92: The One We Survived Pt 1: Team

The Wild Turkeys of the Class of 92: From Left to Right, Back: Mark Mendes, J Carlos, Jon Terryn, Rees Franklin, Greg Wedel, Sean Maycock, Eugene Armstead.  Front: Dale Robertson, Jason Connell

Senior Survival was perhaps the defining experience of my senior year--more than the class trip, more than graduation.  It was the crucible of suffering in which indelible memories were forged for a lifetime. I know for some those were not good memories:  Paul Wood was sick the entire time, and pleaded with his staff sponsor to be allowed to go home.  Permission was denied and he suffered through what he describes as the "worst experience of all my academy days."  Others, like Dottie Sheffield, were able to avoid Paul's fate by not going at all.  She says she was able to get excused from going. But for me, and I'm sure many others, Senior Survival for all it's discomforts was a highlight of the year.  There are moments from those three days of privation that are still as vivid as yesterday, thirty years later.  Over the next three days I will revisit our class's time in the wilderness.  

Overall my experience with the teachers and staff at Forest Lake Academy was positive--and in some cases life-changing. Hopkins. Viar.  Vining. Pomeroy.  Captain.  Uncle Larry.  These names and others were instrumental in shaping my life.  Of course, I had my gripes as all kids do, and not all of them were unfounded.  Sadly, there is a case to be made for the harm done by some of those tasked with molding us and there is room to critique policies and standards at the school that were unhelpful at best and at their worst, were outright wrong.  For the most part, I've chosen not to dwell on those aspects of our experience at FLA, even if it means the accounting of our year is incomplete, and maybe overly rosy.

But I will say this.  I have always had a problem with the teams we were placed in for Senior Survival. I will not speculate here on what the process was, but I will say that I was not impressed with the outcome.  Perhaps, it was not intentional, but I feel that whoever was tasked with setting up these groups sent some very clear messages.  At least that's my take on it.  Maybe I'm the only one who felt this way, but I'd be surprised if I was.  

That is not to say that I didn't like the team I ended up with.  From the moment I received the list of names, I was quite pleased with the guys I'd be surviving with. The Wild Turkeys  felt like a hodgepodge, a collection of misfits that the Powers That Be couldn't figure out what to do with.  Those fellows that couldn't be pigeonholed, the leftovers, if you will were thrown together.  There were smaller pods of friendship within the team, but I hadn't spent much time at all with most of the people in the Turkeys prior to Senior Survival.  All that would change, of course, and I while I drifted away from some of my fellow Turkeys after Survival was over, others would become friends for life.  

I don't remember the names of all the teams. Of course I remember the Indians--they were intended to be the team that everyone remembered, and the Survival event was structured to put them in the spotlight. I remember the Eddy Rebels because they were paired with my team during many of the camp activities, and because some of my close friends were on that team. I remembered the team of girls paired with the Indians, though I'd forgotten until going back through my journal that they named themselves the "Wild Women of the Woods". 

The Wild Women of the Woods: Carissa Berard, Ly Nguyen (team leader), Lori Beall, Kelly Hendershot, Becky Hall, Trina Ondrizek, Lisa Cirigliano, Anita Hodder, April Watson, & Tamara Scroggins. This is the only other team photo  I have besides the pic of my Turkeys and the photo of the Indians from their Russian ballerina performance (See below).  I didn't take this photo. It was featured in the school yearbook.

 I remember the Boyz in the Woods, to which the staff had assigned almost all the black boys in our class.  According to Shimon Taylor, their team built a fantastic mansion that slept twelve out of the supply of black plastic tarp they received, and I do recall hearing about that palace.  There were the Wildcats and the Psychedelics Iguanas which I'd forgotten about until I saw their names on the map of our camp area that I drew in my journal:

I'm sure there were other teams too, but for whatever reason I did not place their campsites on my map. 

My journal from Friday, October 18, 1991 captured the moment when I found out who would be on my team (I believe that each of the teams was led by a class officer, but I can't really be sure. I know the Indians had two officers on their team--Chris Cotta and Mark Reams, while I'm wondering if the Boyz in the Hood had any officers.  At any rate, I can't really say how the Powers selected me as team leader):

"I have been chosen to be a group leader and right now I'm in the process (for Senior Survival) of creating an elite survival team for the big event. . . Right now I've got some good men, and I shall list them off briefly.  I, of course, am the team leader.  My two right-hand men, assistant team leaders are J Carlos and Rees Franklin.  Additional members are Brandon Wiley, Jason Connell, Dale Robertson, Eugene Armstead, Greg Wedel, Jonathan Terryn, Mark Mendes.  We are going to rule Senior Survival."

Despite my assertion that I was "creating" an elite survival team, I am certain I did not choose the members of my team. I think what I meant was that I had plans to shape the team given me into a Survival force to be reckoned with.  Brandon Wiley ended up unable to go on the campout with us. I can't remember what the reason was. But he was not forgotten, and we considered him every bit as much of a Turkey as the rest of us.

  On Saturday, November 2, the team officially anointed by our teachers as the Elite Squad, the Indians, helmed by our class president Mark Reams, headed out to the camp site early, presumably to "set up."  The Indians were the only team that didn't get to pick their own name.  FLA senior tradition called for the team of boys that went out a day early to always be known as the Heckarewe Indians (Enabling them to introduce themselves: "We are the Heckarewe. . .Where the Heck Are We. . . get it?  This name would so not fly in today's cultural climate!).   Steve Jeffers was one of the Indians and his most vivid memory of Senior Survival actually occurred that first night, before the event even officially started.  He remembers that night they went down to the lake to take a bath and the only light was from one of their car's headlights so they could see.  While they were bathing, two "locals" walked up to ask what the f**k was going on. One of them appeared to be armed.  Chuck Townes, the sort of Senior Survival guru (I don't know who he was. He was a legend, but he only appeared each year at Senior Survival. I never saw him anywhere before or after the event), walked out of the water completely naked to talk to them and try to defuse the situation, which I assume he successfully did.

The Indians do their thing. I believe it was the the first two or the last two nights, the Indians came out and did a little performance in drag for our entertainment.  The first night they came out as stereotypical Indians and the second as Russian ballerinas.  This photo features of seven of the ten not-so-little Indians. I believe they are (from Left to Right) Joey Gravell, Rey Descalso, Erik Wyand, Steve Jeffers, Mark Reams, Shane Hamilton, and Billy Chen. Not pictured are Chris Cotta and two other members that I'm not sure of.

Unfortunately, the hostile neighbors were not the only source of the Indians troubles. The Wild Turkeys had immediately embraced our misfit identity and determined to make our mark on the Senior Survival. We knew who was expected to be the team of renown and we were determined to supplant them. We Turkeys could not let special privileges like getting to go out to the camp site early go unchallenged. Four of us along with Carissa Berard and Jeff O'Connor decided that we too would go out a day early and get the lay of of the land.  The result, as recorded in my journal, was war:

"Tonight we went shopping for Senior Survival and started making plans.  Biggest news is that we are at war with the Indians.  The Senior Survival group that is, our group against Mark Reams' [group].  Jeff, J, Rees, Myself, Carissa, and Greg went down to where they are having Senior Survival and Indians, who went out today to set up thought we were trying to raid their camp and thereby declared war on us. Yeeha."

This "war" between the Indians and the Turkeys would continue throughout Senior Survival, but it was mostly empty threats and sneaking out to spy on the opposing camp.  No one came to blows and I can't recall being really angry about it.  I can't speak for the Indian alumni, but I think for us Turkeys it was our way of sending a message--perhaps back to our teachers--that we weren't accepting our "place" in the order of things. While I have nothing but respect for my classmates who were on the Indian team, I am kind of proud of that.

92: The One in the Fall (For Those in The Arena)

 

These two were in the arena for sure. You can tell be the exhaustion and determination in their faces.  Jeff Fulford and Rees Franklin at the SA Fall Picnic, taking a breather from the admirable and thankless task of representing our class in the water.

Sunday, October 6, 1991 was the day of our school’s annual Student Association Swim Meet (also known informally as the Fall Picnic).  After our class’s stunning triumph at the SA Anything Goes Night, we returned to form for the swim meet, once again coming in dead last.

Here’s my journal account of the day:

“Today was the Fall Picnic, The Annual  S.A. Drown Meet (Swim meet for all the other classes. 92 does not swim).  I did manage to have more fun at this fall picnic than at any other.  I got up early this morning, about 8:30, worked out and washed my car.  Went down to the school about 11:20 and was there pretty much the rest of the day.  I spent the first part waxing and detailing the exterior of  my car and listening to the Beatles and talking to Greg and Chris C and various and sundry others while I worked.  Afterwards I basically hung out.  Chris C, Greg, Steve, myself, and some others had a BBQ which was pretty good.  Carissa swam in a number of races and did all right for herself.  In the butterfly she did her leg of the relay faster than anyone else.  Unfortunately the rest of the team wasn’t so hot.  

The Senior Class--long may it reign--came in dead last, but nobody cared.  The big heroes of the day for 92 were the volleyball team; Carissa, and Jeff Fulford were on that.  They along with Sandra Rivas were the only seniors to place first in anything.

It was awesome.  At awards our class stole the show.  We went nuts from the time they announced our standing til the end.  The Junior class who won went unnoticed.  Chris C and I did our part for the class and stole the juniors flag and put it in the toilet.  It was hilarious although Cotta bashed up his foot a bit. It was pretty cool though.

Our play practice got cancelled because of the picnic and Julie Smith (our director) was mad as hell.”

I have to express appreciation for members of the class that actually went out there and put themselves on the line for our class--and not just those few like Sandra and the volleyball team who won--but all those seniors of 92 who toiled away in the water only to be passed up by others.  Theirs was a thankless job that deserves appreciation.  Far more than those like me, who did nothing but watch from the sidelines (and apparently I didn’t even do that much for part of the day when I was detailing my car and BBQing) and engage in petty flag stealing (and in that case, the inclusion of myself in that prank is a bit generous--Chris was the one who did all the actual work and paid the actual price). I’m reminded of the speech by Theodore Roosevelt, often titled “The Man in the Arena”:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

Diving in. I think the person in the pink trunks is our president Mark Reams

Carissa Berard in the arena (or the pool anyway). That's Susan Scott presumably coaching her.

Sandra Rivas Cole slayed them on the ping pong table. I think that's Anita Hodder Jimenez on the silver podium?

The senior volleyball team celebrates their win

This one goes out to all those of the class of 92 who were actually in the pool and on the court on that sunny October day--those who strove valiantly, who erred, who came up short again and again, yet kept swimming, kept fighting, kept pushing. To you, who did it because that’s what you'd signed up to do, to you who did it for our class:  I know it’s thirty years too late, but I’ll say it anyway. Thank you.  And even though the pool in which you swam is now long cemented over and your valiant efforts are long forgotten, in your heart you can know that your place will never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.  You may not have succeeded that day, but you dared greatly, and it is you that represent the true heart of the class of 92 at our best.

The class of 92 takes the philosophical approach to coming in last.

My (Failed) Kidney Donation Journey

 This past winter a post popped up on my friend Sam Ulett's Facebook page.  He had posted a video announcing to the world that he had a degenerative kidney disease and that he was in desperate need of a kidney transplant. He was putting out an appeal for any one who would consider giving him the greatest gift of all--the gift of life.

As soon as I saw Sam's post I knew I had to do something. 

I've known Pastor Ulett, as I call him, for a number of years now.  We first met when he came to Columbus as the associate pastor at the Ephesus Seventh-day Adventist Church.  We got to be good friends as he became my colleague for a few months, when he took on the long-term substitute teacher position for our 6th-8th Bible and Science classes at Columbus Adventist Academy.  At that time he was also running things at Ephesus as our senior pastor was severely ill for several months.  He took on this tremendous weight of responsibility with his characteristic good cheer and affable spirit, all while privately battling a serious medical condition that was growing worse.  We also grew close through our sons.  His two boys were good friends with my younger son, and Pastor Ulett's older son is in the same grade as Ezra.  

Me and Pastor Sam Ulett

I've always liked Pastor Ulett, and indeed he's appeared in this blog as one of my heroes and inspirations for a pair of sermons he preached that changed my life. In recent years he's stepped away from full time pastoral ministry for the time being but he'll always be Pastor Ulett to me, and he'll always be my friend.

So when Pastor Ulett put out the call, I felt I had to answer. People who knew about my journey to become Pastor Ulett's kidney donor would tell me what a brave, generous, and noble thing I was doing. But I didn't feel brave, generous, or noble. I just felt I couldn't turn away. My friend was in need and at least looking in to whether I could help just seemed like the only thing to do.  Just walking away, while offering thoughts and prayers for his healing did not feel like an option. Throughout this entire journey I have never felt like a hero. I've just felt like a friend.

I've decided to share my journey here because I want to encourage any one who reads this to consider taking the journey I've taken. If my story encourages someone to make the decision to become a living kidney donor and it results in a life saved, then my journey will not have been in vain.  Because, you see in the end, I was not eligible to donate.  Pastor Ulett still needs a kidney and maybe, just maybe you could be the one to save his life.

So what happened, you ask?  Here's the story:

We're a Match!

My first step was to find out if I was a blood type match. Sam Ulett is O positive. I didn't know my blood type and it turns out that is not just something listed on your medical history.  I consulted with my doctor and they told me there were a couple of options. If I had a blood draw at the doctor's office, I'd have to pay for it. I could also purchase an at-home blood type test kit.  But their recommendation was to just go donate blood.  It's free and they'll tell you your blood type as part of the process.  So that's exactly what I did. I was nice to know that I was helping those in need in the process.  It turned out I was a match and so I'd cleared the first hurdle.

Once I knew that I was a blood type match, I reached out to the Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center Comprehensive Transplant Center to begin the process of being vetted to be a living kidney donor.

Urine Trouble

My next step was to complete a 24 hour urine collection sample.  I was directed to go a LabCorp facility just a few minutes from home where the OSU transplant center had put in an order for me to get the the urine collection kit. 

 DONATION KEY: All costs associated with medical aspects of the donation, including all tests, exams, and the surgery itself are covered by the recipient's insurance. I never spent a penny in this entire process. (However, non-medical costs such as lodging if you have to travel out of town to donate--you have to be in the same hospital with the recipient--as well as time off work are not covered. Those are out of pocket expenses for the donor. However, because I live in the same city as Pastor Ulett and my employer was going to work with me on the 4 to 6 weeks of recovery I'd need after surgery I did not anticipate incurring any out of pocket costs. (I had been thinking to do the surgery right after Thanksgiving so I could use Christmas vacation as part of my recovery time).

The collection kit is just a big orange jug with instructions on how to collect and store the urine over a 24 hour period.  It was pretty straightforward.  I planned to do the collection when I was at home the whole time so I didn't have to lug a pitcher of pee to school with me (although later in the summer, my final urine collection sample had to be done on a specific day, so I did end up bringing my pee pitcher with me to the performance of the play I directed for Columbus Black Theater Festival).  

When I returned the urine collection to LabCorp, I sensed I might be in trouble.  There wasn't that much urine--only about 700 mL (the normal range is 800 to 2000 mL in a 24 hour period).  Sure enough I got a call from OSU a few days later letting me know that I had not passed a key marker in my urine test.  The bottom line is I didn't drink enough water.  I'd known that I wasn't drinking as much as I should. It was not unusual for me to go an entire day without drinking anything more than a single sip of water.  That is no exaggeration. I knew it wasn't healthy for me, but now if I didn't make a change I couldn't help my friend.

I asked the folks at the Transplant Center if I could increase my water intake and take another shot at the urine test.  They said I could, but stressed that I would have to develop a habit of consuming a minimum of 2 liters of water a day for the rest of my life, if I ended up donating.  They gave me two weeks to start developing a water drinking lifestyle, after which they'd test me again. If I passed, they'd test me a third time on my exam day to be sure I was still on track. 

And so I set out to form a new habit: drinking water. 

The Water of Life (A Parable)

Once I began drinking water I was shocked to realize that I've been thirsty my whole life and didn't even know it.  Once I began drinking 2 to 3 liters of water a day, I felt better, physically and emotionally--I had more energy and even felt like I looked better. My running times decreased dramatically--I was running some of my fastest times ever and yet I didn't feel like I was working any harder.  

One surprising effect of my increased water consumption was that I lost the taste for juice.  For years, I've been a bit of juice addict.  I constantly craved any kind of juice--those Bolthouse Farms smoothies, Calypso lemonades, Orange juice, Gatorade, fruit-flavored drinks of all kinds.  I felt like I needed juice to feel good, and yet I found that no matter how much juice I drank always wanted more. Once I started drinking water, my need for juice evaporated. I just didn't want it anymore. I came to realize that my craving for juice had actually been thirst for water. I simply didn't recognize my thirst for what it was. Once I got what I really needed, the unsatisfying juices no longer had the same appeal for me.

There's a lot of great spiritual lessons in my experience with water, for those that have ears to hear.

Family Worries

My family was pretty supportive for the most part, though certainly they were a little worried.  After all living organ donation is the most elective surgery there is.  There is no upside for the donor--no injury repaired, no disease cured, not even any cosmetic improvements, just the good feeling that you have helped someone else.  And there are the potential downsides that come with any major surgery.  And of course you're down one kidney for the rest of your life.  I, myself, wasn't worried about any of these possibilities, but my mother, in particular was very anxious about my going forward with this.  Every time I'd bring up my progress on the kidney donation, her face would cloud with worry and she would sigh deeply.  It's not that she didn't care for Pastor Ulett's situation. It's just I am her son, and its in a mother's heart to worry for her child. 

 And it's not uncommon that when people choose not to become a living donor, its because of family objections.  Even if the potential donor is willing to take the risk, sometimes their loved ones are not.  I hope that an anxious family member reading this blog might gain some peace of mind from what I learned on my journey, especially from my experience on my day at the lab.

What I Learned on Test Day

 On Monday, July 12, I had my lab day at OSU--a full day of tests and education, and the last step in my journey to becoming a living kidney donor for Pastor Ulett.  We dropped the boys off at the home of my colleague, Mrs. Kulemeka, and Barbara and I arrived at the hospital a little after 7:30 AM. The day began with an orientation and education session, and then was followed  by a battery of tests, a blood draw that filled something like twenty-five vials!  The day ended much earlier than I expected, around 1 PM instead of 4 or 5, and Babs and I went out for lunch before picking up the boys.

 I cannot say enough good things about my experience with Living Donor program at OSU.  They were outstanding from start to finish.  I learned so much more about the kidney donation process that day and left even more encouraged than I had been.  Here are my key takeaways from the day:

1. No Conflict of Interest. This really surprised me. I had always thought the donation and transplant team were the same people.  And I kind of expected there'd be this pressure to push through with the donation because someone really needed my kidney. But the donor team is entirely separate from the recipient team.  I'm not even sure the donor people know who the recipient is. So they are in no way haunted by the image of some needy kidney patient and driven to save them, even at a cost to the donor. Instead they reminded me over and over throughout the entire process that I was free to withdraw anytime I chose, right up to the day of donation. I did not need to have "a good reason."   I didn't have to have any reason at all.  If I decided I didn't want to do it, they would stand by me in that decision and protect my privacy.  This kind of  "no-pressure" environment is wonderful when making a decision this momentous.

2. The Donor team is dedicated to my health first. The donor program has one goal--to protect the health and safety of the donor.  That is their entire focus.  To make it through to being an actual donor your health must be impeccable.  They want to ensure that you will not be compromised by the surgical procedure or living the rest of your life on one kidney.  In fact, they will not allow you to waive your rights and donate anyway if they determine a donation would put you at risk (this is a fairly common scenario, as many times a donor is desperate to save the life of someone they love--even if it means risking their own life. OSU won't let you do that).

3. You go to the top of the list in the unlikely event that you should need a kidney one day.  This is was reassuring news as well.   While no one can guarantee a kidney to anyone, a donor is always considered a high priority recipient if they should ever need a kidney in the future.

I passed all my tests that day with flying colors. It looked like I was on the path to becoming Pastor Ulett's kidney donor. All that remained was for a few more results to come back from the lab, and then a committee would meet to discuss my status, go over my test results, and make the final decision.  Then it was simply a matter of scheduling the surgery--which could be done any time in the next twelve months.  Longer than that, and I'd have to go through the process of becoming a donor all over again. 

DONOR KEY:  The donor always keeps the "better" kidney, if there is any difference in kidney function. If all other factors are equal they will take the kidney left kidney because it is easier to transplant to the recipient.

The Little Kidney That Couldn't

A day or two after my lab day, I got a call from Dana my donor advocate.  She said that one of the scans had shown  one kidney was much smaller than the other.  Because they wanted to leave me with the larger kidney, she said we'd have to do a paired donation, as my kidney would be too small for the recipient. Instead my kidney would go to a smaller patient--a small woman for example, and another donor would donate their kidney to Pastor Ulett instead.  Also, they wanted me to come back in and to do one more test that would take a closer look at the kidney to be sure that size difference didn't also indicate a function difference.

So a few days later I went back to OSU for a second test. I can't remember the name of it--some sort of a nuclear scan as I recall.  All I know is that it was easy and painless. I just had to lie there for 20 minutes and I fell asleep during the test!

I was in Alaska visiting my friends Chris and Carissa, when I got the call. The committee had met and determined I was not a good candidate for donation.  They weren't happy with the function numbers on the smaller kidney and obviously weren't going to take the larger one.  While I was perfectly fine in terms of my personal fitness, my little kidney wasn't meeting their stringent standards for donation.

And so my kidney donation journey came to an end.  Pastor Ulett is still waiting for a donor.

And that means that while my part in this journey ends here, the story itself is still "to be continued."  I hope my experience encourages you to consider being the person who brings this story to a happy ending.

92: The One for Mr. Pomeroy

 

Rick and Meredith Pomeroy, two of the best people I knew at Forest Lake Academy

I did not know Mr. Pomeroy well, but I didn't need to know him well to know he was a good man, a man of compassion and care. I did not need to know him well for him to save my academic life in high school.  I have never forgotten the grace Mr. Pomeroy showed me--grace that by definition I did not deserve.

Here's my story, my memory of Mr. Pomeroy:

The first half of my sophomore year I kind of fell of an academic cliff. I'd always been a straight A student and had found academic success came easy to me. Until tenth grade.  Between Mr. Viar's 7:00 AM Biology I and Mr. Pomeroy's Auto Mechanics class, I found myself in real trouble, though for different reasons.  With Viar, I was encountering for the first time a class that actually required me to study--something I'd never really learned how to do.  His class was hard and my usual strategies--read the book and then ace the test--weren't working. I barely scraped by in his class with a D- for the first semester before I got my act together.  

With Mr. Pomeroy's class, the situation was even worse. I have never had any interest in and little talent for working with my hands.  Fixing things, building things, all those manly arts--they were never my thing.  Pomeroy's class was not difficult--his requirements were simple and straightforward.  And yet, I had no interest in Auto Mechanics whatsoever and no matter how hard I tried I could not get motivated in that class (and let's be honest, I didn't try very hard at all).  During Pomeroy's lectures I would sit in the back row of the class with J Carlos and Robert Desamours and talk all through class.  Or work on my epic Vietnam novel I was forever working on--the one that featured all my friends as soldiers or nurses in Nam.  Or I would just sleep.

When we went out to the shop, I was the classic goof-off, hoping to ride someone else's coat-tails to a passing grade. I would stand around watching my partner--I think it was Jonathan Frey--busily changing the brake pads on one of the old cars Pomeroy always had in the shop.  Whenever Mr. Pomeroy would come by to check on us, I would make an unconvincing show of working: "Yeah, Jonathan, get that. .. .uh. . .caliper, right there. Yup, just like that. I can probably take it from here. . ."  As soon as Mr. Pomeroy moved on to the next pair, I'd continue to let Jonathan do all the work. I was really good a fetching tools, but that was about it. 

 I  know Mr. Pomeroy loved cars with the enthusiasm of a kid in candy store. I remember watching him go roaring around in that souped-up Plymouth Duster, barely able to keep from grinning at it's mighty rumble. It must have been galling to him to see this punk tenth grader show so little interest in something that meant so much to him.

When the semester came to an end, I knew I had failed. I'd done virtually no work and learned nothing. I knew what I deserved and was fully prepared for him to give me exactly that.  But for reasons I'll never know, Mr. Pomeroy gave me a chance. I think he may have given me a chance to do some extra credit or maybe he just straight up gifted me with a grade far higher than I deserved.  When the report cards came out, Mr. Pomeroy had given me a D-.  Just enough to pass.  I was amazed and so grateful! 

I don't remember if I ever went back and thanked Mr. Pomeroy for that mercy.  I feel like I did, maybe at the last reunion.  I hope I did.  Because now that he's gone, that opportunity has passed.

Mr. Pomeroy was special to our class of 92 as well. He was one of our sponsors, and he tolerated our poor class spirit and general lack of enthusiasm with patient good cheer.  In particular I recall that he was the sponsor assigned to camp with my team, The Wild Turkeys, during Senior Survival.  The way I remember it, he pretty much let us do our own thing, but he was always there--a reassuring presence in his red windbreaker and baseball cap.  My fellow Turkeys and I really appreciated him and embraced him as one of our own.

There's P-Roy, a steady, calming presence in the background at Wild Turkey camp. This photo was taken during Senior Survival, November 1991. On closer examination it appears that Mr. Pomeroy is holding a shoe.  I'm sure there is a story behind that! Also pictured are Jonathan Terryn and Rees Franklin.

My prayers are with Mr. Pomeroy's family as they grieve the loss of this special man.  He will be missed.  For now, we look forward to the day when we will see Mr. Pomeroy again, when he will be welcomed home by the Savior whose character of grace and mercy he emulated so well.

Corona Chronicles: Live with It

 

A new view to close out this series.  When I began the Corona Chronicles last I took a year I took a photo from the window of the guest bedroom that I used as my office. Now we've given that room to my older son so that he can have his own room, and my office is now a corner of the family room. This my view now.

Well here we are, at the end of the Corona Chronicles.  At just over a year, this post will be the final regular entry in this series (though I may return from time to time with an addition to the series if I find something to say).

Of course the pandemic isn't over. Far from it.  In fact we are in the midst of yet another surge, that while beginning to abate in some parts of the country is now ramping up here in Ohio. But I've exhausted everything I can think of to say on this topic.  The familiar ebb and flow of surge and improvement seems destined to continue for quite some time to come. 

I've noticed something though. It seems that even though we now have a variant of COVID-19 that is far more contagious than the old-school version, and even though parts of the country are experiencing record infections, hospitalizations, and deaths, we seem to moving ahead with returning to normal life.  We seem to have decided that when it comes to COVID we will live with it, whatever that means.  We are not going back to lock downs and cancelled events.  Even the most cautious organizations don't appear to be planning to cancel or limit their events in any meaningful ways.  We are willing--some of us anyway--to wear a mask and get the vaccine, but we've no plans to change our lifestyle otherwise.  I include myself in this "live with it" approach.  I'm teaching fully in person this year and my school appears to have no plans to shutter their doors even for a short period. I plan to visit my mom in Florida this weekend (provided that I test negative. I woke up with sniffles and congestion and took the day off work. I will get a COVID test this evening just to be on the safe side.  I really think it's just allergies. I feel fine and in fact, even the congestion seems to be mostly gone now).  And I've got tickets to see Mat Kearney in concert next month.  So far the show appears to be going on. 

As I was reflecting last weekend on the 20th anniversary of the September 11 attacks, it occurred to me that those terrorist attacks were tailor made for our strengths as a nation.  This was the terrorists great mistake.  They didn't understand that we Americans will allow nothing to deter us from living our normal lives.  You might knock us down for a moment, but we rush to the aid of those in need, even if it costs some of us our lives.  We will rebuild.  And then we will get right back to it--shopping, celebrating, working, worshiping, and traveling, just like always.  That is what we do. 

And that is how we have ultimately responded to this current crisis of a lifetime. I'm not sure that "living with it" is the best response for this type of crisis. I wonder if a pandemic makes a vulnerability out of what is a strength in a terrorist attack--our determination to keep on living our normal lives.  But it doesn't matter.  That is what we Americans do.  And only time will tell whether our decision to live with it is one we can well . . .live with.

As of today, September 15 there have been 41,448,621  total cases of COVID-19 in the United States.  Another 4,764,593  new cases were added since August 15  This month's numbers represent an average of  an 13% increase in the number of new cases over the past month, and 1,829,871 more than I predicted. There have been 664, 231 deaths altogether from COVID-19, with 43,180 of those occurring in the past month. This is a 7% monthly increase.  It is also 29,517 more deaths than I predicted.  I had hoped to see a peak and drop off in cases and deaths in the past month and instead the numbers of deaths are tens of thousands and the cases hundreds of thousands higher than I predicted.  I am retiring my crystal ball and won't be making any more predictions. However I can't help but wonder how much higher we can go.  I will likely keep these charts live, maybe updating once a month instead of once a week so readers who chance upon these posts in months and years to come will see updated data not reflected in the post itself.

 

Only Florida appears to be on the downside of this current surge, though it appears Hawaii may also have peaked.  In other states, new cases are still rising with no certainty about what heights they may yet reach.  Nebraska and Illinois' increases have been in the single digits, but the other three states are posting double digit rates of increase.

Total Cases:

Florida: 3,442,090 total cases, 564,697  of which were new cases in the past month, an increase of 20%. This is 39,556  fewer cases than I predicted.  I have this one student who is constantly removing his mask in class. For awhile he didn't even bother to come to school with a mask and we'd have to give him one every day. I would jokingly tell him he should move to Florida where the governor would have his back. "Don't you worry, young man," DeSantis would tell him, "If you don't want to wear a mask you don't have to!"

Ohio: 1,311,518 total cases, with 153,736 new cases being added over the past month. The rate of increase rose to 13%. This is 109,740  more cases than I predicted. Ohio appears to be riding a COVID wave that may set a new pandemic peak record.

Nebraska: 254,850 total cases, of which 21,447 are new cases, an increase of 9.2%. This is 13,728 more cases than I predicted: Shout-out to my high school classmate and Nebraska resident Tana Hagele Pageler who has been a faithful follower of my Corona blogs since the start of pandemic. She was the inspiriation for including Nebraska among my benchmark states.  Thanks for your thoughtful observations and commentary, Tana.  Your reasonable and perhaps more conservative viewpoint has been invaluable along the way.

Hawaii: 70,504 total cases, an average of 22,128 new cases last month, an increase of  46%. This is  7,615 more cases than I predicted.  I added Hawaii to my benchmark states because it's where my 8th grade class of 2020 had planned to go for their class trip.  That trip has now been pushed back to summer 2022, just as my formers students are getting ready to start their junior year of high school.  Hopefully by then, Hawaii will be in better shape.  As it is the New York Times database shows Hawaii on the downside of its worst surge of the pandemic. So at least in the near-term things are looking up.

Illinois: 1,582,811 total cases, 120,723 new cases, an increase of  8.3%. This is 62,240 more cases than I predicted. My friend J Carlos lives in the Chicago area and I added Illinois to my benchmark list last September as a nod to him. I find it interesting that despite having similar size populations, Illinois has not surged as high as Ohio has.

All states are now seeing an increase in COVID deaths that is higher than I predicted.  Florida and Hawaii have shown double digit rates of increase in deaths over the past month.

Total Deaths

Florida: 49,251 total deaths, of which 8,485 are new deaths in the past month, an increase of 21%. This is 5,836 more deaths than I forecast. I actually had to go back and double check my numbers to make sure I'd updated them properly last month. I did. This is like having two September 11 attacks (and then some) in the past month in Florida. Truly horrific. But hey, Live Free and Die. . . wait, is that how the quote goes?

Ohio: 21,265 total deaths, of which 651 are new deaths, an increase of 3%. This is 445 deaths more than I predicted.  

Nebraska: 2,613 total deaths. This includes 49 new deaths, an increase of  1.9%. This is an average of 21 more deaths than I predicted. 

Hawaii: 657 total deaths,  including 112 new deaths in the past month, an increase of 21%. This is 96 more deaths than I forecast.  It's worth nothing that Florida and Hawaii have notched the same percent of increase in deaths over the past month.  The numbers are different of course because the Florida has a much larger population, but the that percent of increase shows the two vacation destinations have been on similar trajectories during this latest surge.

Illinois: 27,008 total deaths, 916 new deaths, an increase of 3.5%. This 655 more deaths than I predicted. 

92: The One in the Pool

 

Sandra came prepared. Chandra did not.

On September 14, 1991, Shane Hamilton's parents hosted the senior class for the first of two class parties held during the school year.  This one was meant to celebrate the start of the year, presumably and the second one held days before graduation and hosted by Chandra Maloney's folks, was a graduation party to celebrate the end of the year.  I wrote in my journal a couple of days later, on Wednesday, September 18 that "Saturday night was our class party at Shane Hamilton's house. It was awesome, the best one I ever went to."

Before things got crazy. I believe that is Jonathan Frey and Michelle Robinson looking so sophisticated

I think it was intended to be a typical party--well, a typical Adventist party with parents and teachers around any way (more truly typical parties went on at other times during the year. If you know, you know): Little cheese cubes, tiny sandwiches, bowls of chips and dip, plastic cups of soda.  I imagine there must have been games of some sort planned. In fact there was a boys against girls "flamingo" football game played in some dark expanse of yard (In flamingo football, the guys had to play on one leg. Unsurprisingly, the girls won).  But what I remember most about that class party is that everyone ended up in the Hamilton's pool, and that's what I have lots of pictures of.  

Some hapless soul creates a big splash

I'm not sure how it all began--just that at first it was just the girls being thrown in. Undoubtedly, it was testosterone fueled "flirting."  Adolescent fellas showing their manliness by hurling the pretty girls into the pool, while the girls shrieked in laughing (one hopes) protest. But soon enough the pool dunking spread until pretty much anyone was fair game.  The party that began poolside ended up being the party in the pool.

Sean Forde seems to have come prepared. Many of us did not.

Once everyone went home in their wet clothes, "joking around" continued with pranks being played upon unsuspecting schoolmates late into the night  .

Looking back, I'm wondering why they didn't just plan for it to be a pool party in the first place. It seems a bit obvious that people should plan to swim at a party where a pool is present.  But that wouldn't be the way of the class of 92.  Regular classes would have come prepared with swimsuits, towels, and suitable changes of clothes.  But that's just not how we do things.  With the class of 92 how things start is no indication of how things end up.

Where We Were

 

At 10:46 PM on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was dragging myself up the stairs after an evening "showing the plan" to some unlucky soul (I was an Amway distributor at that time, in addition to being a missionary teacher on the island of Saipan. Long story).  Memory is a funny thing, because the way I remember it, is that I was headed up to the master bedroom in the three bedroom duplex that housed the school principal.  But this could not have been true because Barbara was not the principal of the school at that time, and we didn't even move into that apartment until the start of the 2002-2003 school year.  No, our principal at the time, Evan Hendrix and his family lived in that apartment, and I was headed up to the loft bedroom in our little studio across the compound.  And my memory of when I found out is definitely in that little apartment.

If I had been the type to turn on the TV and catch the eleven o clock news and  Jay Leno, I might have known then (though perhaps not, because all the networks in Saipan were a week behind. My understanding is we got the tapes from a local affiliates in the San Francisco Bay area. I would have to have been watching CNN, which was live).   As it was, I dropped into bed blissfully unaware of the horrific events unfolding on the U.S. Mainland half a world away.

So where I was, when I found out about eight hours later, was in our kitchen Wednesday morning, September 12, 2001.  We were getting ready for school when one of our students' parents, Susan Schwarz called. "Turn on the TV," she cried. "America is under attack!"  Those words seemed insane. "America under attack"?  What did that even mean?  Who would be attacking us? What would such an attack on us--the mightiest nation under the sun--even look like?  We turned on the TV as instructed and quickly found out.

By this time, the Pentagon had been struck, the heroes of Flight 93 had thwarted the terrorists plans and their plane had crashed into the ground near Shanksville, Pennsylvania,  the twin towers of the World Trade Center had come down--all of the major events had happened hours ago and the images were playing on grim repeat on CNN:  The smoking towers, the silhouette of second plane streaking towards oblivion, the horrible collapse of first the North Tower and then the South.  Seeing the images of America under attack made no more sense than hearing the words.  It was madness.

We went ahead to school, but didn't stay long. The principal (I remember it was Barbara, but again it was not--she wouldn't take that role for another few months) let out school by noon.  It's not because we were in any danger. Indeed, our little corner of U.S. soil tucked away in the midst of the Pacific Ocean was probably the safest place in America to be. No terrorist would have considered an attack on the virtually unknown Commonwealth of the Northern Marianas Islands a way to bring America to it's knees.  No, it was just because we were all shell shocked--teachers and students alike.  We needed to process, time to make sense of the senseless.

Ironically, though we were infinitely safer where we were, I longed to be back on the Mainland that day. It was one of the very few times during our eleven years in Saipan that I longed to go "home."  I felt a need to be with my people, to mourn with them, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. I never felt more American than I did on September 12.

Here's what I wrote in my journal that Wednesday:

"I'm not really sure what to say or how to begin.  We found out around seven o'clock this morning that about eight hours earlier the United States was attacked by terrorists.  It's a disaster unparalleled in our country's history.  Terrorists commandeered four jetliners filled with passengers and forced them to crash. Two into the the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City, one into the Pentagon in Washington D.C. and another somewhere in Pennsylvania.  So horrible were the crashes that we have no idea how many have died or been injured and won't know for awhile. 

It just seems so unreal, so impossible. It seems more like a movie, but it is real.  I just can't believe it and I know that things will never be the same."

And so it was. Some things have never been the same.  So much changed with 9/11.  The lives of the families and loved ones of those who were stolen away that day were forever changed.  Even now, twenty years later, the grief surely remains and is especially painful today.  But even for the rest of us, the way we travel, the way we live, what we fear has changed.  Two wars were launched to right the terrorists wrongs and thousands more gave their lives in those conflicts.  Whole new divisions of the government were created to ensure such an attack could never take place again. 

But it's important to note that not everything changed.  The terrorists hope of bringing our nation to its knees was a colossal failure. We went down hard, like Billy the Kid, as Tom Petty sang. But we got up again.  We took the hit, but paid the ultimate tribute to those that lost their lives and those that gave their lives to save others.  On their behalf, we kept living, kept loving, kept thriving.  What the terrorists didn't understand about our national character is this exactly the kind of crisis our nation was built to meet.  We are willing to throw ourselves into clear and present danger, to risk our own lives to go into the fire, to wrestle a madman away from the controls of an airplane. We are ready to come to the aid of those coming out of the smoking haze of collapsed buildings.  And when all that is done, we are really good at rebuilding, and continuing on with our beloved way of life. That is what we do.  If jihadists goal was to throw our nation into existential crisis and eventual decline, the September 11 attacks were exactly the wrong way to do it. 

This photo and the one at the top were taken in May 2012, while I was in New York City with my students on their 8th grade class trip. My reflections on that visit to Ground Zero can be found here.

Today, we pause to remember. I hope that while we remember the evil atrocity committed on September 11, we will also remember that incredible good that so many displayed that day as well. I hope that we will remember that we still have the capacity to come together, shoulder to shoulder, and do what has to be done. 

Well the sky was falling and streaked with blood
I heard you calling me, then you disappeared into the dust
Up the stairs, into the fire
Yeah up the stairs, into the fire
I need your kiss, but love and duty called you someplace higher
Somewhere up the stairs, into the fire

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love bring us love

You gave your love to see, in fields of red and autumn brown
You gave your love to me and lay your young body down
Up the stairs, into the fire
Yeah up the stairs, into the fire
I need you near, but love and duty called you someplace higher
Somewhere up the stairs, into the fire

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love bring us love

It was dark, too dark to see, you held me in the light you gave
You lay your hand on me, walked into the darkness of your smoky grave
Up the stairs, into the fire
Yeah up the stairs, into the fire
I need your kiss, love and duty called you someplace higher
Somewhere up the stairs, into the fire

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love bring us love

May your love bring us love

                                  --Bruce Springsteen, "Into the Fire"

92: The One Where Anything Goes

 As our class began our senior year, we arrived with the distinction of never having won anything. I’m honestly not sure we’d even come close, but I could be wrong.  We might have come in second at one of the picnics in previous years.  But I have my doubts.  The class of 92 had not followed the normal trajectory of a class slowly rising to the top of the high school athletic hierarchy.  The juniors below were full of muscled athletes, the sophomores were coming on strong.  The freshmen, I remember little about. But what I know is that we rolled into that gym Saturday night, August 24, 1991 as perennial underdogs. 

Chris Baez, Greg Wedel, J Carlos, Steve Jeffers, and clutching our original "sacred cow" class flag at Forest Lake Academy's, "SA Anything Goes Night" ( I can't make out the person pointing at the "cow."  I think it might Les LeBrun?  I admit this photo is blurry but I looked at the original and I still can't tell)

That night was Forest Lake Academy’s annual Student Association Anything Goes Night, the first school social event of the season. The stakes were decidedly low with the series of silly games that made up the evening of inter-class competition.  Our senior class made a very 90’s move showing up with signs that indicated our utter lack of caring about the outcome of the evening. Greg, Carissa, and I penned most of the signs that made very grungy proclamations like “We’re Seniors and You’re Not”, “At Least We’re Graduating”, and “So What?”  We were very much the anti-senior class, not the big bluff heroes that I recalled from the Class of ‘89 when I was a freshman. Kurt Cobain would have been proud. We had decided to lean into our loser status and declare ourselves winners by virtue of our status as seniors. 

But then something remarkable happened.  Here’s how I recorded it in my journal:

“Tonight was the S.A. Anything Goes Night. It was awesome. Our class kicked butt the whole time. We were all really hyped for our class.  Greg, Carissa and I made signs which we waved quite proudly. Carissa, Stacy, and I went out and toilet-papered Mr. Viar’s car. All in all it was great. . .“

As the games began, we won the first contest, and then the next, and the next. We weren’t just claiming moral victory--we were actually winning.  Amazingly enough our hardscrabble hundred managed to win the night! We couldn’t quite believe it ourselves. We were delirious with joy.  It was a fun night.

I went on to note in my journal that  “There was a lot of violence this year.  A couple of brawls between the Junior and Senior classes and Seniors and Sophomore class, but we still came out on top. . .”  

I actually don’t remember these brawls and I can’t imagine they were that serious. Nobody called the cops or anything. But this too, was our class.  We had that kind of punk attitude and weren’t about to be pushed around by any of the other classes even if they were bigger and stronger than us. With Anything Goes, we’d put everyone on notice that the class of 1992 had arrived and was not to be taken lightly.

We would go on to. . .lose all the other inter-class contests for the rest of the school year.  But you would never know it. Every one of those so-called losses were a massive victory as far as we were concerned.  What we lacked in ability we more than made up for in indomitable spirit.

92: The One about Yesterday

 

Thirty years ago yesterday, August 19, 1991, we began our senior year of high school at Forest Lake Academy.  

Thirty years!  That just seems crazy to me.  It feels like, well, yesterday.  

Let's put this in context.  Lately I've noticed the young folk wearing Nirvana t-shirts, especially the one with the blitzed out, "dead" smiley face. I don't know if it's just a fashion statement or if a new generation is discovering the pleasure of "Lithium" and "Smells Like Teen Spirit."  And it just hit me that Nirvana is to these kids what the Beatles were to us as high school seniors.  An "old" band from another era that some of us had rediscovered.  I was one of those people who started listening to the Beatles my senior year.  They were so old they were cool again.  Nirvana is the Beatles.  And the Beatles?  Well, they'd be like Duke Ellington was to us.  Ancient history. (Incidentally, I started listening to big band music during my senior year also--introduced to it through Harry Connick Jr, and then discovering the original old school swing masters like Duke).

Yesterday. I know some of us don't like to dwell on yesterday.  There's perhaps too much pain there.  "Yesterdays got nothin' for me," like Axl Rose sang.  For others, yesterday is perhaps a place we can't escape from--or maybe don't want to.  And still others of us simply long for yesterday--a simpler, happier time before the pain, responsibility, disappointments, and losses of grown up life.  All of these responses to the past are valid. 

But I believe in yesterday. I believe we can, if we choose, learn from our past. More importantly, I believe that there are relationships that we formed all those years ago that still have value today.  Maybe we've lost touch a bit, but I think going back--rediscovering some of those people that we've let slip away--has some value.  And I don't think it's wise to put it off.  We've lost three so far--Francis, Becky, and most recently Chandra, and one thing is certain:  The next one of us will always be sooner than we think.  You don't want to look back on yesterday and wish you'd reached out when you had the chance.

Between now and May of 2022, I'll be doing a series of blogs about our senior year of high school.  I'll revisit some of the highlights with excerpts from the journals I kept and some reflections on those times. These entries will be posted to our class Facebook page and accompanied by the photos from the albums I made of our senior year.  I'd like to begin that journey with yesterday's journal entry--thirty years ago:

"Monday, August 19, 1991:

Well, here it is, the first day of the last year of high school, my senior year.  The day has left me with mixed feelings.  It was good to see everyone again, particularly tonight at the Handshake but the fact that I was tired plus that fact that it always takes me awhile to readjust to a new daily schedule made the school part not so great.  I survived it all right though.

Pulled in at the old school about 7 this morning, ready to put the shoulder to the grindstone once again.  My first class was English. . .Not much to say there except Mrs. Hopkins is as sweet as ever and I'm out of that class and in to Honors English.  

World History was only slightly better.  Anita, Lisa, Heather Dunkel, Joey Gravell, and Shane were in that class.  Pretty much the same as American History in content.

Bible. . .[I'm not sure how honest I'm going to be in these blog posts. Are the teachers on this page also?  We'll just leave the ellipses for now]. . .Greg and Anita are in that class with me.

I had a free period which I used to switch into Honors English. A & P was the best although the hardest class. I dozed through half of that.

This afternoon I worked and tonight I went to the Handshake and it was one of the best I've ever been to. Talked to a lot of people. Got to know Mark Reams and Jenny Marashi a little better and talked to Eugene Armsted. Good to have him back. [Eugene attended our freshman year, left for two years, and returned for our senior year].  Talked to Chandra tonight a little. . .Okay, I've got to go. A waring to U-classmen & Juniors: Seniors 92 RULE!!!"

And so it began.

And so it begins.