1969 and Winning

No more UFOs were seen, fortunately or unfortunately.  They were a diversion, and God knew, I surely needed one that senior year.

Not-a-real-diploma

The year 1969 brought graduation from high school.  Thank you, God. 

The senior year had been one of hard work, very hard work.  My whole college life depended on the sacred "win" of a scholarship.  Long story there, but anxiety level was such that I developed an ulcer and lost twenty pounds.

My GPA before senior year had been a miserable 3.5; it could not, would not “win” me much.  The word “win” was confusing then and is now.  One could not “win” anything as precious as a scholarship.  One could claw up the mountain of hope and perhaps make it to the top, holding that gold medal scholarship high.

End of school and graduation--- a memory I will never forget.  I was one of four valedictorians.  Our high school had a policy that if the GPAs were so close by the middle of May, there would be three or four valedictorians.  This “win” required me to speak at graduation. 

A scholarship was soundly mine.  A selected college accepted my application. I had a speech written and then re-written in my head.  The other two and I practiced our speeches in an empty gym, where our words sounded hollow. The fourth declined speaking at the commencement, so shy.

I “won” the position of the final speaker, the one who would introduce the specially invited speaker.  Even though I knew each word, each nuance, something changed as I looked out at the other graduates, knowing each one, suspecting their dreams and hopes. 

Some boys, too many boys would be heading to Vietnam.  A few pregnant girls would be getting married in a few days, since the district’s policy forbid married students from attending school.  College, farming, marriage, vocational schools, and just moving somewhere were the rest of the tasseled hats.

What did I say?  Tell you in two days.

This post is dedicated to Joanne Noragon who asked an important question after my three UFO posts: I'll enjoy seeing how college changed your outlook and furthered your education. What was the big letdown?

Indecision, Indecision

Everything hangs in a balance.

At this stage of life, moments of indecision involve banality.  Should I re-fill the printer with paper?  New ink?  Should I mend clothing on the sewing machine?  And has been for years?  Should I buy new sponges, and what kind?

Banal and easily answered, they truly are.

But back when I was seventeen, life was rampant with indecision of all sorts and most readers understand, remember those hard, unsure decisions.

I was 17, a senior in Pittsfield High School.  My family had enough money to pay bills and support a family.  My father had promised that he had an account for me when I was 13 and it would have enough money, from which I would go to college.

Then, in eleventh grade, he and Mom sat me down to tell me the money had been used for other needs.  “If you want to go to college, you will have to find the money, get a scholarship…”  Mom looked down at her clenched hands, her face stony and rigid.

After a senior year of intense work to achieve and maintain a high GPA, this happened: I was asked to write the senior class poem for the graduating class of 1969.  I remember it still, now 45 years later, as I agonized over every word:

Indecision, Indecision,

Where is the rhythm of precision?

For those who lack the sight,

To make the cut

That ends the night?

We are Ixion on the wheel

Revolving in a world unreal,

Doomed to twist and turn and weave,

In an endless world of make-believe.

Oh, send to us a man of might

To save us from this plight!

With a strong arm,

To lift up us from our chair,

And return to us the need to care.

It is said a night has a thousand eyes

And the bright day has but one.

The darkness sends weeping, cries,

And the blind men suffer

None.

The College English teacher, Mr. Robb awarded me A, rare event and, one that I so desperately required to grasp the scholarship.

The Letter C: Shall we gather at the river....

Source: hot hot hot

The Letter "C"

The year 1971 brings up some scattered memories:  Hot pants (I had two pair--purple striped and bright red with a star on the back pocket), marijuana (not for me, but the rest of the dorm floated high on the weekend), Vietnam War, protest marches, falling in love, keeping my scholarship, and home.

Home meant church to my family.

In the late fall, it was decided to have a photo made of the church body, to commemorate the congregation of that time.  The elderly founders of the church (mostly widows by this time) were seated in the center front row, with the attendees surrounding them.

I wasn't there.  But I remember the names, the faces.  

For some reason, my Grandma Amy was not included in this group, although she deserved to be.  Politics, I suspect.

Nebo Church of the Nazarene, 1971

Today, the letter C stands for Church.

When I write about Nancy and her church, this is the source from which I draw.