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.