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!