Candy, Kindness, and Keva

 

     There is a lot to be said about small town life.  Some good, some bad, but most agree, some of the best people and examples of neighborly love originate in the smallest of places.  Despite a few years in Sioux Falls and Aberdeen during college, most of my trips around the sun have been spent in some of the most amazing villages, surrounded by the most amazing neighbors.  My current neighborhood and community—well, there is no way to adequately put into words how incredibly supportive this little village is to its villagers.   We might get a little salty with each other now and then, but if people need something, they are there.  SO. VERY. MUCH. PRESENT.  We have experienced this more than once since arriving here and I consider our address(es) through the years to be our family’s greatest blessing.

     A favorite village I was blessed to call home is mourning the loss of one its finest villagers this week.  It took my breath away when I read her obituary notice online.  She was one of the first people to greet us when we moved to town, and I still remember leaving her house after packing the last box into the horse trailer the day we moved.  We shared a big hug, I shed some tears, and she said she would keep me in her prayers.  And I know she did. 

  Keva was part of the fabric that made Timber Lake such a fantastic place to call home.  We moved in right across the street from the Aberle family into a tiny little house we had been lucky enough to purchase in a tight market.   Mark had moved to Timber Lake to teach and coach in 1998 and the boys and I joined him the next year.  Coaching can be a tough gig and the move northwest for Mark was a decision we did not make lightly, but it was hard.   I’m sure there were all sorts of stories about the “wife and kids” that came the year after the coach, and I bet there were some great stories over coffee at TLS that year. I heard a few of the stories after we moved, and they were pretty epic.   Keva shared a few of them and we had a good laugh over the years. We were so excited to be back together under one roof that we didn’t even care that the square footage of our “stuff” was quadruple the size of the house.  I miss that house.  I miss that village.  I’m sad I never told Keva enough how much I missed her after we moved. 

     I first met Keva in Lloyd Kjellsen’s grocery store.  We had two grocery stores at the time and this market and the other were a huge resource for so many folks.  The boys and I were strolling down the aisles; Scott in the cart at age two and half, and Tate anxiously awaiting to start first grade as a Panther.   Our carts met once by the soups and vegetables, and we exchanged smiles.  Keva’s smile was radiant—so bright and welcoming.  We made our rounds and as the boys and I decided what cereal to get, she stopped her cart and came over to say hello. 

Keva: “Hello folks.  I think you are my new neighbors.  My name is Keva Aberle.  My husband Andy and I live in the white house across the street.”

I introduced myself and the boys.  She smiled and visited a bit. Then she got down to the ground rules.

Keva: “ Now boys, I have a lot of grandkids and nieces and nephews who come over to my house to play in the yard.  I hope you join them after school someday.

Tate’s eyes got big, and I could see he was excited to know there were neighborhood games on the horizon.

Keva: “Listen, I’ve got a few rules if you’re coming over. (Bigger eyes graced Tate Benjamin’s face!  Scott was probably trying to climb out of the cart by now.  I don’t remember.)

Keva continued, “So, here are the rules.  You cannot come into the house if I’m not home.  You can play in the yard, but you can’t come in the house unless I’m home.  And next, no offense mom, but if I have to come out and get after anyone, and I will, well, you’re all getting chewed out.  If one of you is in trouble, you all are.  I don’t have time to figure out who did what.”  #GoKeva

I laughed and said she sounded like my kind of gal.  I might have suggested she come over to do some recess duty now and then.  The ground rules were set.  I was still smiling when she rolled the cart away and we both continued our shopping. 

Keva looked back and said, “Oh, and I do have a candy dish.  You’re always welcome to come grab a piece of candy.” Tate and I smiled broadly back at her.  The real benefactor of the candy ended up being Scott Robert…more to come on that story.

And with that no nonsense, kind but firm welcome to the neighborhood, I had met my first neighbor.  And I was so thankful.  We had moved a long way from our special little neighborhood in Gregory and I was appreciative for this invite for the boys to join in the Aberle adventures.  I didn’t even know any Aberles yet, but I had a hunch they were good people. 

   The year moved on and we settled nicely into both a great school and church community.  We loved both places and immediately felt at home. My class that year was one of the most enjoyable years ever.  Our church family was welcoming and a place we grew to quickly love.  And Keva and Andy—they were exactly who I hoped they would be.  The best neighbors ever.  Mark enjoyed visiting with Andy.  They had similar personalities—quiet, friendly, sincere.  Andy and Keva knew all about the area and with Mark having grown up just up the road in McLaughlin, they shared common acquaintances.  

    One summer day Keva stopped over and said she had a great story for me.  She came in and said, “Well, my son Wayne was home for the weekend.”  I mentioned I had noticed lots of action over at Camp Aberle.  She continued,” We laughed so hard.  The door opened and here comes Scott in for a piece of candy.”  (There were no kids in the yard at this time, but Scott knew they were home and had been told the rules, so he obviously decided that the candy dish was open.) Keva said, “I was busy in the kitchen but had looked over and saw it was Scott so I smiled and waved.  Scott grabbed his piece of candy, yelled “Thanks Teva” (we were still working on those K sounds)  and took off out the door.”  Wayne yelled into the kitchen, “Mom, who the H--- was that?  Some little kid just walked in and grabbed candy?”  Keva explained it was her neighbor boy and she had kind of forgotten that Wayne, while recognizing his nieces and nephews, would maybe be surprised by random kids waltzing in to grab their sugar fix.  We laughed pretty hard about Scott just rambling in without even a hello, but (thankfully) an acknowledgment of thanks, to grab what was his favorite thing to do at Keva’s house.  Keva’s home and candy dish were always open.  Especially for the kids she so loved. 

    Sadly, Keva and I shared something more than the same street location.  I will never forget seeing Keva and Andy shortly after Tate died.  They too, had lost a young, adult son in a tragic accident.  If you are reading this and are in this club, I’m so sorry.  If you are reading this and are not, I am so thankful.  But there is an unstated connection that often comes with the loss of a child. You know exactly what crippling heartbreak they have faced.  The questions, the sleepless nights, and the emptiness you endure.  We greeted our former neighbors with hugs and smiles.  Keva grabbed my hands and asked me how I was doing.  My tears began to flow.  She grasped my hand tighter and said, “You will get through this, Lynn.  It will never go away, and it will never be easy, but you will get through this.  You keep your faith in God and keep looking forward and your heart will eventually mend the best it can.”   Advice from someone who had shared this loss and who knew exactly what we were going through.  It meant the world to me.  I greatly admired, and greatly missed so many of our friends in Timber Lake.  Keva certainly topped this list.  She knew what I needed to hear and in the very same no-nonsense, kind way she had introduced herself, she assured me I could live through this nightmare.  Her faith and kindness never faltered.  Keva had known great heartache and many tough days throughout her life and if you didn’t know this about her, you would have never known the many hard times she survived.  She lived by showing great faith and sharing firm, but fair advice.  She lived her faith.   

   I let all my classes today have a piece of candy in her honor.  I told them about my sweet neighbor lady and how kind she was.  I needed to share the story…I’m sure it rolled right off some of their backs, but I needed to remind myself what blessing it was to know her, so I shared it with each group.  As I watched the container slowly lower, I had to smile.  I wonder how much candy Keva purchased through the years.  How many kids enjoyed the Aberle front yard, and the love and firm guidance Keva shared with them?  Family, friends, kids of all ages were loved by this amazing woman.  Refilling my big container each time it empties will be a wonderful reminder of Keva.  A reminder to share and enjoy the humans who cross your path.  A reminder to open your home and heart to those you meet.   Big faith, big love, an open door, and a little spice all rolled into the very best neighbor lady. What a beautiful way to be remembered. 

Happy Father's Day

 

Thirty years ago this month I faced my first Father’s Day without my dad.  It seems like forever ago, and my Winner High School math tells me I have officially spent more days without the blessing of my dad’s presence than with him.  The years have travelled on without Dad and boy, today I could really use him.   And the most difficult thing on this day of celebrating all things “Dad”, is that Scott now joins me in this club.  He’s even younger than I was when my dad died.  I hate this reality for Scott.  Writing this is still a punch in the gut and frankly, I’m pretty tired of being in the ring.  

I was a new mom, balancing a teaching/coaching career when Dad died at the all too young age of 56.  Thankfully, we lived right down the road in Gregory, and I was able to enjoy my parents with that move.  The coaching grind is a busy life and sometimes your plans follow the “game schedule”.  Ours certainly did so being a half hour away was a bonus for my family.  They were able to come to games and we got together often on the weekends.  The weekend we moved to Gregory was the same weekend they dropped my youngest sister off at USD.  So much for empty nesting….I was there often as I had been fortunate enough to get a job teaching in Winner.  It was not unusual for me to run home to have lunch with mom and dad. (The daily menu of Mrs. Grass’s Chicken Noodle Soup, crackers, cheese, and lunchmeat…with Oreo’s for dessert. Bob had a pretty simple palate.)  Sometimes I would spend the night or even stay for supper.  I’m guessing they didn’t mind most of the time, but I was so wrapped up in my life during this era, I didn’t even think about them actually having the house to themselves for the first time 27 years…. I regret that now.  Not the time I spent with them, but absolute oblivion on my part of giving them some time to adjust to the empty nest.  (Like my little friend Spencer Shanks would say, “Come on, Lynn!” )

Blessedly, Dad was gifted with the title of Grandpa on April 1, 1992. We were all thrilled to finally have a baby in the family.  In dad’s eyes, Tate hung the moon.  He found out his diagnosis of esophageal cancer in the middle of my pregnancy.  He was in the middle of chemotherapy when our dear boy arrived, and this was a huge motivator for Dad.  They loved taking on the role of “day care” for the last two weeks of the year when I returned to school.  I’m not sure how they divided the cuddling time with Tate, because my mom was ALL IN with this gig too.  I know Alice did all the heavy lifting—diapers, feedings, baths—but most days I returned after school to Dad sitting in his den with Tate holding court.  Yes, Tate, even at the mere age of 6 weeks was in charge with Grandpa Bob and Grandma Alice.  He ruled the roost, and they loved it. And for exactly 358 days, Dad relished that role.   His cancer battle was over on March 25, 1992--7 days before Tate’s first birthday.    We were crushed. 

I received a card after Dad died and its message perfectly summarized what I was feeling.  This great gentleman had lost his dad a few years before also and, in this card, he wrote how not only was he mourning the loss of his dad, but the loss of all the things his kids would miss out on with their grandpa.  I remember sobbing as I finished reading that kind card.  He nailed it.  My loss while incredibly hard, wasn’t bothering me as much as what Tate (and later, Scott) would be losing with Dad’s death. My kids were missing out on their grandpa.  I distinctly remember Tate’s last basketball game as a senior.  We had played an incredible tournament in Aberdeen—Tate and his teammates had knocked off the number one seed and after a semi-final loss, were playing for 3^rd place.  It was a full house and right at the tip off, I teared up.  All I could think of was that I wished my dad had been able to enjoy these days with him.  All the things—concerts, school plays, baseball, football, track, hoops—I wanted him to see all the joy we were experiencing.  Mom and I often talked about what Dad would have done as the boys grew older and events, especially state events Tate was fortunate enough to be involved in, occurred on Friday nights.  Fridays were sale days.  There was a joke amongst our family that you weren’t married, buried, or born on a Friday in our family.  Dad had only missed 3 sales in his entire life before his illness—one was the day I was born. The other one involved the Blizzard of 1966 and another a health issue involving my grandma.  Fridays were for paying the bills.  Sale days were sacred.    Mom claims he would have been cancelling sales or making the entire ring listen to DT  Meyer do play by play of the Charger games during the sale.   We had a few laughs over what might have been Dad’s decisions for these game days. I wish we knew. 

Today is the day to celebrate all things Dad.  Mark was not one to get all hyped up for this holiday. He didn’t need the attention.   He was usually at some team camp or teaching driver’s ed. Some of our best Father’s Days were spent watching the boys play baseball.  I forgot one year to get him a card and as I apologized, he said in his incredibly sarcastic, calm, non-coaching voice “That’s okay, I’m not your dad.”  I laughed for years about that.  I still do.  And I’m still regretting that I didn’t get that card.  Mark took care of so many things for us….he made sure we had what we needed all the time.  Rarely took the time or funds for himself to make sure we had what we needed or thought we needed.  He was just so solid.

I know there are so many others today who are also missing their dads.  It is a terrible club to join and the older I get, the more of us there are traveling along missing their dads.  I try hard not to get consumed with what I don’t have –the things I miss are rarely material things.  I miss the people in my life who have gone on before me.  Too many of them and I struggle to grasp why God placed me on this journey.  I have had well meaning folks tell me to keep the faith and how tough I am.  I don’t particularly feel tough, but I am realistic enough to know that I cannot do anything to change this journey.

I watched with great joy and pride on Tuesday night as Scott coached the littlest group of T-Ball players ever assembled in the history of T-Ball.  Tiny, excited, helmet-wearing, dirt playing, littles wearing their adorable purple jerseys, while Coach Senftner and Coach Kayla navigated the evening.  Some of them didn’t know where first base was located.  Some needed help putting on gloves.  He coaxed some of them to their spots in the field.   I heard his big, booming voice encouraging them and helping them hit the ball.  The stands were full, and my heart was too.  His dad would be so proud of him.  He is good with kids and has a gift of drawing kids into whatever is going on.  I pray he always uses his talents wisely and shares his gifts with those who need him. 

Today my heart hurts for Scott who continues to show me that despite what we’ve been dealt, that the glass truly is half full and to keep on drinking…(sometimes old Scott Robert takes that a little too literally I’m afraid. #BunkhouseKaraoke LOL) But his outlook shows me that you need to keep moving forward even on the hard days. Scott seems to do this.  He always has.  He was blessed (?) with Daughters’ voice volume and Mark’s unwavering faith to just keep going.   I’m not going to lie about this, it has been a tough month.    But we are not alone in tough journeys…so many are living days they never planned with circumstances they’d love to change in a heartbeat.   We aren’t special.  And there are so many who have huge mountains ahead of them that just don’t seem fair.   We will be okay.  Broken and sad some days, but we have much to be thankful for also.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there. I pray you know how much you mean to your family.   The dads in my life made everything better….and you do, too.    

 

Memories of Mel

 

There are some people who just radiate joy.  They enter a room, and everything becomes brighter and better.  Their smile, infectious giggle and genuine interest in seeing you lifts your spirit and makes you feel safe and secure.  These people are rarities in today’s struggling world, so when you are lucky enough to find one, you need to appreciate any time you get to spend with these amazing humans. 

Mel was one of these people.  The forever cheerleader for those of us blessed enough to know her. 

Mel and I married cousins.  Ironically, they are both named Mark—Hackett and Senftner.  Their moms were Keller sisters and obviously had the same taste in first names.  I would be lying if I didn’t admit that sometimes both Mel and I blamed any oddities in our families on those “Keller” boys we married.  If our kids did something dumb or something we didn’t agree with, we would shoot a text and blame it on the “Keller” in them.  There is no proof of any of this….we each had our own crazy on our respective family trees, but we just found comfort in blaming the other side.  It was our joke and something we giggled about in late night texts. 

I knew Mel from afar when Mark and I first married.  Mark Senftner liked to stop and visit his Aunt Betty whenever we were in Ft. Pierre.  Spending summer days in Ft. Pierre being spoiled by his Aunt Betty and Aunt Janice, are fond recollections for Senftner.  Days filled with cousins, pickup ball games, and candy and pop are some favorite summer memories for him.   Gracious, welcoming hosts, Jim and Betty always made us feel welcome.  The visits were long and filled with sports talk,(lots of Buffalo vs Gorillas football)  laughter, and always a delicious meal.  We spent hours on the huge woven sectional where there was always room for one more.  Mark and Mel were busy playing softball, establishing their careers, and raising daughter number one—Lyndsey.  We always enjoyed getting to see them, but it was often hit and miss.  But we always enjoyed our time together when we happened to cross paths. 

There are stories about Mel’s genuine spirit and vibrant personality as a young athlete.  Her smile and skill adorned the sidelines as a DWU cheerleader.  Her rodeo career gave her the opportunity to promote and share her love of horses and rodeo.  She was an excellent softball player—competitive, determined, and a teammate you wanted to have on your roster.  If Mel was going to do something, she was going to do it to the best of her ability.  She worked hard.  She cheered loud.  She made everything better with her hard work and tireless energy.  

Fast forward to what seems like a few years ago, in all reality was more than a few years ago.   In the Fall of 2008, Team Hackett moved to Onida and Taylor became a Sully Buttes Charger.  Mel became the unofficial pep club for everyone and everything SBHS. If our ABO kids were competing, Mark and Mel were there supporting them in all kinds of events.  Like the postman (or the FedEx guy), they delivered support and cheer no matter the weather! They were fixtures in the bleachers at home and away games of all ages.  Mel loved seeing kids compete and loved to compliment effort and hustle.

It was during this time that Mel and I became better acquainted. We shared game day emails and good luck texts.  We discussed nerves and the local sports pages.   We both spent our nights and weekends at the games.  The one thing I truly I loved was watching her watch Taylor compete.  Her intense love of both the player and the game was a blessing to witness.  She was just so proud of both of her girls.  Mel treated my boys like they were her own—and even after some of their subpar performances both Tate and Scott could always count on a pep talk from Mel.  The eternal optimist wearing her purple and gold lenses….she loved cheering for the Chargers.  I think Tate could’ve had 22 turnovers and Scott 8 interceptions and Mel would’ve found something positive to share with our boys.  They were so lucky to have her cheering them on in their careers.

Taylor’s graduation brought the end of Team Hackett living in the 57564.  But Mel’s love of Charger sports and Sully Buttes kids didn’t end with the return to the Fort (as she affectionally called it.)   Our texts became more about what our kids were up to and how much we missed our bleacher days.  Soon photos of Miss Myken Ann filled my phone and wonderful, hilarious stories of how quickly little Miss Myken had wrapped Papa Mark around her sweet little fingers.   I loved receiving these texts.  Now I will treasure them. Always.

Mel faced and defeated her illness with as much grace, guts, and grit as anyone I know.  She bravely completed treatments.  Never complaining and always complimenting how nice her nurses were and how it was going “fine” (even when it wasn’t).  It would have been easy to be down—she had every reason to be furious with the hand she had been dealt.  But that wasn’t Mel.  She was full on cheerleader for the rest of us worrying about her. 

Hearing the news of Mel’s unexpected, untimely death Friday morning was incredibly hard.  The shock of this news rumbled through both Onida and the Pierre/Ft. Pierre communities.   This past weekend I went through and read all the emails we shared.  I’ve read and reread the texts—both laughing and crying.   I’ve read the many written tributes others have shared about the impact Mel’s attitude and life made on them.  I pray I never forget the sound of her giggle or the cheer in her voice when she greeted you with the huge smile.   I’m so glad we enjoyed a fun evening together at Mark’s birthday party in April. 

And to those of us blessed enough to know Mel, I hope we remember to carry on her joyful, kind spirit.  May we all continue to keep cheering on those around us.  Take time to notice the little things. Applaud effort and hustle.   Spread joy and love and radiate the positive things we see.  Ever the optimist, Mel made things better with her attitude and the sharing of the good she saw in others.  We need to carry on her pep club duties as best we can.  We owe her that. 

I’m so glad we both married those “Keller boys”….I can’t imagine not having you in my memories.  Fly high, Mel.  You will be so missed. 

 

 

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.