Morning Thanks--BHHS '72

 

They met yesterday. I wasn't among 'em. I was invited, but the invitation came so late that I  had  no time to plan to get there; at my age, just taking off cold is something you remember achingly like The Dave Clark Five or Gunsmoke. Sixteen old folks showed up here at the restaurant in Darlington, Wisconsin yesterday, 16 members of the 1972 graduating class of Blackhawk High, my first teaching job. They had a reunion, and I didn't get my invite until late last week.

But honestly, who knows if I would have taken a day's travel if I'd have received that invite earlier. Wishful thinking on my part, although when I texted the Jeff (third from the left, back row) he told me there's another reunion planned for August. I may try. Try.

Some of these faces I remember, but certainly not all. Blessedly, Jeff named the Class of '72ers, or I'd have spent unforgiveable amounts of time trying to determine who looked like this all these years later because for me, their fresh-out-of-college English teacher, they will forever be 18 years old. 

Strangely enough I remember thinking, back then, there would come a time when I'd be 65, and they would be 60, the years between us largely indistinguishable. We'll, we're there, and have been for a couple of decades already. If I'd walk into a bait store with these gents, nobody would wonder who is the old fart with 'em.

But this morning I'm greatly thankful for them--I really am. Let me count the ways.

1-They taught me who I was and who I would be--a good teacher, a not so good coach.

2-They let me be a friend without being a sidekick.

3-They taught me that my wooden shoes were a fashion accessory.

4-They made faith bigger than I'd known it to be, not smaller.

5-They were friends when I had few. 

6-They taught me how to teach; they taught me the beauty of literature.

7-They helped me understand that they--each of them--were real people, not just faces in those classroom chairs. 

There's more too, I'm sure. The fact is, they're forever in me, in memories that rise unbidden from wherever the soul keeps them, a thousand comic operas that emerge every once in a while to be dusted off and restored.

This morning after a reunion I missed, I'm thankful for Blackhawk High School's Class of 1972, the kids that brought me to school. 

______________________________ 

The old BHHS Yearbooks are long gone in the flood that took out the goods in our bottom floor, but this old award plaque somehow made it through the mess, even though what it says is barely visible: "James C. Schaap," it says, up top, then "To the greatest play director, teacher & friend we could ever have. Blackhawk High School, "Up the Down Staircase" Cast, 1971.

Must have got in the water somehow--the wood around the tacks is shaded if you look close, but it's still readable.