Center Grove High School Class of 1971

I've been too busy to write.

Thanks to Facebook, I'm getting reacquainted with my old Center Grove classmates of 1971. That's right...get out your calculators and do the math.

Last Friday night I made a quick trip to Greenwood to meet up with two 1971 classmates and several 1972 and 1973 CG graduates. I took my yearbook to help me remember. I'd get the name of one of the younger classmates, then look it up. Then I remembered--well, most of the time I remembered. One of the "under" classmates needed no introduction. I'd have known Jan anywhere.

The Riley kids rode Harry Featherston's first busload to the school. Since we arrived at school super-early, we sat in the gym and waited for the rest of the students to arrive. Jan rode Harry's second busload. An hour or so later she arrived with the rest of the bus, and she looked pale as a ghost. I asked her what happened. She said that Harry died. They had pulled into the CG front parking lot, headed towards the old middle school when Harry just "went". He evidently never knew what hit him since he never had a chance to brake. The bus kept heading toward the middle school. A 12-year-old farm kid pushed Harry out of the way and got the bus stopped.

Harry was not only our bus driver, but a neighbor. In the country, a neighbor might live a quarter mile down the gravel road--just like Harry. The day we lost Harry was sure a sad day. Back then bus drivers didn't have to have buses equipped with cameras. We respected Harry and our school bus. We respected our school. I can't always say we respected each other, since my little brother and a goofy kid named "Gopher" nearly got into a fight on Harry's bus once. I stepped between them and stopped the fight before it began. That wasn't going to happen "on my watch".

Back to the three-class reunion...my two classmates looked way younger than me. They still had their figures and the same personalities they had as teenagers. I was so glad to see both of them. I used to be self-conscious about weighing twice what I did in high school. To heck with that--I've finally realized that nobody cares...at least nobody I graduated with.

This weekend I plan on meeting another couple of classmates. We've missed out on many years, and I am not missing out on any more. I haven't seen my best friend in 25 years, and that's a rotten shame. I hope God gives us many more years to enjoy each other's company from here on out. I won't let anything else stand in the way of a friendship again.

I also plan on a road trip to Arkansas to see another old friend and classmate. Life hasn't been too kind to her, but her old classmates are resurfacing to let her know she's always been loved and never forgotten.

We've found out that several of our classmates have passed on, and several others are not well. That makes me feel even more determined to make sure the rest of us get together as often as possible.

Thank you, Facebook.

Double Standards

A co-worker mentioned that she never sees me or hears anything out of me, even though we work in the same room. I told her that's because I was working. She's got things figured out. Sometimes I think she says this to me to see if I'll fess up my real feelings. Nope. I know I can't say a word. I just roll my eyes. She knows what I mean even though my words don't convey what I really want to say.

A Prophet or a Phony?

Back in 1993, I found myself unemployed and hating it. The company I worked for lost its contract with Crane back when Communism died and the government was too short-sighted to see that terrorism was our worst enemy.

After four months of unemployment, I took a job at a nearby publishing company typesetting, writing, editing...general weekly newspaper stuff. I was making the same amount I did in unemployment, but I couldn't stand staying at home any longer. A few short months after I was hired, I was asked if I wanted to do a side job after hours. I would be typing a small book from the author's hand-written notes. Sure...I could use the extra money.

So after putting in my eight hours every day, I'd open up the author's notebook and begin typing. It was all religious stuff, and I don't consider myself a religious person. The author claimed that the Virgin Mary visited her almost nightly, and she held conversations with Mary. The farther I got into the book, the more boring it got. The conversations were pretty much the same thing over and over. The woman would ask Mary what she should tell everyone and Mary always told her "Pray! Pray the rosary!" I mean, how many times did it bear repeating?

Ho hum...this was worse than typing up the 4-H fair results. But it paid well, since I type fairly fast. It soon became apparent to me that someone other than the author had hand-edited the woman's writings. One interesting tidbit that I found was a conversation the woman had with Mary where she asked about the big earthquake that was predicted to happen on a certain date in the Midwest. Mary verified it, and said there would be great devastation and so-on. Famine, pestilence, thousands dead...the whole bit. And I was typing this some time after the earthquake prediction. The earthquake never happened.

Guess what...whoever edited the writing before I saw it crossed that part out. It didn't come true, so why make the woman out to look like a fool. Another time the woman asked Mary about a friend of hers who had cancer. Mary said the woman would be cured. That too was marked out. No doubt she died, or it would've made the book. But the final straw was the one where Mary told this woman that SHE (the woman--not Mary) would do more fantastic works and miracles than Jesus. That part was left in the book. I'm still waiting for this woman to walk on water or bring someone back from the dead. It hasn't happened yet.

After I finished the book and it was printed and distributed, I purchased a copy to give to my mother-in-law, who had heard this woman speak and thought she was the greatest thing since sliced bread. A couple of weeks later, I asked my mother-in-law what she thought about the book and the author. She kind of rolled her eyes and said, "I don't know about her anymore". Then I told her what was left out of the book.

I'm not saying the woman is a bad person, or that she set out to run some sort of scam. But what I am saying is not to take everything you hear or read as the truth. Maybe she was telling the truth as she "saw" it, for whatever reason. But then someone covered up the prophecies that didn't come true.

Guess the editor should've done the editing in a thick black marker so I couldn't read what didn't come true.

Go Rest High

The one thing I remember most about her is her smile. I can't recall ever seeing her NOT wearing a smile--and then there was the laugh that almost always accompanied that smile. I worked upstairs from her, but saw her nearly every day for almost ten years--and she was always happy.

Tonight Heaven is shining a little brighter because of her smile. She passed away late last night after she was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. Janet's had it rough during the past several years. She had lymphoma a few years ago, but got through it. The trouble was, the treatment weakened her immune system. Two years ago, she came close to dying several times with a bad case of MRSA. I think she was in the hospital about six months. But by gosh, she came back. God gave her a couple more years before He took her Home to stay.

The last time I saw her, I gave her a hug. I couldn't believe how this woman could have been so sick so many times, and now she looked great. Her old smile was back where it belonged--in the office of Kimball Hospitality. Although I haven't worked at Kimball in 6-1/2 years, my husband and son still work there. They've kept me up-to-date on her illness, and eventual recovery. Today my son emailed me with news of her death. I knew she was sick again and in the hospital, but I fully expected her to recover from this too.

Just last Saturday night, another co-worker happened to be at the hospital in Evansville where Janet had been admitted. He popped in to see her. She was sitting up in bed and told him they were running some tests on her. Three days later she was gone.

My husband said it was awfully hard to walk by her desk, see her name on the cubicle, and photos of her two sons sitting all around. I pity the person that has to remove all of her belongings from her cubicle--such a sad chore.

Rest in peace, Janet. And thanks for all of those smiles.

Sorry....Wrong Number

4:00 am. The phone rang, jarring me from sleep. I ran to answer it with a sleepy "hello?" and half-expected to hear bad news. No good news comes at 4am. A craggy, old-woman voice whispered, "There's someone walking down the highway..." Great...it's that stupid old woman again. She can't seem to dial the right phone number. Our number is one digit from the local police phone number, and we hear from this old gal once in awhile.

She always speaks in a whisper. I don't know if she's trying to keep from waking someone up, or if she thinks the man walking down the highway can hear her. Again I told her she is not reaching the police department and to please dial the correct number. I hate to think how many times she called me right back with the same complaint. And why does she think it's against the law to walk down the highway at 4am?

We've gotten calls many times over the years from people thinking they've reached the police. Almost always it's something stupid that they're calling about. If that's the caliber of calls that our police get, I feel sorry for them. I don't think I'd last too long as a dispatcher. I'm afraid I'd yell, "Get over it!" one too many times when I heard their petty problems.

Our neighbor's phone number is real similar to the phone number of Daviess County Metal. He was constantly receiving calls from folks wanting to know how much something-or-other was. One day he'd had enough--a man called wanting a price on how much garage doors were. So he gave the man a price. I hope it was close to the actual figure.

I once was called by the sweetest old lady. She was trying to reach the Waltons, if I remember correctly. When I told her she had the wrong number, she started fretting. It must've been terribly hard for her to make one call, much less two. "Oh dear!" she said..."Would you call them for me?". What else could I do? I took the woman's phone number, and the name of the people she was trying to reach. I hung up and tried to call, but no one answered--and no answering machine picked up. So I called the poor old soul back and told her no one was home. She thanked me for trying, and hung up.

When I was a teenager, I got a call from a guy. I didn't recognize his voice, but he never did ask to speak to anyone. He thought he was talking to the person he wanted to talk with. After a few minutes, I realized that we didn't know each other...but I kept on talking to him. We must've talked for a half-hour and really had a good time talking. But after a while he asked me a question that I couldn't possibly answer, so I told him that he had actually called a wrong number. He was surprised, but told me that he really enjoyed talking to me. I'm amazed he never called back.

But doesn't it irritate you when someone calls you and then in a demanding voice asks, "Who is this?"? I always asked them the same question. Invariably they hang up on me.

I've gotten calls from babies too. Somehow the baby hits just the right number and gives me a call. That's always good for a laugh or two.

In this day and age, we are able to hit *69 and get the number of the person that just called us--that is, if we don't have Caller ID. I don't get enough calls to warrant having Caller ID. So sometimes I'll just *69 and write down the number so I can call them back and be equally as rude. That's always been my plan anyway. Some day I may actually do it.

You know, we haven't heard from the whispering old lady in a couple of years now. She's either passed on, or in the nursing home...or maybe the man walking down the highway stopped in and did away with her in retaliation for her calling the cops on him so often.

Where's the Ice Cream?

Something I just read on another blog reminded me of some of the funny things my kids said when they were little. Thought I'd better commit some to paper before my mind completely goes and I forget them.

When Brian was maybe around five, I was outside in the neighbor's yard visiting. Brian poked his head out the sliding glass door and yelled, "MOM...WHERE'S THE ICE CREAM?" My reply? "It's in the oven."

About a minute later, he came back to the door and yelled, "NO IT ISN'T!"

Then that reminded me of the time when C&C...aka Mark...came to our back door on Rural Street in Indy. He was about the same age. We were out playing in the snow with Mom. Well, Mark stepped almost completely out the door...and he was stark naked! He yelled, "Mom, where's my clothes????"

Carrie had a unique way of measuring the amount of food she consumed. She always asked for a "patch" of ice cream. And she loved my aunt's cole slaw. One day she said she was so full because she ate "two loads of slaw". She was a good eater, which was great after having such a picky eater (Brian). But as soon as she was full, she'd hold her plate up to be removed, and would announce, "I don't like this anymore."...what a kid.

There's tons more, but I suddenly got sleepy. Guess the 1/4 dose of Ambien kicked in...and it IS after midnight. Got to hit the sack.

We Remember Moments...

How many of those special little moments of your life can you recall? I'm not talking about something big like our recent trip to Italy. I'm talking about something that seemed so small at the time that it might not even be worth remembering. But that moment in time lives forever in your memory.

Some small little moments in my life...

The time a sweet nun offered me a quarter to spend at the school carnival.

"Ode" Perry sitting in his old easy chair, singing hymns while my little sister sat in his lap.

Burning popcycle papers in a hole in our concrete steps on Rural Street in Indy.

Me telling my dear Grandpa Cissell "Don't put pepper on my leg" while he fried chicken on the front porch of his house.


I witnessed such a moment when my two new granddaughters had their nails (fingers and toes) painted a beautiful, bright red. The "nail artists" were my sister and my niece. Both of the little girls loved the experience. They both sat very quietly and patiently while their nails were being done. And they did a pretty good job letting the nails dry too.

We were just finishing up a big weekend. My "adopted" son from India was visiting, and he wanted to have a big get-together to celebrate my daughter's birthday and to welcome the new nieces he now had. The girls met cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and neighbors. And they loved everyone they met. They now have a pretty good-sized family, and took it all in stride. You would've thought they'd known us all of their lives.

I'm not sure what actually started the nail-painting spree, but that's exactly how treasured memories are born--something simple, something not planned. Capturing the moment digitally is nice, but unnecessary for those that were there. You can't capture the smell of the polish, the tickle of the toes, or the feel of the soft little fingers in your hand. But who knows...sometime many years from now, just the smell of nail polish might bring this sweet memory back to life for these girls.

So don't be surprised when some tiny little hint brings back a treasured memory, or looking into the beautiful blue eyes of a teasing four-year-old reminds you of your father's blue eyes.

Again, welcome to the family girls. All of us have been waiting for you for a very long time. Thanks for bringing your sweet sunshine with you.

We love you very much.

Grandma and Grandpa