Dosch.  My first official TD sighting…

          The “six degrees of separation” thing is so very true in the Midwest.  You start visiting with someone and they know someone that you know, or they work with someone you know, or your cousin lives right next door to them, and instantly you have this connection.  Well it was no different with Coach Dosch for Tate.  His best friend’s mom  was Coach Dosch’s sister’s best friend growing up in Strasburg, ND—birthplace of Lawrence Welk, home to the Blue Room, and a beautiful Catholic church to name a few things the strong German community boasts.   She knew both Coach Dosch and his family very well like so many of us do in small towns. When Tina spoke of Coach Dosch she referred to him as “Tommy” just like she had growing up.   This used to send Tate over the top—a combination of laughter and exasperation.   He once told me there would never be a day that he would look at that guy and think his name was “Tommy”.  Then he’d start laughing—that beautiful giggle and smile, shaking his head while he imagined himself ever calling him anything but Coach.      Tate usually had a strong sense of respecting authority—not all the time because no kid is perfect—but even then, before really getting to know Coach Dosch, he respected both his position and his presence. 

         The fall camp reporting date came and the Explorer left early one August morning.  I remember everything about that morning.  We did not go up to campus right away because they were not actually moving into their assigned housing.  We were coming up later the next week, and bringing the bigger items to help him move in.    Like most college freshman, I think he was shocked at the amount of time, physicality, and effort this was going to take.  But whenever we heard from him, which was not often, (#BoyMomReality) he spoke highly of Coach Dosch and the staff.  He was meeting amazing new friends, learning a new position, and totally immersed in football—something he loved. I figured he would love the meetings because from the time he was little boy,  Tate always was drawing up plays on paper and loved scouting game tape of any kind with his dad.  He might have left with becoming a banker in mind, but I knew eventually he was going to coach. 

         Tate made his way home one Monday afternoon so he could see his little brother play in a football jamboree.  He had not been home yet so we were all very excited to have him home if only for 8 hours.   Coincidentally, earlier that week Tate had contacted me that he had been randomly audited in some NCAA D2 program and Coach Dosch had told him it was not big deal, he just had to prove where some of his local scholarship monies had come from.   I was up early that morning hoping to make him a decent breakfast before he headed back to campus for class.  I wanted to make sure I had the correct information so I emailed Coach Dosch asking him a few questions.  I had to leave for school soon, but like all organized guys, he had immediately answered my questions and assured me we were on the right path to getting the documents he needed.  I went over to the couch where Tate was waking up and relayed the message to him that everything he needed was in the folder on the table.  I assured him it was the right stuff because I had emailed Coach Dosch.  He groaned and I will never forget his comment,   “Please tell me you didn’t email Coach Dosch,” he said. I told him I did and that Coach Dosch had already emailed me back. ( I was so proud to be on top of this issue all before 7:15 am.)  Tate responded, “Really?  Moms do not email D2 football coaches.”    Oops…I had broken some cardinal rule of D2 parent communications I guess.  (And as soon as he drove off, I logged right back on and told Coach Dosch about the entire conversation!  And I have continued to email him since that day…sorry Tate. )

       Tate survived his redshirt season and seemed to be enjoying it.  Winter conditioning was another tough hurdle, but again, we heard very little complaining from him when he called.  I’m not saying he wasn’t grumbling about the early mornings and the workouts, but his roommates took the brunt of that.  We heard about the people and the teammates.  Most of his conversations were about Coach Dosch and the rest of the staff—Coach Mistro, Coach Shafer, Coach Flyger, Coach Hoskins, Coach Holinka,  Coach Tupo.  All guys he respected and admired.  

        As a Wolves football family we had the opportunity to meet these coaches and their families and these people were some of the best folks we’ve crossed paths with in our years following athletics.  If you aren’t a coach, you may not have any idea how involved and invested these coaching families are in the process of building a team.  You live the season—the wins, the losses, the recruiting miles, the early practices, the holidays that really aren’t yours because there is probably a game to prepare for—all of it.  The wives (or husbands) keep things rolling at home while their coach/spouse manage the team.  Your kids share their dad/mom with an entire community/region.  This life can be brutal.  And these folks were some of the first folks I thought of after receiving that text a few weeks ago. 

          Coach Dosch gave the eulogy at Tate’s funeral Mass.  While it meant the world to us, I think it also showed his immense leadership skills and love for his players.   They needed to hear from him that they would get through this.  He was leading his team through adversity for which there was no scout plan.  In the middle of our family’s greatest tragedy, he masterfully shared the good he had seen in Tate.  He got up in a packed gymnasium full of people and spoke eloquently about our dear boy. And we needed to hear those things.   In our grief, we were clinging to his words.  Tate would have been so incredibly proud to hear him speak about his character and abilities.  While I treasure those words, I treasure even more the fact that he had had the opportunity to be led by such a good person.  Coach Dosch is a great leader and a man oozing of integrity and kindness. He has spent his career molding and developing young men into productive, solid citizens.  And sadly, none of this matters. 

        I am not in any positon to hire or fire any coaches at my dear alma mater.  What I believe was a really poor decision for Wolves Football doesn’t matter to anyone making those decisions and I get that.  It’s not my job.  But I do question that so often these decisions are made by someone who has never coached a down, or recruited an athlete, or walked a team through a difficult season or situation.  I’m guessing those who made this decision, didn’t make it lightly, but I still think it was wrong.   All of these folks involved with Wolves Football have been on my mind constantly since that midmorning text a few weeks ago. I keep thinking of how difficult it must be to read on social media that you are being replaced.  Or to see people “liking” these tweets or comments?  That is a tall order to ask of anyone no matter how much integrity they carry.

      I wish the Wolves coaching staff the best of luck as they navigate this difficult time in their career.  I pray their families know so many are keeping them close because, they too, are on this journey.  Our family is so blessed to have crossed paths with you Dosch family.  You mean a whole lot to a whole lot of people…you won the division in our books.  Thank you for everything you have done for our family in the past six years.  There aren’t enough words to adequately thank you…but I tried.   

The Daughter-less Daughters

According to my mom, I wanted my last sibling to be a brother so I could be the “only” girl in our family.   I do not know why I was fixated on this, but I was confident my soon-to-be-sibling (who would arrive in December of my second grade year) was going to be a boy.  His name was going to be Michael or Christopher—something very trendy and cool at the time.   “He” would join brother Teddy as another Daughters “son” and my world would be complete. “The Daughters have a son” word play was a big deal when Teddy arrived in September of 1966.  It even made the Argus Leader—quite a feat in the pre-social media days.  There is a little clipping in a worn family scrapbook with proof of this announcement.

 I do not know why I was so adamant about being the only girl but I do remember that around this same time, I was also obsessed with having a nickname. I’m guessing it was something I had read about as I spent an enormous amount of time reading chapter books.  I used to immerse myself in these adventures.  The Boxcar Children, Trixie Belden, The Little House Series, Beverly Cleary novels—all of these characters hold a special place in my life.  I’m guessing somewhere in my travels through the pages, some beloved character was the only girl in their family and went by a really hip nickname.  Whatever the deal was, I was determined to have a nickname and I just knew the new sibling was going to be a little brother.

 My grandpa had told me that same summer that I had legs “as long as a mosquito” and ignoring his strong simile work there, I grabbed onto the comparison and deemed that “Skeeter” would be the perfect nickname for me.  I tried to make “Skeeter” catch on—telling my family I wanted to be called “Skeeter”.  

(Amy Leigh Daughters arrived on a cold December morning.  I raced to my Grandma Mary’s car at lunchtime that brisk day and I remember her telling me “You have a new sister!”  I was not impressed. And as badly as wanted the nickname thing to stick, despite my pleas and hint dropping at the supper table, no one ever called me “Skeeter”.   Not. One. Person. )

Was all of this "boy love" foreshadowing for my future role as a mom?  As I look back, I think it may have been. 

As I joined the motherhood tribe, I remember being thrilled that our first born was a boy. The old ball coach did not care about the gender and said it publicly.  I remember my heart melting a little bit when he responded to a friend, “I don’t care about the boy or girl thing, we just want a healthy baby.” And he was correct.  We didn’t really discuss gender and we had a heck of time naming the babes once we arrived, but I remember how thrilling it was to hear Dr. Malm announce, “It’s a boy!” that April evening.    My initial motherhood adventure was pre-baby gender announcement parties and ultrasounds. Ultrasounds were not as common as they are now.   People weren’t as apt to find out the gender of their blessed miracle on the way.  The only reason I even had to have an ultrasound was because I ended up needing an appendectomy when I was six months pregnant with Tate.  They wanted to make sure what they thought was the issue was actually that—I needed surgery and they were checking on the baby.  While this sounds like a “back in my day” story, it’s not.  It’s just an observation on how things were done.  (And to tell you the truth, I’m old school—I did not want to know the gender before the birth.  I truly believe this is life’s one great surprise, and well worth the wait.  But I sure do love the creativity and fun in these new gender reveals!💙💗

Tate was followed by Scott and while we hoped more would follow, they did not.  I believed God knew what He was doing blessing me with the title “Boy Mom”.  He knew I would be a terrible example of a domestic engineer for the daughters that never arrived.  He knew my missing make up skills and simple fashion talents were better suited for boys. (But I do love me some shoes…)  I can’t knit, or bake very well….I was never that good at playing Barbie’s or doing my nails. Or sewing.   My daughters would have been floundering through life mascara-less in Nike sweatshirts and capris.  (Wearing very cool shoes though.)  The constant hum of ESPN on the TV and mountain of tennis shoes for every season piled by the door?  Been there.    Khakis and simple polo shirts? Perfect.  The Legos, baseball cards, golf tee collection, the overbearing scent of Axe body spray, and various baseball caps all fit seamlessly into my simple life.  I love my “Boy Mom” life and loved everything about raising the boys.  I would have taken ten of them.   They are my greatest gifts.

But blessedly, we’ve always been surrounded by “daughters”.  The ones you acquire through neighbors, extended family, friendships, and our coaching jobs.  Hoopsters, cheerleaders, managers, a niece, a Goddaughter, coach’s kids, and sweet neighbor girls have filled that spot and we are so thankful for all of them.  Thank goodness we haven’t had to buy Prom dresses for all these beauties, but God knew we needed a little “girl power” in our world—to test our patience, to fill our lives with laughter, and to share with us the love and sweetness you get when you have some extraordinary girls in your life. And we have some of the best.

As previously raved about (rightfully so) in a previous blog post, our Goddaughter Molly has brought us much joy.  She is a busy middle school ELA instructor with a passionate heart for the less fortunate and no tolerance for the madness we are seeing in the world right now.  She was our “first” daughter. :) 

There is Haley.  She was our adorable, auburn-haired, freckle-faced neighbor girl in Gregory.  She spent lots of time with us—especially after Tate was born.  Funny and up for any adventure, Haley (and her brother Zach-or “Jack” as Scott called him) were welcome companions on pool trips to Grandma Alice’s in Winner.  Haley made me laugh often.  Keenly observant and witty, Haley was a welcomed and beloved visitor in the old parsonage we rented.  She is now raising two beautiful little girls of her own after marrying a Winner boy! (You can’t go wrong with a Warrior….)

There is not enough space for me to list the cheerleaders I’ve gotten to call my daughters.  Thanks to Facebook, I have been able to connect and share in many of these young ladies’ lives.  They are raising babies, shining in their careers, and doing amazing things in their adult lives.  We have moved past the cheerleader-coach dynamic to adult friendships, which I deeply cherish.  I spent hours with these ladies—making signs, practices, games, road trips all over South Dakota, parades, limo rides, fundraisers, camps, and making some incredible memories as we cheered on the Gorillas, Panthers, and Chargers.  One of these former cheerleaders, Torrie, will be sending her brilliant daughter across the stage to graduate this weekend.  An enormous amount of time and planning have gone into this event and I have enjoyed watching (via social media) her parent her kids.  We share fears, sarcasm, and have the same poor sense of humor on many, many different things. She is funny and clever and my life is better because of her.

 

When we lived in Timber Lake, there was a small gang of girls who loved to come visit me.  Or should I say my bathtub. The White girls were frequent visitors to our humble abode, which is only fair because the Senftner boys were usually up at their house with their brother CJ.  It was an even swap….or should I say a great deal for me. 😂  One evening they were staying with me while their parents were out at the ranch with Tate and CJ.  I decided to start the bedtime routine at our house by giving them a bath, to which I added some of these colored tablets made for bath water.  The boys called them “tubbies” and they loved using them.  And after this initial introduction to the Crayola “Tubbies”, so did Jessi, Josie and Lexy.  They picked pink for the communal bath and soon we added a blue one to make purple.  They were hooked.   Every once-in-awhile, at no certain time of day, I would see one, two, or all three of the White girls on my porch and they would ask me if they could take a bath.  So in they would come and soon the tub was filled with whatever colored water they chose.  No way was I telling these adopted “daughters” of mine “no”.   (I did forget to communicate with my mom about this routine.  Once she was staying with the boys while we chaperoned a senior trip.  When I called to check in that night she reported that the White girls had come over to see if they could take a bath.  If you know my dear mother at all, you know that she saw the girls’ beautiful brown eyes and raced them through the tiny house to start drawing the water.💗💗 ) 

We have been blessed with some of the best colleagues and professional friendships.  There is something about being a coaching family that leads you to other coaching families.  This is certainly the case with my new state champion daughter, Rynn.  Rynn and I crossed paths via basketball.  Shocking, I know.  Rynn is a beautiful, kind, fierce young lady who brightens your day (or text messages) with her sweet personality.  The very first time I met her, it was love at first sight.  She brightens up the room and her giggle and smile are just the best. She and another darling I like to claim as my own, Reyna, trekked out to Onida last summer to visit me.  It was a simple visit, but meant the world to me.  I loved having their laughter and spirit in the house for even just one night.  We were so very proud of these two and their teammates this past March as we watched them battle, scratch, and claw their way to become state champions.   Rynn will graduate this weekend and we will be there in spirit.  She is going to soar…and we will be right behind you cheering dear girl.   (And please come visit again this summer…and bring Reyna. And the trophy...)

We are in Bismarck this weekend for the graduation of our niece, Marriann. She is the only Senftner granddaughter….the Senftners are heavy on the boy offspring.   While I willingly admit I am wearing my “Aunt Spectacles”, I must tell you there are not enough good things I can say about Marriann.  Her wit, smarts and calm demeanor make you take note right away.  She is a force to be reckoned with in all the very best ways.  Polished, driven, and fiercely competitive, I have marveled at her high school career.  She never stops working –academically or athletically.   She will be attending UMary next fall to study Pre-Med and will be playing soccer for the Marauders.  Marriann spent her first birthday in Denmark and turned two while living in Dubai, before her family returned to the states to live in Bismarck.  And boy are we glad.  While our busy schedules have not allowed us to see you as often as we would have liked, it certainly is fine to have you close.

 

My brother in law Tom was a stay at home dad while the kids were growing up.  I greatly admire both he and Kari in the way they’ve raised their family—simply put, my niece and nephew are amazing kids. This didn’t happen by accident and I know that Tom’s role in this adventure was sometimes tough.  it was not that common to see stay at home dads in the Midwest.  They are the perfect team as far as parents go. 

  

One of my favorite stories about Marriann was when she was a little girl and she was starting a preschool program at the YMCA in Bismarck.  I may have some of this jumbled, but our sweet girl had taken gymnastics and swimming and done other social activities, but was never very far away from her family for very long.  This preschool thing was a big deal—Dad would drop her off and after a few hours, would return to gather his student.  On one particular drive to preschool, as they drove by a landmark house, Marriann told her chauffeur/dad, “Dad, right about here is when my tummy starts to feel funny. It means we’re almost to the Y.”  Obviously, this quiet little girl knew the route to her preschool and had some understandable qualms about climbing out of the car each session.  She and her dad had a great thing going.  Seriously, who decided she needed to go to preschool?  But she ended up loving preschool.  It was just the thought of leaving the comforts and confines of her familiar routine that she was used to that made her tummy feel funny. 

Today we will celebrate all things Marriann at her party, and tomorrow she will walk towards the future as a highly decorated academic from Bismarck St. Mary’s High School.  Hers will be the last class to attend this building as they will open a new campus this fall.  The current St. Mary’s campus is close to the YMCA complex where she first started her journey in formal schooling. 

Now, I’m not sure what route her dad will take on the way to graduation tomorrow, but I have a feeling that it might be his tummy that is feeling a little funny as he drives this course one last time…..You two had a good thing going.  A great thing, actually.  Marriann is ready to rise and will do amazing things.  But it’s harder for us parents to adjust to this fact of life.  Trust me, I know. 

While this “Daughters” gal never had any of her own, I am certainly blessed with so many amazing young ladies who have made our lives richer and better. There are too many to mention and not enough time to write it all down, but know how many of you have blessed my life. 

Now, off to find a pair of sweats and some Birks….it’s Saturday. 😊

Only The Good Die Young....Memories of Billy Joel and Michelle

We are one Warrior smaller.  The Class of 1982, primed and ready for our upcoming 35^th reunion over Homecoming, will be missing one more piece.    Michelle Paige Ferguson lost her valiant battle with brain cancer this past week.  And I am sad. And feeling guilty that I let life get in the way of a visit to an old friend. And I am flooded with faded memories of a beautiful smile and extreme intelligence.  She was witty and kind and so talented—and much more mature than most of us were when we all met a few years ago…..

The Winner School District at one time had an extensive collection of rural schools.  Named for the townships they were located in; they were the place where many of my classmates attended school for grades K-8.   We “town kids” attended grades K-4 at either one of three schools—Eastside, Westside, or Central.  In fifth grade they threw us all together “downtown” at Central School.  Now that, well that was big time.  Four classes, new people, band, PE, and a much bigger playground met us upon our arrival in Grade Five. There seemed to be a little more freedom, too.   I remember it being quite the buzz of social activity at the time.  You saw the kids that lived over on the “other side of town”—the kids you may had heard about or seen at the swimming pool, the baseball diamond or at church or 4H.  Even though Winner was far from a metropolis, the world as we knew it was really our own little neighborhoods, and the carefully drawn school boundaries and boringly-named buildings determined where you spent your first few years of formal education.  I’m not sure any of us even thought about all the others out in the country schools.  And yet I cannot imagine our class without any of them.  As I wrote this I had to think really hard about when it was we all collectively became the (amazing) Class of 82.  Some arrived to the fold in 7^th or 8^th grade, but most completed their education at their township school.

Fast forward to Freshman Year.  For the Class of 1982, that would be the fall of 1978, and it was then that our crew would be expanded to include the Hamill kids, the Plainview posse, the Star Prairie and Ideal kids, and the kids from other places around Tripp County, all leaving the confines of their country school to come to “town school”. (And Michelle? Well she came from the Eden School via Harvard, Massachusetts where her dad had been an engineer before returning to the family farm in Witten in 1976.)  Thinking back, that had to be a huge adjustment for them.  Due to space constraints at the time, the freshmen were housed downtown at the Junior High, so technically, unlike other Freshmen, we were the “big dogs” of the building there…and trust me, we relished that role. It was cool to be a 9^th grader at Winner Junior High.  In my profession, I’ve seen those hungry, excited eyes…. Almost giddy as they wait to “own” the hallways and be assigned the awesome locker spots and preferred study hall seats.  Girls flipping their hair back and guys pushing and shoving their way down the hall so as to announce they have “arrived”.  We were probably the same way…sigh.  By this time were close to 80 strong, and would graduate 86 in May of 1982.

Michelle was someone you liked instantly.  She had a beautiful smile, perfect teeth, and gorgeous olive-colored skin accented by thick black hair.  But even more stunning than her outside beauty, was what you saw on the inside.   She was smart.  And witty and wise.  We warmed the bench on the girls’ basketball team and had a great time doing so…. she made things fun.  I recall being fascinated by her driving ability and her daring spirit.  (Okay, her speeding…daring spirit is code for speeding—it just sounds safer) I cannot for the life of me remember the make or model of her car, but it could fly and she was a really good driver.  She had a maturity about her and could talk to anybody—adults and kids alike.  We were co-editors of the annual our senior year and while I tried to balance cheerleading, a marginal basketball career, school, track, and music activities, she was the one constant that kept things moving forward.  She was the reason it got done.  We both loved our yearbook adviser Mrs. Wranek and by the end of the year, we were pleased with our final project.  Ironically, we both ended up buying the same Prom dress that year (a huge drama in today’s world, but a worthy laugh for the two of us back then) and took a picture for the annual wearing the matching Maurice’s, oh so 80’s, polyester cream gowns. 

  The very first album I ever owned was Billy Joel’s “The Stranger”.  I’m a huge Billy Joel fan.  I love his lyrics, his music, his piano playing… pretty much everything about him.  It was Christmas in 1976 and I was at that difficult present-buying age.  Those of you reading this that have shopped for kids know the age—too old for toys, too picky about clothes, and too young for the grown-up things you thought you needed.   My list no longer involved paging through the Sears Wish Book, earmarking pages of hints for Santa (a.k.a. Bob and Alice) to nestle under the tree on Christmas morning.  I remember seeing the obvious album-shaped package under the tree with a tag penned in my dad’s familiar script “To: Lynn Love, Dad” and was pretty sure it was THE Billy Joel album I had asked for.  Dad was a huge music fan and a great shopper.  I was hopeful  he hadn’t let me down and he hadn’t.  I listened to that disc for hours upon end. I am sure I ruined the needle on the small stereo in my room.  I am pretty sure I could sing the lyrics to the entire collection by the time Christmas break was over.  And I am sure my brother in the bedroom next door was sick of Billy by the 27^th of December.

Michelle also liked Billy Joel.  We were “Carpool Karaoke” before it was a thing.  When Billy Joel’s “Glass Houses” album came out in 1980, we all loved the track “It’s Still Rock-n-Roll to Me”.  My simple plan was to buy the 45 single at Gibson’s or Karl’s when it came out.  Michelle, as always, thought bigger, grander than just having the one single.  She wanted the entire cassette and it was not to be found in Winner. Ever the planner, she had called over to Gregory and found out they had the cassette.  Her plan was to quickly drive down and get the treasured collection of tunes.  She called me and swung by the house (after her 20-plus mile trip to town) where I sprinted to the car with some babysitting money to make my purchase. (And before Alice could ask me what I was doing….very rebel-like for me at the time.)   It was probably the first time I had ever left town without an adult driving.  The trusty car and Michelle’s “daring spirit” made the trip in no time.  We got to the store to find only one cassette left.  Michelle bought the cassette (I would have to wait until Gibson’s pulled through with the loot) and we ripped off the plastic and drove much slower home, singing along and learning Billy’s new tunes.  (Only after stopping to buy a pop at Stukel’s Café and make a few laps up and down our rival school’s Main Street.)  When we later pulled into Winner, I felt like we had been on some wild, exotic adventure, yet it was just another day for Michelle.  Even back then, she was bigger and brighter than many of us…she knew there was more to this old world than the confines of Tripp County or South Dakota.   She would see the world and do great things I was sure.  And she did….After our graduation, she steered her beloved car towards SDSU and began her life as a college co-ed.  But after her freshman year, she realized how much she missed the excitement that big cities and the east coast could provide. So she decided to move to New York to become a nanny.   I remember her calling me and encouraging me to come along and find a nanny job, but I was too chicken—too confined by what I thought I should be doing (life guarding and teaching swimming lessons AGAIN) and declined her offer of adventure.  

 Deep down I was not surprised when I heard Michelle wasn’t returning for her Fall semester at SDSU.  Nor was I surprised when I heard she had enrolled at Long Island University, graduating with an accounting degree that would take her to Pace University Law School.  She passed the bar on the first try (Of course she did J) and began her career of service as a lawyer for a union.  She was soaring….and none of us were surprised.  I like to think that while she was accomplishing all these amazing things, that she sprinkled some of her “South Dakota Nice” through the busy streets and bustling boroughs of her beloved New York City. Certainly these folks had to see how remarkable she was…

I was lucky to reconnect with Michelle through Facebook these past few years.  Her messages were always so funny and upbeat despite her battle with the brain tumors. Even in this battle she was “bigger and brighter” than most.   We discussed our love of Billy Joel and how much she now disliked his popular hit “Only the Good Die Young”.   I totally understood.  She wrote with love about her friends and her “nanny kids”—they were an important part of her life and I could sense the pride she felt in their accomplishments. They were often long conversations and sometimes there were long gaps in the time that passed between them.   I treasure the fact we had this chance to reconnect, and regret I had hadn’t kept in better touch with her the past 20 years. I’m glad we got a chance to visit at our last reunion. And I feel bad I missed her birthday party a few weeks ago when we were moving Scott to college. 

One of my most loved Billy Joel songs is an older, less popular piece, but one of my favorites just the same.  It’s lyrics ring true tonight as I attempt to write this blog….The song, “Summer Highland Falls” tells us we are always what our situations hand us and we are either happy or sad, but we have the choice. 

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known
And I believe there is a time for meditation
In cathedrals of our own

Now I have seen that sad surrender in my mother's eyes
I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us
Its either sadness or euphoria

So as many of the Class of 1982 gather later tonight or on Friday morning, I pray we will take this time to celebrate and remember Michelle.  Remember her fight and grit and her beautiful smile and her kind spirit.  And take some time for mediation and remember how fortunate you are to be living this gig we call life…..and take it all in—the sadness and euphoria.  I’m positive Michelle would want us to.  

Dear Ember--Welcome to the World!

Dear Ember,

      Wow.  That looks so official. Seeing your name in print just looks so real.  You’re not even a month old and I’m writing you a letter. Today is your very first Valentine’s Day.  It seems like we just got the call you had made your much anticipated arrival, but you’re sneaking up on being a month old already!

There is really no way to tell you how long I’ve waited to write you this note.  Probably since 1998?  Or 1999?  That’s when I first met that guy you will soon be calling dad.  He’s doing a wonderful job of keeping us informed of your pure cuteness through pictures and Facebook posts.  Yep.  He’s become THAT dad.  And as someone who will not get to see you very often, I’m thrilled he posts these pictures.  And deep in my heart, I knew he would be THAT dad.  It’s something I love about him. 

I’m not sure when I knew what an amazing dad he was going to be, but it was early in our friendship.  Was it the time we tossed Tate in his front porch late one Sunday night because we had to take Scott to Mobridge for stitches after a head dive into the cast iron, white enameled bath tub?  We had not yet spent a full week in our new home and there we were needing an extra hand for our latest catastrophe.  We did not really know our neighbors.  They were nice folks—all had greeted us warmly, brought delicious muffins with cinnamon butter, and waved often as we started to make our new house a home.  But it was a little early to be asking them to watch our very nervous little first grader.  He had tried to stop Scott from the cannonball he was attempting in the tub and was feeling pretty bad about the aftermath.  Tate had school the next day and the last thing he needed was to make the 40 mile, one way trip to Mobridge while we waited for an ER doctor to sew up the gaping hole in Scott’s forehead.   As we grabbed ice, towels, and shoes, Mark immediately said, “I’m going to call Jeremy.  Tate can stay with him.  I know he won’t mind.” 

And he didn’t…

If I remember correctly, Tate got to watch Jeremy’s beloved Simpsons, drink a pop, and hang out in his bachelor pad.  According to Tate, it was very cool.  He wasn’t even tired, yet doesn’t remember us hauling him off the couch to his bunkbed.  I think he thought he was going to get to spend the night.  It was the beginning of many adventures with the guy my kids adored and called “Coach Kane”. 

Was it the time the beloved, overpriced, much begged for, basketball hoop took victim to the harsh South Dakota wind?  We came home after a weekend in Bismarck to see the hoop face down in the black paved driveway.  Despite having filled the base with water and perhaps even sand, it was no match for the breeze that had made its way through town over the weekend. The boys jumped out of the Taurus and immediately tried to stand it up.  Of course, Mark’s help was needed and it was apparent, the backboard, (a flimsy molded plastic contraption) had covered its last shot.  It was cracked, and falling off by the base.  Only the finest plastic on those things you know.  There were some pretty sad faces upon seeing the damage.  Mark assured them they could still go up to the courts to play and that he would try to fix it somehow.  Even as little guys, the Senftner boys knew the latter was not a possibility.  We just aren’t that handy.  After a few weeks, in steps our now very close friend, (and your dear daddy) Coach Kane.  On one of his trips home to the Kane Ranch (where your awesome grandpa and grandma were living at the time) he swung by in his familiar Duke blue pickup and loaded up the hoop, promising the boys he could put a new backboard on the base and it would be as good as new.  Big smiles from everyone…Perhaps the biggest one from Mark.

And he fixed it…..

You know that adorable outfit you were wearing in some of those first hospital pictures?  The one with the big navy and red “A” on the front?  Yeah, well that “A” represents your dad’s favorite team, the Arizona Wildcats. He loves them. For as much as we love your dear dad, we just do not see eye to eye on favorite teams. I mean, you rocked that outfit and you definitely have the style to pull off the Wildcat look, but we just are on two different pages here.   Tate and Coach Kane especially liked to battle over which was the best team.  Duke for Tate and Arizona for Coach Kane.  Your dad dislikes everything about my and Tate’s beloved Blue Devils.  And while Tate didn’t dislike Arizona, he just really liked Duke.  They had fun cheering against each other’s teams and liked to watch games and talk basketball together. I have a feeling you will spend some late nights watching hoops together.  (Don’t believe everything he says about Duke and also, don’t trip other people when you play games. Your dad will be really disappointed if you trip people.)

Okay, so back to the hoops transformation. I totally remember the unveiling of the newly remodeled hoop.  He told us he would bring it over after school and the boys were so excited.  It was one of the funniest things I ever saw your dad do, Ember.    As he unwrapped the tarp or blanket he had put over the hoop for the dusty trip down Highway 65 from the ranch, I could see there was something on the backboard.  Tate saw it immediately and started to half giggle and half grumble in between my comments and loud laughter.  There, freshly painted, and thickly shellacked, was a great big Arizona Wildcat decal.  The backboard was fixed!  And it was now an Arizona Wildcat backboard. It brought much laughter and Tate knew what a great trick he had played.  We still laugh about this trick.

Maybe it was the time he loaded up both Tate and Scott and took them to ranch for the weekend.  He asked us if we cared if the boys came with him for the weekend.  They were so excited and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit we enjoyed a little break from our family crazy too that weekend.  We had had a really busy school year and your dad knew just how to step in and help us out. He’s that kind of guy.

 It could have been the time that Tate begged to go to the State B Tourney in Aberdeen but we had school.  “Coach Kane will take me.  Just for the day.  He said we can go just for the day because we both want to see the McLaughlin game.”  He continued to plead. “I will only miss one day of school and I will get all my homework done.”   Reluctantly we relented, and I watched as they drove off early that morning in his (Duke) blue pickup to the big games. The trip did no go as planned, but it was the excitement of getting to go somewhere with a dear family friend that meant the most to me. (Have your dad teach you how to change a tire. I know he will, but pay attention.  He’s a really smart guy.)

It might have been the time(s) we all piled into the minivan and went to Bismarck for the day just to eat at Applebee’s and stop at Walmart—nothing else.  Scott was not a very good traveler at the time, and your dad never complained while the three of us were all praying he would fall asleep.  And he usually did….about 10 miles outside of Bismarck. I bet you will make a few trips to the mall in the coming years.  And someday, when he asks if that trip to town is really necessary, remind him of the times we did the very same thing.  I promise he will  remember wanting a little commerce and fast food.  

I could go on and on, Ember. About your beautiful mom, your dear Grandma Toots (Who will say prayers with you before meals and bedtimes…even if it’s just cereal. Ask Scott about this--he can fill you in.), We are so sorry Grandpa John just missed getting to meet you, but we know he was anxiously awaiting your arrival to the world.  Your dad didn’t become the great guy he is by accident.  He had the blessing of a being raised and loved by some amazing folks…. all of who couldn’t wait to see Coach Kane, (or Jer as some call him) become your dad.   He is one of the kindest, most sincere, honest men we know and we are so very honored to have your family in our lives.  Your dad and Mark spent hours together on the sidelines.  His role in Mark’s career as his assistant coach and more importantly, dear friend, is a blessing to our family.   We might be four hours away, but we aren’t going anywhere.  We can’t wait to see the adventures awaiting you.

Blessings to you on this very first Valentine’s Day, Miss Ember.  You are exactly what we prayed for….

You’ve got this, Coach Kane. 

We Love You,  Lynn

The Rest of the Story

     When I was fortunate enough to be in the regular classroom setting, I used to send home a weekly newsletter.  It was a colorful collection of the weekly skills, vocabulary lists, lunch menus, needed supplies, and events happening in our little academic world.  We celebrated birthdays, lost teeth, (a big deal in Kindergarten and First grade!) announced new siblings, Snow Queens, family celebrations, and offered up pictures of the good things that were going on in our classroom community.  Sometimes this newsletter offered up hugs for students and families needing our prayers or love. 

      Depending on my assigned grade level, the publication went by different names—The Sixth Grade Scoop, The First Grade Gazette, The Kindergarten Times—but the content was usually the same and the intent of the note was keeping families informed.   I’ve always believed that the key to successful school-family relationships is communication and I hoped this low budget newsletter would help with this area.  For the most part, it was a great way to share news and increase literacy for the students and families.  

     My dad used to do the market report for the family livestock auction business. He recorded it each week and it ran on a variety of news radio stations across the state. Stations such as KWYR, WNAX, KGFX all ran his weekly review of the sale and the producers who had gratefully (and loyally) chosen to do business with the Winner Livestock Auction Company.  Dad had a great radio voice—clear and smooth-with enough wit and reason to keep the report moving smoothly each week.  One of my favorite things is to cross paths with people who tell me how they miss his market reports and banter on the radio. He must have had a small following we were unaware of, as I hear this often.   He would’ve made a great disc jockey or radio talk show host. (Lord knows he had plenty of opinions and music to share. :)  ) One week, after an exasperating Legislative session, I happened to hear his weekly report on my way home from school.  He was clearly unhappy with the current situation regarding something in our fair state and he was using his paid radio time to share these beliefs.  That evening over supper, I told him I had heard the market report.  He said, “Yeah, I went a little “Paul Harvey” today on the report. Sometimes I forget I’m on the air.” I silently figured out that “going Paul Harvey” meant he knew he had offered some personal opinions during the broadcast (reminiscent to Paul’s daily recordings) instead of just reading the market report. We had a good laugh as I agreed.

     Along with his extensive collection of record albums, Dad collected vocabulary words.  Last summer, as we were rummaging through the house contents (basically our collective lives) preparing for the auction sale, I stumbled upon a binder bursting with papers and articles dad had saved.  There were literally hundreds of words highlighted and defined in his neat, distinguishable script.  I think Dad began this collection of obscure words to add to his personal repertoire-- using them only when writing letters to the editor or letters to friends and family. Trust me, most of them were so infrequently used and uncommonly seen you would never actually come across them in daily life, and that’s why Dad loved them. Being able to use these tidbits in his occasional, strongly worded letters to the local weekly newspaper (and sometimes the Argus Leader), brought him some innate sense of joy. Simply put, he was a “wordie” –similar to today’s trend of being a “foodie”, only with words not culinary delicacies.    Dad was well read, contained a thesaurus-like vocabulary and a keen interest in local/statewide issues.  And he called a spade a spade.

     If it’s one thing Daughters folks can do , it’s talk….and give opinions.  And as the newsletter evolved, I started to share thoughts and opinions. Usually the stories and opinions were about educational issues or things going on in our classroom.  Sometimes I offered observations on life and my parenting duties. Like my dad used to say, I went a little “Paul Harvey” some weeks.

     Four years ago our country was reeling after the Sandy Hook tragedy.  As a mother and an educator, I could not imagine the heartbreak and trauma this community was facing.  It was unfathomable, and will forever be so.   As I sat down to write my last newsletter for 2012 the night of the tragedy, I knew I needed to take a different route than the generic Christmas greeting, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I think it’s safe to say every teacher in the world went home that night with a heavy heart and I was no different. I packed up my stuff a bit earlier than most evenings and felt some joy knowing my home would be full, unlike those crushed families in Sandy Hook.  My boys would both be under the same roof tonight for the first time in a long while. Tate on his way home from college and Scott anxiously awaiting his company. I waited to write the newsletter and went home where I hoped to find Tate and his barrage of laundry.  He did not disappoint.  We had a great evening together, just like old times.  I would tackle the newsletter (and laundry) later in the week, perhaps something would come to me. 

     And it did.  The following is the message from The First Grade Gazette dated December 2012. 

I have a college boy home for the break…..this involves late nights, lazy mornings, more food, more foot traffic, and much laundry.  We are excited to have him home.  His brother, although he would never admit it. Is possibly even more eager to have him home.  He shares stories—parental versions of college events, and in the confines of their bedroom, the brother versions, embellished I’m sure.  It is a cherished time for us as a family.  We miss him and how things used to be when we were all under one roof.

As I awoke to find him sprawled out on the couch I was irritated that he couldn’t use his freshly made bed and clean sheets I was so proud to have ready for him. ( Tate has only been home once since July.) I was just about ready to wake him and send him onward to his room and something stopped me dead in my tracks.  Was it really a big deal that he had chosen to use the living room as his resting place for the past two nights?  Was it really going to “ruin” the couch as I had told Mark the day before when we came downstairs to find him there?

Then I thought about the events of the past few weeks—So many parents would love to see their children sleeping on the couch or a dribbled puddle of red juice on the ecru carpet.  Who would care as the $4.00 gallon of milk was tipped over just because they weren’t paying “attention”?  They would relish the chance to pick up every Lego and Barbie shoe, if only they could hug and hold the creator of the mess just one more time. I looked over at my 20 year old “boy” and I let him sleep…..

The events of the past week have shaken us all….please know I realize what a precious gift you send me each day. They are your world AND mine.  I am thankful for the gift of joy and wonder they bring to my life, and their safety is of our utmost importance.  Please know your greatest gifts are loved and treasured here in our school.

     I had gone high-powered “Paul Harvey” on this one, but I still sent if off with the kiddos the next day in their weekly purple folders.  I’m not sure why I felt the confidence to do so, but I did.  How quickly our lives would change was unknown—the events that unfolded two weeks later were unfathomable and still knock me to my knees more days than I care to admit. 

     In this season of gifts and giving, families and (senseless) family feuds, I want you to know that no matter how frazzled and frenzied this season may find you, that you are fine.  You are fine if your Elf on the Shelf hasn’t moved in four days (gasp). You are fine if you did not find the time or resources to do all the Pinterest-perfect projects we are led to believe make or break our Christmas celebrations. You.Are.Fine.  It will all be fine. Trust me.

     Never forget your greatest gifts are the people and places you make wonderful with your presence. And never forget those beautiful faces you put to bed each night…..either in person or mentally through your thoughts and prayers, because moms never stop tucking their children in at night….no matter where they live. 

     Treasure this time and these days……they are our greatest gifts.

     And as long as I’m going all “Paul Harvey” on you, this is truly “the rest of the story”. 

Bailey's Amazing Grace

     It was a familiar scene.  Boxes of crafting supplies, brushes, paint, sacks filled with markers, brushes, and glue sticks were scattered all over the dining room table.  Raffia fell on the beautiful hardwood floor and the wispy, thin strings of hot glue hung from our newly created scarecrows like spider webs in the corner of an old window outside. (They are similar to those in my bathroom…. but who chooses cleaning over crafting with friends?  Seriously?  Who does that?)  The projects were propped up all over the house.  Each one uniquely different, yet similar.  Their faces and accessories as different as the women who have created them.  We are young and old, quiet and loud, girlfriends, wives, daughters, grandmothers, and friends.  We are related—some biologically; and some by those bonds that have been formed when you’ve shared so many experiences you forget you don’t share a common last name. 

            The assembly of the self-proclaimed crafting queens began taking place about 7-8 years ago during the opening of hunting season. Men hunt and drink, women craft and shop. (...and drink and laugh and…We have WAY more fun and we don’t need a license or orange vests to do so.) It has been a two-year hiatus since we’ve met.   I think each of us, in our own way, were mentally recalling those earlier craft days and the matriarch of the materials and organizing queen who made this all possible.  We remember the glitter paint, and digging through her amazing collection of quilting material. Yards and yards of textiles as colorful and beautiful as she was to so many.   We can hear her soft, encouraging voice telling us to go ahead and just use whatever we wanted.  “Take it, use it, try it….”any and all of those words were repeated over and over as we glittered and glued and cluttered up her house, consumed her delicious food, and bathed in her attention and love. We were missing one very important member of this crafting weekend.  We were missing Janet. 

            There are not enough good things I could write about Janet.  I will try in this blog, but if you were not blessed by knowing her, I am truly sorry.  She was someone we should all strive to be—kind, ambitious, accepting, fair, caring, generous, witty, loving…did I say kind? Did I mention hard-working? Fun?   Janet got more done before 7 AM on Monday than I did by Thursday.  And not just once-in-awhile…EVERY single week.  She was a go- getter.  Her attitude and ambition amazed me.  She worked at so many different thing—raising a family, ranching with her brother and family, supporting community events, quilting, baking, supporting her kids and their teammates in their many activities.  Janet did all of this and made it look effortless.  And that smile…. her smile was incredible.  And it made you feel incredible when you were lucky enough to be around it’s warm glow.  She had a grace about her that made everyone feel better the minute they were in her presence.  What a gift….

            I remember one particular crafting evening down at the ranch where Melissa and Janet were trying to get a wall hanging done.  No wait, Melissa wanted Janet to help her get her wall hanging done. And of course, Janet was all in.  That’s just who she was.  They knew if they worked on this one, Janet and her talented quilting club would whip the rest out in a few afternoons. Also a talented seamstress, Melissa knows her way around a sewing machine, and within minutes, the two of them had machines threaded, scissors slicing, and then proclaimed they needed someone to press the pieces of material. (Or maybe they were sick of me standing around?  I’m not sure….THANK GOD there were only two machines. )  Janet assigned me to the ironing board and I pressed the lovely green and red patterned pieces and dutifully walked them over to her so she could add it to the wall hanging.  I would admire her quick, skillful work about every third trip.  Her response was always the same.  “Oh heck Lynn, you could do this.  Really this is simple.”  Or she would say, “You have no idea how much I appreciate you doing the ironing, Lynn.  It’s really the worst part of quilting.”  (If it had been anyone else but dear Janet, it would have been a” Tom Sawyer fence painting” kind of moment, but not with Janet—she needed me to press those seams.)  I replied the ironing was probably the only part of quilting I would ever be able to do as I was not talented at sewing.

(Flashback to my first sewing experience, 45 some years ago, despite laboring for over a week on simple top and pair of shorts at the Tripp Co. Extension Sewing Camp, I was resigned to using masking tape to hem my shorts for the culminating style show in the basement of Ranchers Bank.  I’m sure Alice was so proud. A few years later in Junior High, my dear Home Ed teacher Mrs. Young tried her very best to show me the way also. .  Lord, did she try….. but despite her monstrous efforts, I was no seamstress.. )

 We pressed, pinned, cut, and sewed our way into the night.  In fact, we worked so late that the Senftner clan ended up spending the night sprawled all over the living room. (Which is exactly what the boys were hoping for that day!) The wall hanging was gorgeous, and like anything homemade, the time spent making it was even more beautiful. By the end of the night, Janet had me believing I could make a quilt of my own someday. That’s how awesome she was…she encouraged and supported everyone she met. And I loved that about her.

Melissa called me last week and said that Bailey wanted to have a crafting weekend at their house during the pheasant opener.  It was time to resurrect the annual crafting day Janet had so loved. (And organized and made happen…)   As I’ve tried to explain to those of you reading this, Janet did a lot of great things.  Hundreds and thousands of good works…..but her greatest work were the amazing humans she and Rod raised—Dustin, Weston, and Bailey. Talented, handsome, beautiful, kind, funny, athletic…I could go on and on, but you get the picture.  Like that catchy song from a few years ago, “Stacy’s Mom”—these kids “have got it going on”.  

I’ve always said we all become our mothers.  And in this very case, I called it perfectly.  Bailey is truly her mother’s daughter, that lucky girl.   Bailey just spent the last six years living in Spearfish where she competed (brilliantly) as BHSU Yellow Jacket student-athlete on the women’s basketball team.  I remember seeing Janet’s joy and excitement when Bailey chose to take her talents to BHSU.  Janet loved the Black Hills area…. Bailey does also.  Bailey worked hard in both her classes and on the court…. again following Janet’s example of hard work and dedication to the task at hand. She battled back from a knee injury and bravely watched her beautiful mother fight, but eventually lose, her own battle against that  $%&* cancer.

 Our dear Bailey has seen a lot in her short life and yet her fierce, competitive spirit has carried her through many of these difficult days.   I know she misses her dear mom….she is not alone, so many do.  But I want her to know how proud her mom would be of her efforts this weekend—and every other day of her young life.  Bailey was building and organizing and making cider complete with cinnamon sticks stirrers for folks twice her age.  (When i was her age, I would have been handing out Goldfish crackers and warm Diet Cokes, IF I had remembered to buy them.) Bailey is special--in so many ways.   She learned hospitality and grace growing up under Janet’s guidance and it was so humbling to watch her lead this weekend just like Janet always did.   The spirit of Janet, never far from her family’s thoughts and hearts, was there this weekend.  And I’m so glad I got to share a day of this love and healing….and I’m so very proud of Bailey for all that she did to make this a special weekend for some old(er) ladies who like her, really, really miss her mom.  You have been blessed with so many amazing gifts dear Bailey…..but the grace and spirit you showed this weekend had to make your angel mama so very proud.  Thank you for wisely and gracefully showing us how to remember and celebrate those we have lost way ahead of their time. You are amazing.  And you are going to do amazing things with your nursing degree….so proud of you for chasing that dream, too.  

P.S.  And telling us to cut up the flower arrangement was a TOTAL Janet move….I could hear saying, “Heck yeah.  Just cut one of those flowers off and use it.  I can get more.”

P.P.S.  Love and miss you much Janet. 

P.P.P.S.  You can come back in the house now Rod.  We’re gone! I promise.  (But I’m guessing there is still some evidence of our glorious creations in a few places. Tread carefully. )