Bye Bye Noble High School

“We could love and not be suckers. We could dream and not be losers. It was such a beautiful time. Everything was possible because we didn't know anything yet.” 

-- Hilary Winston, on high school

They - the ubiquitous "they" - claim that if you are patient, everything you've lost will come back to you. I really don't know that "they" said this at all, but I have heard it proclaimed by aunts and pseudo-wise individuals who state such with pursed lips, arched brows, and nodding heads. There must be something to it.

And while I have never been known to be too patient ...  look! After years of assumed destruction I now again possess my FFA Chapter Sweetheart jacket! Just in time for the farming season. In fact, I'm considering pulling it on and standing in ceremony when giant machines cut the wheat you see across the road. Of course, I can't get an arm in it so I would need to start a no-food-of-any-kind diet, and still wouldn't be thin enough by that point. Instead I shall wave it in support, like a flag of agri-patriotism airborne within the chaff and dust cloud that will envelop me, while "John Deere Green" plays from .... somewhere. No? Okay, maybe not.

Actually, this is a cool story with a bittersweet end. It begins with a gift of affection from a group at West Richland High School, or Noble High School, whichever you prefer, in a town nestled along U.S. Route 50 in southeastern Illinois. Small town, small school, big-hearted and big-willed people. The West Richland Future Farmers of America bestowed upon me the honor of being the Sweetheart of their chapter in 1979-80. It was a time when girls were slowly popping up in FFA, but not fully assimilated into the organization. I believe I was the last of the Sweetheart breed there, with opportunity and progress swooping in behind my departure - as is often the case. I was truly touched and surprised to be selected, though I never really understood what my role was as the Chapter Sweetheart. I recall I was to be in the yearbook photo, and missed that assignment while being in the French Club photo. I certainly hope I didn't embarrass them too much during my one-year reign, because I've always had a lot of respect for the FFA.

In the years that followed the jacket was put into a box with cheerleading outfits and other assorted items from my high school career and carted around to several locations. It last settled into a basement with a dodgy sump pump that was filled with storm water for a couple of weeks. I was on the cusp of moving out and had to leave what I assumed were ruined items, and was told the soggy, mildewed collection would be thrown in the trash.

Flash forward a few decades and I hear from a friend, who attended a ballgame at NHS, that my jacket was on display in a trophy case. Blink. Excuse me? The story goes that, obviously, the box was not thrown away and in the mid-2000s a relative of the agriculture instructor purchased it at a rummage sale. It was decided the jacket must be purchased and brought back to the school. Because it was "vintage." A symbol of the way things "used to be." You know, in the "old days." I never had the opportunity to view it there, although my son did. "It kinda looks like crap," he said apologetically. "Of course it does," I sniffed. "It's vintage."

In all honesty, the display of my jacket there was as much, if not more, of an honor as having received it in the first place. I am proud to have attended school in Noble. As with many who grew up in small towns in large agrarian regions, high school was at the epicenter of my teenage life. (Thank goodness I grew up and moved on, however. That much pleasure and pain should not co-exist - until marriage.) My memory is somewhat foggy of specifics, but overall high school was a time that is locked in a box of golden, Halcionic reflection, with a few jagged, sobering moments.

So much about life is learned in the microcosm of high school, with so many moments of unique discovery, extreme emotion, rallying sports events, and romance. Where else but high school does "walking the hall" qualify as a life experience? I could go it alone, or with a group, I didn't care, but there were groups of girls with actual strategy on how to walk the hall, and by which groups they would slow and converse with, and those they would avoid or intentionally ignore. I can see in my mind's eye the way the boys would sort themselves into groups, and stand in clusters in key locations - whether to be unavoidable to females or strategically in line to harass the poor freshmen trying to get by unnoticed. There was a group of rather obnoxious (but likeable, you know who you were) guys who stood at the corner of one of the trophy cases in the main hall. I learned to tune them out, yet look like I was staring directly at them - which I think may have made them just a bit wary of me. My trick was to focus just above their heads on one of the brass trophies that glittered in the light, and then other items like basketball nets from victorious games, and photos of champion teams or stellar track and field athletes. I would imagine the events at which these awards were bestowed, and the moment when the flash of the camera went off and captured those jubilant faces aglow with their achievement. After a while, I didn't even notice the boys. Not there, anyway.

I was intrigued by the photos. They spanned the decades of existence of the high school in Noble, and there were times I would stand before them and wonder where those faces were at that point, what they had achieved, and if they were happy. There were stories going on inside my head like so much cinema, imagining their lives. Occasionally my vision shifted and I would see my reflection staring back at me and wonder, "Where will I go? What will I do? Who will I be?"

So it was with some satisfaction I imagined another teenage girl staring at my jacket in the trophy case and wondering about herself. I hope they were good wonderings and beliefs and she marched into adult life with an open mind and a determined gait. I'm a little itchy when thinking of her wondering about me. That "Sweetheart" from 1979-80 - in the "old days." My life isn't exactly a fairytale, or a textbook success story. Not by a long shot, boys and girls. But it is my story, and one in which NHS is a strong supporting character.

But it's possible that girl just thought, "Eww, what a crappy jacket. It must be really, really old." Um, no, it's vintage, babe.

But it is not the jacket that is important, but what it represents. What it now represents is an institution that is no more. This was the last year of operation for the high school in Noble. Like so many throughout the State of Illinois, the West Richland Board of Education has been tasked for years with growing mandates and expense, and dwindling resources. There was a lot of debate as to how the district had come to its sorry state, and even more debate about how to proceed. In the end, members chose to end education as it had been known for decades on the western side of Richland County. The high school students will be absorbed by a neighboring district, and I hear the building will be leased to the local community college. That is a good thing, or at least better than sitting alone and abandoned, subject to inevitable decay. Still, it is the end of an era. And if my jacket was returned, what will become of the trophies and photos of those champions, and the mementos of existence encased in that hallway?

I hope for one last opportunity for alumni to visit the hallways and classrooms and gymnasium of the school. I hope to stare into those trophy cases and place there all the laughter and bellows, flirtations and fights, classroom discussions and chaos, and nights filled with thundering basketball games that shook the bleachers and raised our spirits as a community - and gaze upon it with gratitude. I will close my eyes to lock that vision inside my mind, then turn and walk away with a smile.

Thanks Noble.

Chi Cha, Sis Boom Bah!
Noble Wildcats, 
Rah ... 
Rah ... 
Rah!

Content Copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes

Mom and Dad. One our first family snapshots.
I'm the one at left. Under Mom's shirt

(That's by Gloria Naylor, btw.)

It is Father's Day.

This is always a bittersweet day of recognition for me. My father died many years ago when I was 18 years old. He was 39. Thirty-nine. He died of a malignant brain tumor that had been taking its terrible toll for a bit more than a year. His death was bane and blessing. Blessing because his suffering - and that of those who loved and agonized in watching over him - was over. Bane because his physical life - and one aspect of life for those who loved him - was over.

But to clarify, a different type of suffering for those who remained after my father's death had just begun. A period of crazy contradictions. I had a feeling of being beaten, of standing in a vacuum with battered mind, body and soul. Of feeling at once on fire with pain, and frozen from numbness. Time stood still, and yet it had a way of tenderly and joyfully and agonizingly moving backward, making me watch my time with him move back and forth like a silent movie - viewing laughter I knew must sound like happiness, seeing whispers I remember made me smile. And time would push me forward into a future that was an empty room where I stood and stared at one wall and was angry and petrified. I would turn and look at another wall of that empty room and be sad, and watch Dad walk down the steps outside my bedroom window, that traversed the space from the lawn to the patio of the walk-out basement of our home, and he would put his hand above his eyes to peer in at me in the shadow of the early morning sunshine and say, "Mornin' daughter-son!" I tried to respond but no words would come out of me. This flickered on that wall of my grief like the projection of a home movie.

There was the wall that held my fantasies:
• Me in England on a trip and walking into a pub and a waiter turns around to take my order and my father and I share shocked expressions at seeing one another; he whisks me to a back alley to tell me his story of being a spy (like James Bond) and how he had to leave us abruptly for reasons of national security and our safety, and is undercover to find those responsible for such horrible threats. I help him solve this issue and return home with him. There is much fanfare, and we are reunited as a family.
• Me as a doctor in a large hospital where I become lost in a maze of hallways and wards and erratic overhead lighting and discover a pristine, white room with blinding light where my father sits in white clothing and is playing chess, and turns his head with its scalp of chestnut hair (which we did not see for much of his last year of life) and looks at me quizzically, though with a flicker of recognition. I learn he is part of a group of patients with fast-growing and destructive brain tumors who underwent an experimental treatment that has taken years to provide recovery. While the treatment has eradicated the tumor and is regrowing his brain, it has damaged his memory. AND ... unfortunately the hospital forgot about his special ward, so he has been lost. I help him regain his memory and return home with him to much fanfare, and we are reunited as a family.
• Actually there are many of these scenarios. I am riding a bike in Chicago and turn a corner and run him over and find out he was kidnapped and living as a smelly, unwashed hostage. I save him by using amazing martial arts on his oppressor. Or, he was at sea on a treasure-hunting boat, was thrown overboard by a great storm and washed up on an island, where I find him while on a cruise. (The Tom Hanks movie "Castaway" was a bit surreal for me.) You may notice a "rescuer" or "hero" theme going on here, which results from feelings of guilt. There has never been a reason for me to feel guilty, and it is all self-imposed. I don't think it is an unusual feeling for survivors. You just have to spend a lot of time in therapy and bars to get over it. (Kidding! Kind of!)

Then there was the wall in my room of grief that was blank. Just blank. I often stared at this wall for far too long.

In truth, my dad would be highly entertained at some of these notions. He was imaginative and creative and fun. He would also be sad. He was a man who, when he was alive, was very alive, and wanted everyone to be happy. Of course, that is what a self-involved teenager assessed of her still-young father.

I thought I was all grown up when he died, but we all know that I was not. Such life experiences have a way of making one mature in very awkward ways, and yet leave one stunted in others. Sometimes it takes a lot of time and some serious screw-ups to make all those "ways" plait themselves into some braid of normalcy. I don't know. I'm just blabbering at times. But I suppose all of this blabber is a way to honor my father by expressing myself in the way I know best: writing it out. I used to write him stories when I was little. And he had plenty of stories himself. In fact, I come from a long line of story-tellers.

I feel I came to terms with his death quite some time ago, but that doesn't mean I am not still a bit sad that he didn't get to meet my sons, or my daughter-in-law, or Jacquelyn Jean. I have a variety of beliefs in regard to his spirit, of if I shall see him again, or if he exists in a way that makes him supernaturally aware of us here on Earth. I won't bore you with the details, if even it is possible for me to effectively express my beliefs. But I will say that I am also happy this day  -  to have such a father. I know I am more lucky than some. And early this morning, while Danger was still sleeping, I drove down to the Wynoose bottoms where I know he spent a lot of his life along the river and in the woods and I talked to him. He's been telling me to get the hell out of here and try out some new adventures. I am thinking maybe I shall.

Who knows, he might just tag along for the ride. Now that would be a great story.

Content Copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.