High School Reunion

I had my class reunion the third weekend of August during our rural town, mid-America hometown festival. While it was so good to see folks I haven’t since June 1, 2003, the greatest reunion I’ve experienced since that time has been the most unexpected.

I had no (known) enemies while I walked the halls of Hagerstown High School years ago. But if you asked me the person that I avoided the most, the answer would have been easy: Her name was Morgan. We didn’t run in the same circles (to be fair, I only ran if I was being chased) and when our 17-year-old lives did overlap, it was never overly friendly. I don’t remember specifically why we were never on the right path from day one, but I know I was never a friend to her, and vice versa. 

Fifteen years later, you can imagine my surprise when I began seeing Morgan in the waiting room each time I had a doctor appointment for our second child. As fate would have it, she, too, was expecting a second child. To take irony one step further, we were due on the exact same day: August 5, 2018.  

A lot can change in fifteen years. 

Over the last seven months, I’ve communicated more with Morgan than anyone from high school. I’ve found her to be a source of comfort (“Can you believe we’re in our last trimester already? The end is near!”), reassurance (“I asked my doctor about that and he said it is completely normal…”), insight (“I have a recipe you have to try…”), humor (“You will not believe what I did today….”), and company (“I hope I’m not waking you, but you’re probably awake, anyway….”). She has become the new friend I never thought I’d need at 34-years-old. 

I’ve learned to view Morgan as the kind of person who has been through a sleepless hell, only to walk out of the flames carrying buckets of water for those (that’s me) still consumed by the fire. I know she’s exhausted, but she always asks me, “Is Cyrus sleeping better for you?” That is kindness from a mother with experience. 

Motherhood is quite lonely, even if you’ve not technically been alone for four weeks, two days and seventeen hours (not that I’m counting). But I’ll tell you, having someone in the trenches with you makes it a whole lot better. If you look at Morgan and I’s paths to today, they’re drastically different in schooling, careers, relationships, and beyond. We've never once talked about high school or the years that fall into the 15-year gap since we spent 45-minute classes together. We only talk about today. Or, last night. I’m grateful that we had one similarity, strangely aligned more than a decade after high school. It’s been a fantastic, ongoing class reunion. 

And, a great lesson to remember when my daughter comes home upset with classmate. I'll now have a story in my back pocket that I can share...
"Don't be mean to her, she may be your lifeline down the road. Let me tell you about a girl named Morgan..."

I think back to my high school self and wonder now what began and drove that wedge between Morgan and I in the early 2000’s? We were adolescent girls, so I’m certain it was petty and brief. Unfortunately, it took me fourteen years and nine long months to resolve it. 

That reminds me of the old question, “Whatever is troubling you: in five years will it still matter?” I wish I would have asked myself that in 2003. That would have spared me a couple awkward visits in a waiting room in order to find a friend in Morgan. 

Letter from a Stranger

I write a weekly column for our local newspaper. It reflects a lot of content from this blog, except I try to remember to remove the cuss words and also  keep in mind that there is a high probability that my former teachers will read every word in print. No pressure. 

I’ve heard from several, quite random, individuals that they subscribe to the paper and enjoy my farm life perspective and the adventures I encounter as a farm wife. I very much appreciate that feedback from the paper’s urban audience, as I write with transparency to tell our story of a family in agriculture. I tend to believe that there are few other public columns that will admit that this week’s farm adventure is a mouse in the silverware drawer. 

Even though we have a barn cat that sleeps on our front step. 

Figure that one out. 

Anyway, I’ve also received really poor feedback about grammatical errors or my inaccurate telling of our lifestyle, but I don’t think that negativity deserves mentioning here. I buried that hatchet in the back yard out by the chicken coop along side our dear Shadow, God rest her skinny, strung out soul.

But the feedback I received Monday night tops them all.

Under a stack of cattle sale catalogs, insurance bills, vet invoices, Elder-Beerman advertisements and a single (gorgeous, sparkly) wedding invitation, rested this letter inside our mailbox.

Though the note was addressed quite vaguely, it was delivered by the rural postal service (two weeks after being time stamped), anyhow. I do love rural America. 

Mrs. Smith, an out-of-town Gazette subscriber, wrote to tell me that she finds my column quite interesting (is that like saying I'm special?) and she reads it each time I'm published. She also noted that she is 91 years old.

You can imagine my excitement here, folks. I had just opened a time machine in my mailbox!

The reason for her correspondence was to tell me a story about her mother drying clothes before the days of electric dryers. My column about the farmhouse register brought back some memories that she felt compelled to share. 

Early in the 3-page letter, she asked if I was Stephen’s daughter?

By the end of the letter, she had apparently talked herself out of her previous guess because she wondered if “Perhaps you’re Phillip’s daughter?” I’m certain this is why she wrote c/o Phillip Bowman on the envelope. 

I think it is important to note that I have not lived with my Dad (and mom), Phillip, in nine years, and four years before that I resided at Purdue. Also, my parents don’t even have an Economy address. In the spirit of small-town America, the letter arrived to our rural homestead, anyway. 

I assume she got my city and state correct because at the end of my column it always reads, “Lindsay Sankey resides outside Economy and raises Angus and Shorthorn cattle with her husband and daughter. She is the writer behind Jean’s Boots Are Made For Talking, www.jeansboots.blogspot.com.”

Mrs. Smith certainly pays attention to details.

This letter, though simple and scattered and maybe a bit shaky, is quite valuable because it came from someone who wanted to pass on encouragement to a stranger. 

For no reason, other than to pass on encouragement to a stranger. 

Because this lady took the time to sit down and write a letter to tell me that what I do makes a positive difference, I'll keep this note forever. 

And I will read it on the bad days. 

And so I challenge you 

(and by putting it in writing, I challenge myself) 

to write a letter to someone who 

has brought positivity into your life. 

Maybe someone at the gym

Maybe someone in the waiting room

Maybe someone you haven't talked to in years

Maybe someone at church

Maybe someone in your family
Maybe someone you do business with

Maybe someone you actually don't really care for

Maybe someone waiting on you behind the counter

Maybe someone at work

Maybe someone you've never actually met

There is no better time than now to let them know. 

Well, maybe yesterday. But now is a good time, too. 

Put it in writing that they are appreciated.

I will keep Mrs. Smith's heartfelt note forever.

And now that I know the 91-year-old is reading weekly, I’ll be TRIPLE checking to ensure that every cuss word is omitted from the weekly Gazette column. 

A detail worth passing on:

In her signature, Mrs. Smith put her maiden name in parenthesis. 

Some gals just have a hard time letting go of their daddy's name. 

I get it, Mrs. Jones, I get it. 

The best, 

Lindsay (Bowman) Sankey