Steve Werkmeister and the GICC class of 1985

A poet, a Bishop and an artist.

If they walked into a bar, it'd be the beginning of a great joke.

Steve Werkmeister

It's no joke, though. The poet, the Bishop and the artist are all members of the Grand Island Central Catholic class of 1985. On this warm weekend in July, most of them are gathered to celebrate their 40th high school reunion.

On the eve of their festivities, however, poet Steve Werkmeister - now an English professor and award-winning writer in Kansas City - is giving a long awaited poetry reading in his hometown at the Grand Island City Library. My husband John introduces him and notes Steve's many high school achievements as a stellar track athlete and journalism student.

"I taught three types of students," John recalls. "There were those kids who colored inside the lines, the kids who colored outside the lines, and the kids who didn't see the lines - like Steve," he said. "Steve was always a seeker, and he still is - a seeker of truth, compassion, love and justice."

John and I loved teaching Steve and his classmates. In our many, many years as educators, the class of 1985 stands out. A class of talented, quirky, funny and determined kids, they were a delight to teach - in spite of the way they tested our patience at times. Steve, for instance, constantly pushed the boundaries in my journalism class. His writing was phenomenal, so much so that I knew in a moment I was out of my depth. Steve had a way of looking at things from a perspective that fascinated but completely eluded me - as if he hovered somewhere close to the ceiling and a little to the right - observing the world in an uncanny new way.

"Nerd Day" at GICC, 1984. From left: Gary Staab, Jon
Bartek, Debbie Buck, Steve Werkmeister, Sam Daly

"Oh, come ON!" he argued after he composed a brilliant new version of Poe's THE RAVEN liberally sprinkled with a dose of profanity. I removed the profanity, much to his disgust, but published in the school newspaper one of the most magnificent pieces of writing I'd ever seen by anybody - even by a professional poet. Steve Werkmeister was leagues beyond me.

Here at the City Library, he arrives with the beautiful women in his family - his mother, sister and wife - and his good looking son. Several classmates in attendance greet Steve with enthusiasm and nostalgia. Rick Gilroy, who was such a small kid in high school, is tall and impressive and comes with his also tall and lovely wife. Randy Lonowski, a state champion high school wrestler and the ornery, sweet wild child of the class, still flashes his mega-watt smile. And those darling girls - Michelle Prince, Debbie Buck, Susie Messing and Shelly White - have not changed an iota. When Steve mentions that they're all approaching 60, I literally gasp. Those four beautiful girls are still teenagers in my eyes.

I remember laughing all the way through their high school years. If there were dark moments, they seem forgotten now. Steve, however, brings back his high school years with abrupt and startling memory. If he occasionally rebelled against the rules, I now realize a new appreciation for the kid he was in high school. He'd acquired his name from his German father who abandoned the family. It was his loving Mexican mother who, with loving determination, raised Steve and his sister Susan and sent them to Catholic school.

"Where are you from?" Steve remembers an older girl in elementary school asking him when he was seven years old.

GICC class of '85 40th year reunion

The question confused him. "Here!" he said.

"No, no," she shook her head. "Where are you from?"

That was the day Steve realized his Mexican heritage branded with a German name was highly questionable in his small community.

"Are you a good Mexican or a bad Mexican?" the girl persisted.

Always Steve felt his "otherness" and the sense that he didn't quite belong.

He writes of a cop who stopped him in Texas. 

        "wondering what I thought of Shakespeare, 

         wondering if I dug the art of Basquiat, 

         wondering about my perspective on the collapse

         of Communism and the new world order,

         wondering if I considered the possibility 

         of life before death. I'm kidding, of course.

         The cop was wondering why I was walking

          in that particular neighborhood, two blocks

          from my aunt's house. The cop made the face

         I'd known from cashiers and girlsfriends' dads

Sculpture by Gary Staab
at Grand Island City
Library

         and airline agents and asked where did you get

         this name?, my Nebraska license not matching

         the panoply of possibilities my skin suggested.

         "Twas the swaddling clothes of my birth, said I,

          'twill be the winding sheets of my death.

          It was all my dad had to give me."

Mesmerized, we listen to Steve's life unfold through his poetry. He takes us to the scorching fields where, with a band of 12-year-olds, he detassels his way through suffocating rows of corn. To the hospital room during the birth of his first child. On a lonely road where, for a brief time, he ponders when and where he will end his life. Each poem is a thing of perfection and narrated in Steve's hauntingly almost matter-of-fact voice.

For a kid who often felt he was on the outside looking in, I think of his classmates who drink in every word. As he reads his last poem, Hell, Yeah, I Went to Catholic School, they smile. It's a four line poem in vintage Werkmeister style - rebellious, irreverent and a little shocking. As he reads the last line, he flashes the smile I remember from his youth, a smile that recognizes the glint of humor even in a tragic moment and invites you to experience it, too.

Gary Staab's "Megalodon", Smithsonian 
Institute

His classmates know Steve well. They grew up with him. Not one of them was ever asked where they came from or if they were good or bad. Still, they did not grow up unscathed. All at once I'm remembering the day Susie lost her good father. Shelly grew up with divorced parents. As a young woman, Debbie raised her baby daughter alone. They wrestled their own demons - every one of them. Yet, here they are. They've survived and thrived and are entering the "fifth act", as Steve likes to remind them. 

And they've arrived at the fifth act remarkably fit and happy. I have no doubt Randy Lonowski could still pin a 165 opponent. More than that, they are kind people. My husband and I like them very much.

Outside, I pause to say goodbye to Steve and his family. We stand next to the city library's pride and joy - an imposing sculpture of Nebraska's sandhill cranes created by our own Gary Staab, GICC class of '85. It's breathtaking, and I recall the day not long ago when my son Kenny texted me from Washington D.C. on a business trip.

Bishop Jim Golka

"Mom! Look!" Visiting the Smithsonian, he sends a photo of Gary's 52-foot long "Megalodon", his prehistoric shark hanging from the ceiling of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. The Smithsonian, of all things.

Gary Staab, I remember, staring up at those gorgeous cranes at the library. His work is displayed all over the world. The innocent, lovable kid who could hardly remember what day it was let alone what period he was supposed to be in journalism class is an international wonder.

And then there's our Bishop. Jimmy Golka used to sneak out of the house at nights to hang out with his friends. Now he's the kind and wise shepherd for the Diocese of Colorado Springs.

I think all these thoughts as I say goodbye to Steve next to Gary's sculpture. It's a perfect moment.

Steve, John and me

"I'm so proud of you I could weep," I tell Steve.

But aren't we proud of all of them? Matt McGuire, in spite of heart issues and an ailing back, perseveres at farming his father's land. Heidi Newman nursed her sick mother before she died. Steve Wassinger is a gifted doctor. Patti Scripture survived breast cancer.

They are magnificent, this class of '85. 

And not just the poet, the Bishop and the artist.

Still, it'd be so cool to see them walk into a bar.

       

Janiece Liske Jones

 

Janiece Liske Jones

Janiece Liske - sweet, pleasant, cheerful - is that girl in school who everybody likes.

Life isn't complicated for a kid who's the oldest of five and regularly accused of being "too bossy" by her younger siblings. That's why teachers like her, too. In my sophomore English class, she's a dream student who hands in every assignment and never complains. High school drama is a foreign idea to Janiece Liske. 

The GICC 1981 state championship volleyball
team 40 years later. Front: Asst. coach Mary
Janky, head coach Sharon Zavala. Back from
left: Mary Curtis, Theresa Costello, Dorine 
Lucht, Mary Brown, Chris Jarecke,
Janiece Liske and Kate Stokman

Part of a close-knit little tribe of girls and boys from the Grand Island Central Catholic class of 1982, Janiece, in spite of her uncomplicated nature, surprises everyone with her steely determination. The fall of her senior year, she and her gritty teammates snare the Class C1 state volleyball championship - the first ever. My little sister Mary is on that team, as well as some funny and wonderful girls like Monica Kozisek, Chris Jarecke, Kate Stokman, Dorine Lucht, Mary Curtis, Karla Rork, and Theresa Costello. They've all been through stuff, big stuff, these girls. Some have lost family members - a parent, a brother, a sister. One suffers from juvenile diabetes. Maybe it's the adversity in their young lives that gives these kids the guts to spit in the wind and battle for a state championship. Whatever it is, the entire GICC faithful cheers in frenzied delight from the stands at Pershing Auditorium as our bold little girls receive their championship medals.

Pat and Janiece, 1981 GICC Homecoming

One of those fervent fans is Pat Jones, Janiece Liske's boyfriend. Pat and Janiece are inseparable - not in a spoony way, but in a "this is my very best pal" sort of way. Only one time in her life has Janiece ever really caused her parents grief.  It's the last night of her sophomore year when she talks to Pat for the first time at an end-of-the-year party and misses curfew. As far as Janiece is concerned, the wrath of her parents is entirely worth it. The next morning, however, when Pat shows up at the Liske doorstep, Janiece's mother takes one look at him and slams the door. It's Janiece's father Leo who saves the day.

"Oh, now, come on in," he opens the door and ushers Pat into the house. Pat sits awkwardly in the living room with Janiece's angry mother and prays with all his heart for Janiece to hurry up.

Thankfully, Maxine Liske warms to Pat in the weeks to come and will one day consider Pat to be another son. Indeed, that's exactly what he becomes. Almost immediately after high school graduation, Pat and Janiece marry in a simple wedding at their hometown church.

"I know it seems crazy for a couple of 18-year-olds to get married," Janiece says now, "but we just knew we belonged to each other."

Janiece, bottom left, with her parents and
siblings. Next to Janiece: her father Leo,
mother Maxine, sister Jill. Top from left, 
brothers Joe, Jim and Jarrod

Soon, babies are arriving. Jennifer is born first followed by her sister Jaci. Mike is the youngest. Life is full and happy for the young Joneses. Pat helps run the family business, the long established Ron's Music. Janiece joins him after Pat's mother becomes ill to take care of the books. As the kids grow, Pat coaches his daughters' softball teams, and he and Janiece send their kids to their beloved alma mater, Central Catholic.

 Always sweet and ornery in high school, Pat is a doting, fun and adventurous dad as well. One Fourth of July, he and Janiece host a party for their kids and their kids' friends who fill the front yard with their games and antics. Janiece slips across the street to visit a neighbor when she's suddenly aware of how empty her front yard has become.

Curious, she walks back searching for her husband and the gaggle of kids who are supposed to be under his watch. In the empty house, she climbs to the second floor just in time to see one of her son's friends standing outside the bedroom window on the roof. Below she hears a chorus of young voices.

"Jump! Jump!"

Alarmed, she pulls the boy back inside and demands to know what he's doing. 

"Mr. Jones moved the trampoline next to the house so we could all jump on it from the second floor," the boy sheepishly explains. "He said it's what he and friends used to do."

Janiece, steady and cautious, is sometimes bewildered by Pat's daring attitude.

"You only live once!" Pat always advises his kids and young friends. "Go do stuff! Don't wait!"

It's the way Pat approaches life - with zest, humor and compassion. At Christmas time he purchases gifts for disadvantaged kids. One boy requests a basketball, and Pat looks long and hard for THE best basketball. When he coaches softball, he buys uniforms and pitching machines with his own money. As well, Pat is an avid bear hunter and looks forward with all his heart to his yearly hunting trip.

Pat, two months before his death, with Janiece,
Jennifer and her husband Andy, Mike and Jaci.

Pat and Janiece are happy people enjoying life and the pursuits of their young family. 

Pat is just 44-years-old when he reports to the doctor for his routine checkup. His blood tests, the nurse tells him, reveal some concerns. Even though Pat is a young man, he's advised to have a colonoscopy. Pat and Janiece think nothing of it when Dr. Crouch asks them to stop in his office and are hardly prepared for the news. 

"Pat, there's no easy way to tell you this," Dr. Crouch says gently. "It's colon cancer."

Stunned, Pat and Janiece struggle to absorb the news but rally quickly. Pat is young and will surely beat this, they wholeheartedly believe.

After an operation to resect part of his colon, Pat immediately starts chemotherapy treatment. He schedules his yearly bear hunting trip in Canada and looks forward to having the entire messy cancer episode behind him. But when his condition doesn't improve, he and Janiece travel to Mayo Clinic for another operation. The cancer has spread aggressively, his doctor tells him after the surgery. Now, the goal is only to make Pat as comfortable as possible.

"I had to stay strong for the kids," Janiece remembers. She also had to keep the business going. Of those difficult days, Janiece remembers the tremendous support she and Pat receive from their Central Catholic community, family and friends.

In spite of his terminal diagnosis, Pat's determined to travel to Canada for his bear hunt. Janiece is very much against the idea until her younger sister Jill, wise beyond her years, tells Janiece to let him go.

"He needs to do this," she advises Janiece.

Three weeks after his surgery at Mayo's, Pat leaves for Canada and comes back with two bears, one with a record-setting skull size.

Janiece with kids Jaci, Mike and Jennifer.

When he is bedridden just before his death, Janiece and his kids are at his side. Pat depends on his son-in-law Andy, Jennifer's husband, to carry him back and forth. They are all with him as Pat takes his last breath.

"Our kids were unbelievable," Janiece says. "I couldn't have gotten through it without them."

The Grand Island Central Catholic community, friends and classmates of the Joneses are stunned by Pat's death. We wonder how Janiece, a young widow, will cope with the loss of her husband, a business to run on her own, and life as a single mother.

Janiece with her grandchildren

Janiece Liske Jones, however, refuses to have people coddle her. She's still that spunky high school kid who played volleyball like a little pit bull terrier. 

"I had a decision to make," she says now. "I could cry and feel sorry for myself, or I could put on my big girl panties and fake being happy until it was real."

She chooses the latter. In the years after Pat's death, she decides to foster cats without homes. Her growing children marry and produce grandchildren. Daughter Jennifer and husband Andy give Janiece her first two grandchildren, Bella and Ryder. Jaci marries Sam Puente, and they add son Boston and  daughter Harper to the growing family. Mike marries his Megan, and Megan gives birth to Nolan. All Janiece's grandsons are given the middle name Patrick by their parents.

One summer in 2011, she's asked by the now late Bob Sorenson to help with the ABCDD softball league. Janiece, thinking it will be good for her to be active during the summer, has no idea how involved she will become. Currently, she serves as commissioner for the league which serves 650 girls' softball players. In 2011, however, she's only hoping for something to do to fill her summers, and it's there that she meets Bill Leach, a long time umpire for girls' fastpitch softball. Bill, like Janiece, will become very involved and serve as the Nebraska District 5 Commissioner and UIC (Umpire in Charge). Then, however, he's just a single father working hard at his softball duties who thinks the new lady, Janiece Jones, is very nice.

Bill and Janiece

It never occurs to Janiece that she will fall in love again. Bill Leach is a good guy, she thinks, and she enjoys hanging out with him at the softball fields. Still, he's nothing like Pat. For one thing he smokes, a habit Janiece detests. For another he's not Catholic, a sticking point for Janiece. Lastly, he's between jobs.

"Strike three!" Janiece laughs now.

After softball season ends, though, she discovers herself missing Bill's easy banter. He misses her, too. In 2012 they seal the deal to become an official couple.

"It was nice to feel I had a best friend again," she says. They introduce their kids to each other.

"Bill's kids became my bonus kids," Janiece says about Bill's daughter BaiLeigh and son Brennin.

Life was "super great," Janiece says. She and Bill share their softball duties, love attending their grandkids' activities, and love each other - quirks and all.

Janiece with foster kitties

Bill finds it difficult to quit smoking - a habit he's promised Janiece he will conquer. She catches him one day standing innocently in the yard. Then she notices the curls of smoke rising from the grass where Bill has hurriedly tossed his cigarette as he hears Janiece approach.

Bill, for his part, is living with a woman who houses homeless cats and all other manner of critters. One day Janiece's little black foster cat hops without warning into their burning fireplace. Janiece screams, and Bill, rushing to the fireplace, orders her to leave the room. Somehow he manages to steer the traumatized cat out of the fire who, miraculously, suffers only a few singed whiskers. 

Janiece is beyond grateful to be living with a man as besotted by her many foster cats as she is.

She is not enamored, however, with a pair of doves who continuously coo at the top of their chimney. They drive Janiece to distraction, but Bill loves the sound of the birds singing their love language to each other. 

Janiece can hardly believe she's been lucky to find a best friend again in Bill - a man so different from Pat in every way but just as loved. As with Pat, she and Bill are inseparable. They manage the softball league together, bowl together, cheer the Huskers together. Their grandchildren are the pride and joy of their lives.

Then the unthinkable happens again.

On a Monday evening late in March, Bill comes home tired and crashes on the couch. Janiece thinks nothing of it until the next morning. Bill doesn't wake up, and Janiece can't rouse him. Frantic, she calls an ambulance, but it's too late. 

Bill Leach, only 54 years old, has died.

Once again it is Janiece's children who rally around their mother. Jaci comes every night to stay with her mother. Mike arrives to comfort her, and Jennifer, Janiece's oldest, deals with Bill's business colleagues. Bill's son and daughter, in spite of their terrible grief, do their best to support Janiece, too.

Her sister Jill flies in for the funeral all the way from Saipan to be with Janiece.

"I've been thinking," Jill says, "how lucky you were to be blessed twice in a lifetime." 

Bill and Janiece surrounded by their kids
and grandkids

Her little sister's words are a balm. Sitting in her living room one day after the funeral, Janiece notices that, oddly, only one dove remains at the top of the chimney cooing its lonely love song. With her furry companions and her single dove, Janiece forces herself again to enter the land of the living.

She's hardly caught her breath when, two months after Bill's death, another bolt from the blue shatters her existence. She receives a call in the middle of the day that her youngest brother Jarrod has been in motorcycle accident. Without a thought, she rushes to her car and drives to the site of the accident. It's then she realizes her single dove has darted down from the chimney and flies next to her car. Whatever she is about to find at the crash site, she tells herself, Bill is by her side.

Her brother Jarrod does not survive, and Janiece, with the help of her brother Jim, must inform her parents of their youngest son's death. Life has never seemed as bleak or as hopeless as it does now. 

It's been two years since the passing of both Bill and Jarrod. Though still fragile, Janiece has chosen once again to be happy. She cries, she laughs, she remembers, and she's grateful. Above all, she has no interest in being the lady everybody feels sorry for. Janiece Liske Jones will always choose to be happy. 

"I guess I've always taken it for granted that I'll see the people I love again," she says. "I believe we'll be reunited, and I'm not afraid of death. I get angry with God," she says, "but I know he can take it. I don't know exactly what his plan is, but I can be patient and wait to find out."

In the meantime, there are kids and grandkids and bowling and cats and softball leagues and Huskers to claim her attention. 

Janiece chooses, as she does every day, to enjoy the many blessings in her remarkable life.

Jim Rea

 We've been friends for almost half a century, the five of us. 

Jim Rea

"The Splendor Vendors" we call ourselves - like the name of a club that 12-year-old kids make up. Really, though, the quirky name was from a writing class we took back in 1980. Never mind how the name came about. You only have to know it stuck for 45 years.

The class was offered to teachers for college credit through UNL, and the 30 or so of us enrolled were from Central Catholic, Northwest, Walnut and Barr Middle Schools and Grand Island Senior High. Bill Goa, Kermit McCue, Ken Bassett, Julie Kayl, Wilma Stevenson and an assortment of great educators from every school in the city were registered.

We were mostly seated that first night of class when a handsome, auburn-haired young man entered the classroom in a sedate and dignified manner - a little like royalty, I thought.

"There's a serious fellow," I remember thinking. I didn't suppose we'd have much to talk about.

I was wrong. Jim Rea was far from serious. It took all of three class sessions to drop our polite facades, and by the end of the semester we were having so much fun writing, reading and laughing that none of us wanted the class to end. 

Some of us, as a matter of fact, elected to keep the Splendor Vendors going. Each month for years and years we met at each others' homes. As usually happens, though, enthusiasm waned, and eventually only Jim, Kenny Bassett, Julie Kayl and I remained. Connie Allen, Jim's good friend and English teacher at Walnut, joined us. Then Jim dropped his bombshell.

"Arlene and I are moving to Lincoln," he announced one evening. Heavily involved in the Nebraska State Education Association (NSEA), he would be able to better serve the organization in Lincoln, he said. Eventually, he was elected the NSEA president. 

To say we were crushed was an understatement. On that very day, the Splendor Vendors ceased to exist. How could we go on without Jim, the life of the party? Jim, however, with Connie's help, refused to let our friendships with each other die. We committed ourselves to meeting as often as we could. Even if it was only once or twice a year, we continued to remain in each others' lives. Jim would come to Grand Island, we would drive to Lincoln, but most often we met in the middle at our favorite restaurant in York, Chances R.

The wonderful Rea family from left: Jim, Kevin,
Aaron and Arlene

You can't walk away from a 45-year-friendship. During those Splendor Vendor meetings through the long years, we learned everything about each other. Jim and his wife Arlene were advocates for Nebraska education, and we couldn't wait to hear about their boys - Aaron and Kevin. Once upon a time, they were small boys, then grown men, then husbands and fathers. We'd marvel at our conversations through the years. Our talk and laughter as young people in our 20's revolved around the funny stories of our young families and our students. By our 60's and 70's, discussions focused on grandchildren and good Medicare supplements. Always, though, we laughed. We'd linger at the table over those long yearly lunches, and Jim was genuinely fascinated and interested in our lives. Where was Ken's art work featured? Was Connie any closer to retiring as a school principal? What did Julie hear from her son in the military and her daughter in Las Vegas? How were my very tall husband and even taller sons faring? Jim wasn't being polite. He was truly curious.

During one of those delightful lunches at Chances R a couple of years ago, Jim asked us a favor. He and Arlene had been discussing funeral preparations - for that vague and unknowable time in the future. 

"I want an Irish wake when I die," he said, "and I want you four to promise me you'll tell stories about our crazy friendship as members of the Splendor Vendors."

We hardly knew how to respond. None of us wanted to talk about death. Weren't we having the most wonderful time laughing and remembering the good old days? Did we have to spoil it with talk of funerals?

Nevertheless, we promised we'd be ready to share stories of Jim. 

Death, as it turned out, was not so far away. Last summer at Chances R, Jim seemed distracted. Still, he regained his good humor. Just a couple of months later, however, he messaged us. He'd been diagnosed with a rare cancer, he said, and was starting chemo treatments. 

"How's the chemo going?" I texted him at the end of September.

"Cancer has a mind of its own," he replied. "Four rounds of chemo nearly did me in, but I managed to come out on the other side. Positive shrinkage of tumors."

Connie, Ken, Julie and I drove to Lincoln the next month to see him hoping he'd have good news to share. Arlene, as devoted a caregiver as there ever was, met us at the door before quietly leaving us alone with Jim to run her errands.

Our hopes about Jim's health dimmed as soon as we saw him. Thin and gaunt, our once engaging friend greeted us with subdued hugs. Gone was the Jim Rea who snickered and snorted when he laughed and put us so abruptly in our places with his wonderful, snarky comments. Instead, before us was a tired, heartbroken version of the man we loved. He wasn't sure he wanted to opt for more treatment, he said, and only really desired time with his family

We left soon afterward. Later at home, though, I texted him.

"Don't leave us yet, Jim!" I pleaded. "It isn't any fun without you!"

He didn't reply to many of our texts or phone calls after that. One letter arrived after the new year in which he thanked all his friends and family for their support. Otherwise, there was hardly a response at all. Respectfully, we backed away to allow him time with Arlene and his boys and family.

The word came just this last week. Jim lost his battle with cancer. The Irish wake Jim had planned so long ago will be this weekend at the Lincoln Haymarket. Hundreds of family and friends will gather to celebrate the life of the sardonic, sarcastic, loving, funny and wicked Jim Rea.

The Splendor Vendors won't be there. 

In the cruel way that life twists and turns, previous family commitments and illness will keep us away. Connie, Kenny, Julie and I are wrestling with a particular anguish. Jim asked us for this special favor. It was the only thing he ever asked from us, and we're letting him down.

Jim, wherever you are - and we'd like to think it's in a Heavenly pub cracking your evil jokes - we want to share our stories now. 

Connie remembers how you'd sneakily pay the bill at Chances R and that, in spite of your snarkiness, you were the glue that cemented our little group together. We shared confidences that would never leave the walls of the Splendor Vendor camp grounds.

"You've been missed recently," she said, "and now you will be missed through the rest of our times."

Did you know that Julie credits you with the success of her son? All those years ago when he was an eight-year-old struggling in school, you said to Julie, "I wonder if he has attention deficit disorder?"

It was a spot-on diagnosis. That struggling young boy is now a brilliant, productive man with an accomplished career and family.

"Your laughter at all our gatherings was contagious," Julie says. "You made us feel so happy and important, and I know you will make your presence and warmth felt by your family even though you can't be with them physically now."

Ken loved the way your face would turn red when you were really tickled and the way you would so masterfully tell a story as you built a hushed suspense. He remembers having lunch at your house when you made a chocolate pecan pie from scratch for us. Ken begged you for the recipe, which you happily furnished, and which Ken still has. He's never made that wonderful pie, but by God, he's going to soon.

Dear Jim, we will meet again. I can't wait to see your face - once more brimming with evil glee. I fully expect you to say something wicked. You ALWAYS were wicked.

"You don't look bad for your 80 years," you messaged on my 56th birthday.

Splendor Vendors from left: Connie Allen, Julie
Kayl, Cathy Howard, Kenny Bassett and Jim Rea

"Aren't you dead yet?" you wrote on my 65th birthday.

That was our Jim - the life of the party and the kindest tease I've ever known.

Ken, the truest poet among us, is facing his own health challenges these days. In fact, the day of our last gathering at your house, I remember the way you and Ken looked at each other with sympathy and the unutterable knowing of your common suffering. When we heard of your death, Ken shared this poem with us.

He is not dead, our friend, not dead;

But on these paths we mortals tread

He got some few trifling steps ahead

And nearer to the end.

So that when we come around the bend

We'll see him there,

Our friend whom we thought was dead.

"I didn't write it," sweet Ken wrote, "but I turn to it for comfort when death comes."

I'm keeping it forever, because it gives me comfort, too.

Goodbye for now, dear Jim. 

Please remain as wicked in Heaven as you were on Earth. God needs a good laugh, too.

Ellen May

Ellen May

Her entire name is Ellen Frances Warner. 

"Oh, FRANCES!" I tease her in the kitchen of the Kearney State cafeteria where we both sling hash for our fellow college students.

It's 1973, and Ellen and I are brand new freshmen working hard for our humble educations. Standing side by side over hot food warmers, we immediately hit if off and discover we share unusual similarities.

She's from Greeley, she tells me, and the youngest of ten children.

"I'm the oldest of ten!" I crow in amazement.

We discover that our birthdays are in April and that we've both grown up in big, devout Catholic families where memorizing the Act of Contrition and the mysteries of the Rosary is mandatory.

Breezy Ellen is beautiful, kind and fun and makes those long hours at Slaters Cafeteria pass quickly.

After college graduation, armed with our hard-earned teaching degrees, I'm delighted to learn that Ellen has secured a job at Northwest High School to teach special education. In the weird way our lives seem to run on parallel tracks, I'm teaching English across town at Central Catholic. Occasionally, we face each other down as the junior varsity volleyball coaches of our respective schools. The rivalry is friendly but intense. 

From left: Ellen, Cathy Betz and me

One day out of the blue, Ellen calls and asks if I'd be interested in renting a house together along with her bestie Cathy Betz - an English teacher at Northwest. I accept, and the three of us move in together. Betzie mows the lawn, Ellen cooks, and I take an occasional swipe at cleaning. One summer we fly to Reno together to play slot machines, take in some shows and even drive up to Lake Tahoe to tour the set of "Bonanza", our favorite TV show from the 60's.

"SEE THE USA IN A CHEVROLET!" we bellow and sing loudly as we drive up the mountain to the "Bonanza" house. It's the old familiar jingle that always introduced Ben Cartright and the boys. We giggle and feel like ten-year-olds.

Eventually Ellen decides to marry her boyfriend Chris May, and I am at the same time planning my wedding to John Howard. Our lives as single girls are ending. One afternoon, for whatever reason, Ellen and I reflect on the new chapters of our lives. How the discussion turns to faith, I cannot recall. What I have never forgotten, though, is Ellen's explanation of her prayer life.

"I only pray that I'll always have the strength to endure," she says quietly.

Me, left, and Ellen

Speechless, I feel both moved and ashamed. My own prayer life has essentially amounted to a grocery list: Please God, get me all the things I want. Here was my young friend Ellen Warner, however, asking only that God give her the strength to navigate the struggles of life.

That summer of 1984, Ellen and I celebrate our respective weddings a month apart. Two years later we're dumbfounded to discover both of us are pregnant and due at the same time. My son Kenny Howard is born September 23rd, and Amanda May arrives two days later on the 25th.

At Saint Francis Hospital, a nurse informs me that Ellen's room is just a few doors away. In my socks and hospital gown, I first pad down the hall to the nursery to check on the new additions. My Kenny thrusts a long arm up as if to acknowledge me through the glass window of the nursery. His poor head is noticeably oblong due to his tight descent down the birth canal. He doesn't have a single spear of hair, but to me he's the most beautiful human in the world. Tiny Amanda, a row away in the busy nursery, is perfect with her sweet round head, dark hair and rosebud mouth. She's a miniature of her lovely mother, and I can hardly wait to see Ellen.

"Do you have to copy every single thing I do?" I burst into her hospital room and reach down to hug her.

Ellen, left, and Cathy Betz

She laughs. "Why should you get all the attention?"

Our joy is incredibly short-lived. Just 15 days later, Ellen's little Amanda will die of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). Ellen discovers tiny Amanda lifeless in her crib and begins desperately to revive her. It is too late. 

All of us who know Ellen and Chris are devastated. Stunned, I hold Kenny close to me. Only two weeks old, he is absolutely essential to John and me. We love him beyond reason, and I cannot imagine life without him. 

When I knock on Ellen's door the very next day, I am hardly a bastion of support for my beautiful, grieving friend. Instead, as is typical, Ellen is the strong one. We clutch each other and weep. Eventually she shows me Amanda's little room with the rocking chair, the changing table, and the empty crib. The small, hollow room is gutted with sorrow.

"Oh Ellen," I sob, "I'm so sorry."

"No," she smiles through tears. "This room comforts me. I feel close to her."

A few days later, my giant of a father will accompany me to little Amanda May's funeral. Dad loves Ellen, too. At Northwest High School she's my youngest brother Jeff's Special Ed teacher and successfully coaxes him to rise to the difficult challenges of his life.

"Jeff's doing fine, Mr. Brown! Don't worry!" At parent-teacher conferences, Ellen constantly assures my dad - an overwhelmed widowed father of ten trying to do his best for Jeff. 

Ellen and Chris, center, with kids from left: Andy,
Nick and Andrea

Dad and I, at the rear of the funeral home, see Ellen and Chris bend over their beautiful but lifeless little Amanda in her tiny coffin. Their heartbreak pierces us, and my huge father snuffles loudly, desperately attempting to contain his tears.

This, I think, has always been the essence of my friend Ellen's most fervent prayer - possessing God's terrible strength to endure the impossible.

Two months later as Christmas approaches, I know with certainty that Ellen is enduring the impossible when I see Christmas lights strung around the roof of their house on Canon Road. I breathe a prayer of thanks for Ellen's faith and hope.

Ellen, top right, with seven of her nine 
siblings in 2014

Amanda's little room doesn't remain empty for long. In the years that follow her baby's death, Ellen gives birth to first Andy and then two more small siblings - Andrea and Nick. Like their parents they possess beauty, intelligence and athleticism. The three little Mays grow and flourish. My friend Ellen is a happy woman. We speak occasionally of Amanda, and I send a card most years. Ellen is not a girl for dwelling on unhappiness. She seems to have made her peace with Amanda's death and is once again her usual, serene self.

We're both busy parents, and while we don't see much of each other, I always look forward with glee to Ellen's Christmas letter with her own unique poem about family life at the Mays'. In addition Ellen's sisters Ann and Nancy send their children to Central Catholic. Eventually, we teach Nancy's grandchildren, too. Those Wieck and Dvorak kids are some of the best we've ever taught.

Ellen and Chris - center - with kids
and grandkids

Ellen's older son Andy - one of the finest boys and young men John and I have ever known - now has three children of his own with his beautiful wife Amy. Amy is our young fellow teacher at Grand Island Central Catholic. She and Andy have become like children to us through the years, and John and I love them both.

It's the same old story - Ellen's life seems to overlap with mine and mine with hers. Even when we don't see each other for months and months at a time, the people I love and who Ellen loves are constantly intertwined with us and each other.

The truth is, I think of Ellen almost every day. On the familiar route I've walked these many years through the Grand Island cemetery, I always pause at one special tree-shadowed corner. It's the grave of Ellen's little Amanda. Though I have never come upon Ellen at her little daughter's resting place, I observe the fruits of her labor over the changing seasons. The gaily wrapped Christmas package that lay close to Amanda's stone during these long winter months is now replaced by soft, spring finery. 

"Hello, Amanda!" I call out as I pass every day. Always I say a prayer. Next year it will be 40 years since Amanda's death. I can hardly believe it and often wonder what the adult Amanda would look like - very much like Ellen, I'm certain.

I'm especially remembering Amanda because tomorrow her own beautiful mother is celebrating 70 years on this earth. Everybody tells you the years pass quickly in old age, but I simply reject the fact that it's been more than 50 years ago since Ellen and I were scooping mashed potatoes together at the Kearney State College cafeteria. Her children are planning festivities and a family gathering for the big day tomorrow.

Ellen May is still beautiful and fitter than ever. She golfs, runs around like a kid with her grandchildren, and still radiates a serenity that comes from a life-time of faith and surrender. We are the same age - sweet Ellen and me - but she is a superior model of faith. I want to be just like my friend Ellen Frances Warner.  

Happy birthday, Ellie May. May you be surrounded by three generations of family who love you, and may you feel the closeness of Amanda - tomorrow and every day!

Sarah Nordhues

 

Sarah Nordhues

On this late February afternoon after school, Principal Sarah Nordhues is engaging in ten things at once. Brimming with after-school activity, the pleasant Central Catholic Elementary office is full of people who need Sarah’s attention - including her small daughters. It’s a typical rush-filled hour, but Sarah answers questions, texts her husband, settles her girls in her small office with snacks and coloring, and handles the chaos with ease.

Her first year as principal of a brand new grade school brings unique challenges of its own. Sarah, however, has been here before. At Riverside Elementary in Spalding, she supervised the combination of two schools and helped the communities merge harmoniously. Even so, starting a Catholic grade school while commuting back and forth with her four children has presented other challenges. 

Her husband Ken owns a feedlot production ranch in Greeley  where the Nordhues family lives. Every morning Sarah, along with children Joanah, Rayna, Kendrick and Tessa, piles into the car at 6:45 and heads to Grand Island. When they arrive at Central Catholic at 7:40, they all gather in Sarah’s office.

”This is where we put ourselves together,” she laughs. She braids Tessa’s hair, organizes the day ahead, and welcomes her staff and students. Somehow she makes it look easy. How she juggles school life with home life and does it with such grace and good humor is a mystery, but it’s obvious that all the people in her life are happy - the staff, students, and her family. 

“Education is not a job,” she says. “It’s a lifestyle. You’re always thinking about the classroom and the kids.”

There was a time when Sarah thought she wanted to be a lawyer. But at Drake University studying pre-law, she realized it wasn’t what she wanted at all.

”Why did you think you wanted to study law?” Her mother pointedly asked.

”Because I wanted to help kids!” Sarah wailed.

Her mother gave her daughter the obvious answer to her dilemma. “Then be a teacher!”

It was not a big leap. The education bug ran deep in her family. Sarah’s grandmother is the late and legendary Ethel Rother from Wolbach, Nebraska, who raised a large family and taught until she was 83-years-old. Sarah knew with sudden certainty that education was her own calling as well. She promptly changed her major and has never looked back. Last August between preparing to open a new school and caring for her busy family, she managed to complete her specialist degree. The girl’s got gumption.

At Central Catholic Elementary, parents, staff and students have been profoundly vocal in their praise of Mrs. Nordhues. She’s created a close, thriving community, and even small students having a rough day understand Mrs. Nordhues will help them to sort things out.

One little boy who was sent to her office confessed to struggling with his behavior on a particular school day.

”How did it all make you feel?” Sarah gently prodded him. 

He sighed. “I guess I better go to Confession,” he said.

Sarah is inspired by a staff who lives their faith and teaches religion every day to their students in class. Occasionally when the elementary school joins the high school for all-school Mass, Sarah says teachers never know what to expect from their small charges. At the first all school Mass when a high school student read from the Book of Revelation about the dragon with ten horns and seven heads, a first grade boy exclaimed in awe loud enough for the old gym’s entire congregation to hear.

”Whoa! SEVEN HEADS!”

In January during Catholic Schools Week, GICC’s chaplain Father Sidney Bruggeman processed reverently around the school with the Monstrance to display the consecrated host. 

“Jesus will be coming through the hallways,” the elementary staff announced to their students. 

Sarah and her teachers didn’t bargain for the confusion of some of the grade school kids who were certain that Father Sid was the actual person of Jesus.

”I thought his hair would be a different color,” one bewildered student said.

This is the world of Sarah Nordhues. 

Her first year as principal of GICC Elementary is closing in on the fourth quarter, and Sarah is pleased with what she and her staff have been able to accomplish - in spite of the many road bumps that come along with opening a new school.

”We’re learning the traditions of Central Catholic and figuring out how to adapt those long time traditions to a grade school environment,” she says. “So many questions about everything have come up through the year.”

The first questions were about supplies. Sarah remembers wondering what to order for a brand new school, and what was the process for ordering nearly every supply that exists? How do you divide kids into classes when you don’t know them? How do you get kids all the way from the lunchroom to the playground in a timely manner? How do you divide lunch increments as you share a cafeteria with 350 middle and high school students? Should you have a fifth grade graduation? How do you navigate Power School and report cards for grade school parents who need more explicit information? Do you schedule two semesters, trimesters, or four quarters?

At the first school Mass, Sarah and her staff realized they had no idea which of their students were Catholic or non-Catholic. When it was time for Communion, the kids followed each other like sheep up the Communion line. Sarah knows for certain that at least one little boy received his First Communion that day. 

Slowly but surely, everything has fallen into place. Even so, an elementary school -  although it may be part of a larger system - is not a middle or high school. Incorporating a preschool through fifth grade curriculum without disturbing the customary traditions of a 70-year-old high school has not been easy. Sarah and her staff, however, have risen to the occasion and figured it out.

”We have great parents, too,” Sarah says. She’s been grateful for their flexibility and willingness to grow together.

The upside of inhabiting the same building with a coexisting high school has made it all worth the trouble.

”The high school students are so wonderful,” Sarah says. With almost too much enthusiasm they beg to come across the hall to read to the younger students. Sarah is amazed at how they’ve taken small students under their wing and are so protective of them. 

“I think our younger kids are good for the older kids, too,” she says. At Mass, for instance, the high school students are often reserved about singing. It turns out, though, that when you have 220 grade school children sitting in the bleachers behind you singing their hearts out, it’s almost impossible not to sing along.

”We’ve all been pushed out of our comfort zones,” Sarah laughs, “but it’s been great.”

High school superintendent and principal Jordan Engle has been a tremendous support to Sarah.

”He has such an open heart and mind and is so full of faith,” she said. “Jordan really has a big picture and goal for all of us at Central Catholic.”

Likewise, she’s encouraged by Development Director Jolene Wojcik.

”Every time I see her, she has a prayer book on her desk,” Sarah says.

Central Catholic is lucky to have Sarah Nordhues and her magnificent elementary staff. They are all, Sarah explains, growing in their faith.

”I am, too,” she says. “I’m growing in my own faith as a principal, as a parent, and as a person.”

It’s the most important thing she hopes to pass along to her own children and to all her students at Central Catholic.

”I want them to know that life can be hard, and it always will be. Faith makes it possible to overcome anything. I want them to know that they’re never alone as long as they have faith,” she says, “and they won’t find it in their cell phones.”

Sarah Nordhues is responsible for her many children - and certainly not just her biological ones. At Central Catholic whether they’re Catholic or non-Catholic, Sarah hopes that all of them learn to depend on their faith.

”It’s a scary world out there,” she says. 

But that’s why Sarah Nordhues and Central Catholic Elementary are here. 

It’s why all her kids feel safe.