Laurie Kulus

Laurie Kulus is strikingly beautiful. And fit. Lordie, is the girl fit.

She was, in fact, training to run the Nebraska State Fair half marathon on Aug. 29th, an event she couldn't wait to sink her teeth in.

"I was gonna rock that race," she laughs. "My goal was to run it in less than two hours."

Scott and Laurie Kulus

But a routine colonoscopy two weeks ago changed everything. Only days before the race, Laurie would check into St. Francis Medical Center for major surgery to remove almost a foot of her colon. Her very first colonoscopy had revealed a dangerously large polyp that, her doctor surmises, had been growing for ten years.

For a girl who's always taken care of everybody else, this was foreign territory. Laurie has always watched out for her widowed mother. She sat with her dad as he took his last breath, and she is, as her husband Scott and kids Bradley and Amber will tell you, the rock of their family.

"We've been hit hard this past year with lots of pain and struggles," daughter Amber says, "but Mom always says there's a reason for it. She says we just have to believe that something great will come out of it all."

As executive director of GRACE (Grand Island Area Cancer Endowment), Laurie writes grants, organizes assistance for families, and stays strongly connected with the Cancer Treatment Center. Because of her job, cancer is no stranger to Laurie, and in the same way she cares for family and friends, she also cares for those in the community stricken by a cancer diagnosis.

GRACE co-founders Lisa Willman and Julie Pfeifer say that Laurie has been a God-send to the foundation. "Her beautiful smile, warmth and compassion are just what our cancer patients need most when they sit with her and feel vulnerable, hopeless and afraid," Julie said.

Lisa adds that Laurie listens with an open ear and heart and is always willing to go the extra mile to find additional resources for patients. "She puts in the time to make a diagnosis less stressful and has really worked hard to form some alliances with other agencies and individuals who can serve as resources."

But Laurie's own possible cancer diagnosis was a blow. After the colonoscopy and subsequent devastating news, she went home to seriously consider her own mortality. Laurie did what women all through time have done in the face of gut wrenching fear.

She cleaned out her closet.

"I didn't want Scott to have to do it after I was gone," she said.

She cried a little, too. Then she pulled herself together. Bradley, her son, arrived from Omaha, and her daughter Amber with her husband Adam and baby daughter Brooklyn also flocked home. They barbecued and laughed, and Laurie played with her granddaughter. With the support of her family around her, Laurie made a decision. She would use her own experience to help others. Because that's what you do if you're Laurie Kulus.

"She's always helping somebody," her son Brad reflects. "I take a ton of pride in calling her 'Mom'. There's never been a time that she hasn't been around for me or anybody else who needed her."

A friend of hers whose own mother had died of colon cancer asked Laurie what she could do to help.

"Don't bring me a meal," Laurie ordered. "Go get a colonoscopy. That's what you can do for me."

It's her new mission in life - to get everybody she knows 50 years of age or older to schedule a colonoscopy.  "There's absolutely nothing to it," she emphasizes, describing the procedure itself as completely painless and prep the day before only mildly annoying.

Although Laurie herself was only 52 with no symptoms, her doctor was concerned at the size and aggressive growth of the mass in her colon.  "Had you waited another two years," her doctor gravely informed her, "we'd be having a different conversation."

Most polyps, if caught early, are not cancerous but can become cancerous if not removed in a timely manner. The size of Laurie's polyp was of great concern to her doctors. "Colon cancer is the most preventable cancer there is," Laurie explains, "and colonoscopies are completely covered by insurance. There's really no reason not to have one."

In the days before her surgery, Laurie talked to everyone she knew urging friends and family alike to take charge of their colon health.  "If I can talk even one person into scheduling a colonoscopy," she says, "then I've done something."

During the dark hours, she took refuge in the support of friends and family. Her good GRACE pals Lisa and Julie presented her with a gift of Scripture readings and a medallion. Laurie pressed the medallion next to her heart. "It meant the love and comfort of my friends," she says, "and that's so soothing to me."

The weekend before her surgery, Laurie and Scott jumped into the car with good friends to take a road trip to Iowa. She posted photos on Facebook.

"Having a great time with great friends and Styx!"  Her beautiful, happy face, close to Scott's, beamed from the photos.

When she came home, she prepared herself for major surgery.

Laurie didn't run in the Nebraska State Fair marathon on August 29th. Instead, though still weak from her operation, she manned a water station flanked by her friends Julie Pfeifer and Lisa Willman.

Her polyp was benign. No cancer. Not anywhere.

"My doctor told me the mass was one stage below cancer," Laurie explains. "Had I waited any longer to have my colonoscopy, it would have been too late. I'm blessed!"

Life, with its profound beauty and endless length of days, will continue for Laurie Kulus. Not content to sit on the sidelines, however, she will work to be an outspoken advocate for colon health.

"There's work to be done!" she flashes her brilliant smile. She will nag her family, friends, neighbors, and strangers on the street, if need be, to schedule their colonoscopies.

But she will also find time to hug her granddaughter, take a road trip with her husband, and begin a training regimen.

Because next year at the State Fair, by God, she'll be running a half marathon.

Dr. Bill Grange

Dr. Bill and Mary Grange are celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary.

Their children - Mary Beth, Jim, Tom and Cass - will arrive with their families from various parts of the country, and Bill and Mary have invited all their friends to the Grand Island reception as well. Still, the Granges do not expect a large turnout.

Dr. Bill and Mary Grange (photo by Connie
Swanson Photography)

"Who would come?" Dr. Grange shrugs.

Three hundred people, that's who. Old friends, young friends, church friends. Their plumber will come. The guy who took care of their lawn and the woman who cleaned their house will come. Many of Dr. Grange's patients from his 45 years in optometry practice will come.

Everybody will come.

It is a chance to show Bill and Mary Grange what they have meant to the Grand Island community all these many years and to celebrate the life of a remarkable couple.

Sixty-five years ago, a young Bill Grange asks Mary to dance with him for the first time at Northern State University in Aberdeen, South Dakota, where they are both students. He has been warned, as have all the other boys on campus, not to have anything to do with the beautiful Mary Matthews.

"She's stuck up," a brazen local athlete, who has been politely spurned by Mary, tells the others. "Don't anybody call her."

In spite of the dire warning, or perhaps because of it, Bill is determined to ask Mary for a dance. She accepts.

 He cracks jokes. She laughs uproariously. They leave, steal the brazen athlete's car, and light out for an evening of joy riding.

"I didn't drive too well," Bill remembers now.

"Oh, we just had the best time!" Mary laughs.

They fall in love and eventually plan to be married. But Mary is a devout Catholic, and Bill is not.

"I don't know anything about being Catholic!" he tells her. "I don't even know how to play Bingo!"

Sixty-five years, five children and 14 grandchildren later, Bill is still cracking jokes, and Mary is still laughing. Bill, incidentally, is as devout a Catholic as they come and a long time member of St. Leo's Catholic Church in Grand Island.

"He still is the focus of my life," Mary says, "and my best friend."

Bill says he and Mary are a team. Mary's always had time for him and listened to his troubles. "We've had a wonderful life, haven't we, Love?" he says to her. He insists that Mary's wisdom and intuitive nature are responsible for their happy home and their happy children. Mary, however, has always relied on Bill's strength, steadiness and engaging sense of humor. Whatever their secret is, the two have brought their family through some dark times.

In 1974, their handsome, oldest son Jack, only 21-years-old, will die of cancer. He lies on a hospital bed in the dining room of the Grange house, and Bill understands it is a gift that Jack can be home surrounded by his parents and brothers and sisters.

Mary sits beside her son. "If only I could take your place, Jack," she says in anguish one day.

Jack shakes his head. "You're needed here," he tells his mother. "I've accepted this thing."

Never once, Bill recalls, does Jack ever ask, why me? "He was wise beyond his years," Bill says about his son.

Afterwards, Bill and Mary urge their other kids to talk about Jack and help them to heal. But afraid of hurting one another, the two are careful never to burden each other with their own terrible grief.  At a Catholic Marriage Encounter weekend, however, as spouses are asked to confide in each other by writing letters, Bill and Mary at last pour out their sadness over Jack. It is a turning point in their marriage, and finally they are able to get on with the business of living.

There are other tragedies. Their son Tom's infant daughter, Mary Cathryn, dies of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome when she is only a few months old. The Granges rally again.

"Our faith and Bill's strength have carried us through those times," Mary says.

Perhaps it is because of those great losses that Dr. Grange reaches out to people so easily. Most would agree, however, that it is simply his innate nature to do so. He is kind and funny and uncannily gifted at putting all people at ease.

"He really is just as nice as everybody says," Mary beams proudly.

Retired from his optometry business and living with Mary at Riverside Lodge Retirement Community, Bill has learned to adapt to his new life. He volunteers his time at the Grand Island Literacy Council and has been recognized by the Grand Island Independent for his work there.

"The World's Oldest Tutor", as he refers to himself, meets frequently at the city library to help his students read and speak the English language. He coaches one young woman to speak English by asking her to carefully repeat to the librarian behind the desk word for word whatever he whispers to her.

"I love America, and I am trying to learn English," he whispers to the young woman who repeats it dutifully to the librarian.

"My teacher is very old," he whispers again.

His students love his humor and respond by relaxing and learning. "It helps for people to learn just a few key phrases and to have interaction with others they're not acquainted with," Bill says.

He helps a young Vietnamese man pass his citizenship test and another young man from Cuba learn enough English to become gainfully employed.

Worried that he will come across as a "Goody Two Shoes", Bill is anxious to insist that his work is rewarding because it keeps him interested and busy in retirement. "It's much different than when I was still working at the office. Then I'd just want to come home after a long day and sit on Mary's lap."

"Oh Bill," Mary laughs. "Don't say that. Somebody'll think it's true."

One of his current projects, Bill explains, is building birdhouses and bookcases in the little shop that his son Tom has helped him to erect in his garage at Riverside. Bill gives the birdhouses away, but he has filled a bookcase with paperbacks he collects at rummage sales and makes a gift of it to a low income housing project.

He tells the manager of the facility, "Just call me Marian the Librarian."

After reading a story in the Denver Post about "Little Free Libraries", small shelved boxes of books posted at street corners of various low income neighborhoods, Bill is keen to try it in Grand Island.

"I'm not really a great guy for doing this," his eyes twinkle. "I'm just trying to fight boredom."

Dr.Bill Grange says his life has been a joy, but he's worked at it. "I'm the luckiest guy in the world," he says. "I was able to do the work I love, and I was able to marry the woman I love."

And the simple truth is, he really is a great guy.

Charles Hamner

Mr. Hamner was throwing me to the wolves.

I was a 21-year-old, ill-confident student teacher at Grand Island Senior High, and my supervising teacher Charles Hamner was practically guaranteeing that my career would end before it started.

"This'll be a good experience," he tried to reassure me, "a fuller experience."

Charles and Devon Hamner with kids and grandkids

What he meant was that I'd had it way too easy with my other supervising teacher, Mr. Obester. Fay Obester was a kind, gentle old bachelor who taught American Lit. He'd handed over his very best class to me, and I'd taught My Antonia to those exceptional children and loved every minute of it.

Now Mr. Hamner had decided it was time for me to take a stab at the last period General English class. Charles Hamner could handle that class of all boys - boys who'd already failed the course or who had no intention of passing it the first time.  I'd observed him work his magic in that terrifying classroom and even coerce Jesse, the solidly well-built eleventh grader who was the unofficial leader of the pack, into behaving like a model citizen.

Truthfully, I was in awe of the great Mr. Hamner. In every circumstance and in every setting, Mr. Hamner always knew what to say or do. Only a couple of weeks before, poor Mr. Obester had lost his frail, elderly father whom he had lived with and cared for tenderly. When he came back to school a few days later, he strayed almost uncertainly into Mr. Hamner's classroom.

"Fay!" Mr. Hamner jumped up to cross the room and grip the sagging shoulder of the struggling Mr. Obester. "I'm so sorry about your dad," he said with direct, heartfelt sympathy.

Given permission to be a grieving son rather than a stoic teacher, Mr. Obester gratefully talked and talked about his departed father, and his kind eyes welled with tears. Mr. Hamner listened intently, said all the right things, and ministered to his old friend.

He dealt with the anguished Mr. Obester as deftly as he dealt with those ruffians in last period General English. I listened and watched as he talked to the boys about wrestling and hunting and all manner of things.They liked him - so much so that that they read and wrote and participated in class in spite of themselves. They wanted, I observed in a kind of wonder, to please Mr. Hamner.

They wouldn't care about pleasing me.

"Use your height!" Mr, Hamner said to me now. "Try to be a little intimidating!"

But he and I both knew it wouldn't matter if I was ten feet tall. Those boys would only see RAW HAMBURGER plastered across my forehead.

It was so much worse than I ever imagined. Last period passed quietly the next Monday, but I sensed rebellion in the air. It was the knife edge tension that coils to spring just before a prison riot. It was hard to ignore the grins and  knowing glances that passed across the aisles.

Tuesday was D-Day. I had just turned to write on the blackboard when I felt the snap of a rubber band against my shoulder.

Be calm, I said to myself. It's nothing.

Just like that, a barrage of rubber bands whizzed through the air bouncing off my back, my head and the blackboard before settling like so much debris around my feet. Aside from a few irrepressible snorts, the room was silent. They were waiting to see what I would do.

I didn't get mad. I didn't shout. I didn't cry. I did nothing. Because I was young and stupid and humiliated and out of my league, I ignored them. The same thing happened the next day. Only this time, there were no stifled snorts of laughter. I had abandoned ship. The natives had taken over, and chaos reined..

As soon as the bell rang after the longest 50 minutes of my life, I walked straight out of the room and straight to Mr. Hamner.

"I'm in trouble," I confessed.

He sat back in his chair with hands clasped behind his head and calmly listened as I blurted the terrible details of the last three days.  At last I collapsed into a chair across from his desk and stared mutely at the floor.

"So," he said quietly, "what will you do when you walk into that room tomorrow?"

I sighed. "Well, I'm never ever writing on the board again."

He laughed, and I felt marginally better. It was Jesse, I said, who fired the first rubber band, I was sure of it.

Mr. Hamner looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "So maybe," he suggested gently, "the answer is to get Jesse on your side."

I stared at him. "How do I do that?" I sputtered.

He smiled. "That's for every good teacher to figure out for herself."

I didn't sleep that night. Instead, I wrestled with my dilemma, twisting it and wringing it like a rag. All the next day, I carried the burden of it, and when last period arrived, I marched to class like a convicted man walking the green mile to the electric chair.

They were all there - early for the first time that week - waiting and laughing in gleeful anticipation. I instructed them to open their literature books and then deliberately turned to face the board. I didn't have to wait long. The rubber bands rained down like a hail storm. Sending up a fervent prayer, I turned slowly back to face them.

 "Look," I finally gathered the courage to speak. "I know you wish Mr. Hamner was still teaching the class."

They laughed and grinned at each other. Of course, they loved Mr. Hamner. But who was I kidding? Pelting the student teacher with rubber bands was kind of a gas.

"Okay," I corrected myself.  "I wish Mr. Hamner was still teaching the class." I drew a ragged breath. "The thing is, I'm young and I'm not a very good teacher. In fact, I'm probably a lousy teacher. But I'd like to be a good one." I looked up at them. "And I can't do it when you're slinging rubber bands at me. So, if you could just give me a break, I'd really appreciate it."

That was it. I waited. For something. Anything. Some looked ashamed, and many of them were staring at Jesse who sat slumped in his desk observing me in silence. After a second, he rose and slouched up to the front of the room. Then he emptied his pocket of what seemed like a hundred rubber bands and tossed them into the waste basket.  Slowly, he walked back to his desk. I saw lots of them stealing looks at each other. A couple of other kids rose to do the same thing.  Then it was a mass exodus of boys leaving their desks to empty their pockets of every last rubber band.

When they were all seated again, the silence in the room was thundering. I knew I was supposed to say something.

"Man," I squeaked at last.  "That was a lot of rubber bands."

I wish I could say last period English was perfect after that, but Jesse and I continued to do enthusiastic battle over control of the class, and although we achieved an uneasy balance, I never developed the rapport with those boys that Mr. Hamner did.

But they never shot another rubber band.

At the end of the quarter, I collected my final grades. Mr. Obester had given me an outstanding recommendation. I was not an outstanding student teacher, but Mr. Obester liked me, and I was grateful for his report.

Mr. Hamner, on the other hand, was bluntly honest and gave me exactly what I deserved - a very mediocre recommendation. I remember walking out of Grand Island Senior High for the last time poring over his recommendation again and again. The disappointment was keen. Then I noticed his handwritten comment on the very bottom: "Ms. Brown, with a little confidence, shows promise."

It wasn't much. But I'd take it. After all, hadn't I survived last period General English? In the weeks that followed, I swallowed my disappointment, signed a teaching contract for the next fall at Grand Island Central Catholic, and was determined to work on my confidence.

It eventually came, too, waxing and waning with years of successes and failures. I thought about Mr. Hamner a lot. Sometimes, after a particularly good class, I'd think to myself, "Chuck would have liked that." Instinctively, I incorporated all that I learned under Mr. Hamner's tutelage into my classroom management style and silently thanked Charles Hamner again and again for his wisdom and persistence.

Although I never saw him, I was always aware of his presence in town. He and his wife Devon, a blonde beauty, were legends in the Grand Island teaching community. Likewise, their good looking, gifted children were as remarkable as their parents. I remember hearing that Mr. Hamner and his wife eventually retired and thought, as I so often did, that I should write him a note to thank him for all that he'd done for me.But after 38 years, I was sure he'd long forgotten that hopelessly young student teacher.

You'd think since we'd lived in the same town we would have run into each other occasionally, but we never really did. Until two weeks ago last Saturday.

I was shopping at Walmart when I saw him and his young handsome son, Jonathan. I waved, sure that he'd never recognize me. However, to my surprise and delight, he not only remembered me but stopped to talk to me and introduce me to his son.

"How's retirement?" I grinned. "Is it the life?"

He was still youthful and fit and vigorous. But a shadow crossed his face, and he hesitated. "It's good. I don't know if you knew that Devon was diagnosed with cancer."

His beautiful wife. I did not know and was heartsick to hear it. After enduring a very difficult operation, Mr. Hamner said, she was only just able to start chemo treatment.

"We're trying to buy a little time," he said, and his eyes filled.

"I'm so sorry, Charles." I said. It was the first time I'd ever called him by his first name. And I was suddenly remembering how he had comforted poor Mr. Obester nearly 40 years ago after his father died. "I'll be saying lots of Catholic novenas!" I said.

I wished I could have taken it right back. Mr. Hamner was not Catholic, but I could think of no way to comfort him as he had comforted Mr. Obester.

"Thank you," he said graciously, as if I had offered him the one thing he needed most. We embraced, I shook hands with his handsome son, and we parted ways.

Then I turned into the mouthwash aisle and stared at the shelves for a long time

After 38 years, Mr. Hamner and I had come full circle, and I understood his great gift as en educator. He'd taught me always to look for the person behind the face - whether it was an old teacher grieving over the death of his father, an eleventh grade boy who needed the adoration of his classmates, or a young student teacher whose time had come to confront her fears. Only today, he'd shown me another person. The great Charles Hamner was a man who loved his wife very much. In spite of his quiet courage, his agony was a palpable thing. Even the great Mr. Hamner needed a little support.

Charles Hamner and I are peers now. The truth is, though, he continues to influence and speak to me in a hundred different ways.

And he will always be my teacher.

Thirty Years Later - Mrs. Howard's Fourth Hour Senior English Class

                  Please join us at Central Catholic High School, May 18th, 2045,
                          for the 30th year reunion of GICC'S class of 2015.


Joe Krajicek drove up the circle drive and braked in front of his old school. Looking up through the windshield, he studied the familiar doors and concrete benches.

"Here it is," he said to the lovely wife beside him. "Central Catholic High School - my old stomping grounds." Thirty years was really nothing at all, he understood in a flash. The flag, the benches, and The Ten Commandments lining the path brought it all back - his father's massive stroke, his good mother's exhaustion, his own confusion. "Let's go in," he finally opened the car door.

In another door on the west side of the building, Youhanna Ghaifan was ushering his own little family inside. The old hallway still smelled like floor wax and active children, Youhanna thought. Thirty years, he shook his head. Where had they gone?

Down the hallway, lounging  in front of their old religion room, were four old friends - Levi Cornwell, Harry Heidelk, Christian Gappa and Dillon Rork. Levi and Harry were almost completely bald, but Christian looked the long time Californian he was, bronzed and fit. Dillon was bigger and grayer, but when he smiled, he was the same kid Youhanna remembered so well.

"Yo!" Levi crowed. They greeted each other with vigorous back claps and loud insults. "You been eating well!" Levi patted the big man's belly. "Where'd that lean, mean teenager go?"

Youhanna rubbed Levi's head. "Same place as your hair!"

He turned to Dillon and mockingly punched him.  "You old traitor!"

Dillon grinned.   "I was tempted to drive to the other side of town for the Northwest reunion," he said. "But I figured you losers needed me."

Youhanna introduced his wife, a petite, beautiful woman who shyly offered her hand to the four men. "I'm Denise!" she smiled pleasantly.

"How are my godchildren!" Harry threw his arms around Youhanna's three sweet girls, 16, 12 and 8, who all giggled. He lifted the youngest girl high in the air, and she squealed in delight.

Joe Krajcek and his wife appeared around the corner by the old school office just then, and once again, loud greetings filled the hallway. Joe introduced his wife to his classmates, and at last the group headed toward the gym for their reunion festivities.

Memories assailed them as they made their way down the hallway toward the old senior lockers and the cafeteria. The same beige and red tiles lined the floors. They were dipped and scuffed from the thousands and thousands of feet treading over them year in and year out for the last 90 years.

Examining his old locker, the group was shocked to see, was their old friend Casey Brown. His hair was still thick and perfect as was his manicured silk shirt and the shine of chains around his neck.

"Casey!" his classmates called out. There was more back clapping as Casey joined the group.

"You remember me talking about Casey Brown!" Youhanna said to his wife and daughters.

As they progressed down the hall, they were suddenly aware of a small, attractive woman with fading red hair and twinkling blue eyes making a beeline for them. Her tall husband, with the exact shade of faded red hair, was trying desperately to watch two small, precocious red-haired boys who were wildly chasing a columbia blue balloon.

"Alyssa Kowalski!" the men all shouted in unison.

She smiled sweetly, all but ignoring the roar of the little ginger boys behind her who were severely testing the patience of her long-suffering husband.

"Our grandsons," she rolled her eyes at her classmates. "Have you seen the other girls?"

"Heigh Ho!" a raucous voice instantly called behind them, and a vivacious, blonde, middle-aged woman clattered to them in spiked heels and threw her arms around them.  The men glanced at each other in bewilderment.

"It's ME!" she laughed. "Lexi Kleint!"

Christian's jaw dropped. "Lexi?"

She cackled and shoved him. "You don't recognize me!" she laughed in wild hilarity. "Are you blind in your old age?"

Behind her, a bit more quietly, were Cassie Westwood, a tall, stunning beauty, and Mariah Martinez, with the same big dewy brown eyes and heartfelt smile they all remembered so well.

"Man!" Christian breathed. "You four girls are lookin' good!"

Harry whispered to him. "Put your tongue back in your mouth, Romeo. They're all married."

Pausing in the hall, they listened in fascination as Lexi described her job as a motivational speaker. Cassie and Mariah both managed successful businesses and still raised their families, and Alyssa was a marriage and family therapist.

The loudspeaker suddenly crackled to life.  "Will the class of 2015 and their families please assemble in the Howard Schumann Memorial Gym for the reunion festivities, please?"

Alyssa's husband chased down two red-haired boys and one blue balloon, and the ever growing group quickened their steps down the hallway.

It was almost exactly the same, Youhanna thought, entering the doors of the gym with his little family in tow. Thirty years ago was but thirty seconds, and as he inhaled the familiar smell of basketball hide and sweat, he could still see his sweet mother in the stands across the floor. "You can do it, Boy!" she'd shouted when he stood at the free throw line.

Joe glanced across the gym and could almost see his dad slumped in the wheelchair that was always parked carefully in front of the bleachers, his good mother hovering close as she visited with friends. He swallowed the lump in his throat and drew his wife beside him.

"Dude!" Youhanna shouted as a tall slender man approached them. Eli Hunter, his old partner in crime on the basketball floor, shook hands all around.

Harry laughed. "How long's it been, Man?"

Eli was still handsome and quiet. "Too long," he smiled.  "Meet my family," he said, turning back to gather his wife, as tall and striking as Eli, and his 16-year-old son who was the image of his father- long limbed, slender and shy.

The men reminisced about their glory days and Tino and Cheetah and every nook and cranny of Howard Schumann Memorial Gym.  "Guess it's not the new gym any more," Eli said. "Not to the boys who play here now, anyway."

Music suddenly blasted from the old wrestling deck above, and the group glanced up simultaneously to see their classmate Austin Clegg, who was assisting a young frantic female with the sound system.

"Clegg!" Dillon yelled up.

Austin peered over the balcony railing. He was still the big, sweet-faced Clegg they remembered, but his hair was completely gray. In a flash, he recognized the group and waved. "I'll see you at our table later and introduce you to my wife!" he called down. "They need help up here!"

Harry yelled back, "Mr. Howard would be proud, Clegg!"

A reedy voice behind them caused them all to jump. "Who's looking for Mr. Howard?"

It was an old woman slumped over a walker and carefully shuffling over to them.

"Dear god," Tate whispered. "Is that Mrs. Howard? What is she, like a million?"

The shrunken old woman made her painstaking way to them.  "I'm 90, Harry Heidelk, and my hearing's perfect. So is my mind." She glared at him. "And I've known for 30 years ," she said sharply, "that you were the idiot in the red pickup who nearly rammed into my car that morning on your way to school."

Harry sputtered and turned red.

Youhanna laughed his big laugh, and one by one, their old teacher hugged them and marveled at their good looks and their grownup children.

Mr. Howard, she informed them sadly, had died two years previously, along with their beloved Shu, Mr. Kester, Krall, and sweet, sweet Miss Wiles. But Mrs. Zavala was spry and fit, Mrs. O'Connor was still kicking, Mr. Ross had recently received an award from the NSAA for being the oldest living baseball official in the state, and Mrs. Luther, at 98, had appointed herself the job of enforcing the dress code of all nurses, interns and staff at her local nursing home.

Mrs. Howard stopped suddenly to peer over Dillon's shoulder.  "Caleb Wardyn! Is that you?"

They turned to see an incredibly handsome man walking toward their group.

"How are you, Mrs. Howard?" he asked politely. Caleb had barely changed. He was only a slightly older, filled-out version of his high school self.  After shaking hands with his classmates, he gently hugged the frail old woman. "There's my family at the third table over," he pointed. The group stared at Caleb's wife and three teenaged children who could have been a page from a glossy magazine with their blonde good looks and million dollar smiles.

And sitting right beside them one table over were three more of their classmates - Branden Saldecki, Darren Kosmicki and James Buettner.  The entire group walked over to the table to say hello and stake out seats. Darren rose first, a quiet but confident man.

"Cosmo," Harry reminded him, "remember when you were in middle school and could moo like a cow?"

He could still do it, Darren laughed, and did occasionally for his small grandchildren. Although he managed the family farm, Darren said, he also sang for a men's choral group and belonged to a locally famous barbershop quartet.

Branden, who was still short with a powerful build, was a high school wrestling coach in Manhattan, Kansas, where his own boy was a state championship wrestler.

But James Buettner! James was a multimillionaire.

"You're famous, Man!" Youhanna grabbed him around the neck. "I saw you in Forbes Magazine! So tell us about this security camera system you invented."

James shrugged.  "Nothing really to tell."

Harry eyed him. "Just how rich are you, Buettner?"

Again, James shrugged. "Let's just say," James smiled, "my wife and I are quite comfortable."

They had just seated themselves when Cassie suddenly shrieked.  "Oh my gosh!" she stood up. "It's Robbie!"

Sure enough, it was the artist from Chicago, Robert Van Heufeln. The long ago curls were gone, and Robbie looked what he was - a well known artist with his shaved head and unique style. There was no mistaking the big smile, however. He was still their Robbie.

The group huddled together as the music enveloped them. The lights dimmed, and other classmates arrived and joined their table.  The wine and drinks flowed, the laughter was abundant, and the familiarity of old friends was as comfortable and right as warm, sweet butter.

Youhanna gazed around the table at his classmates and remembered them as they had been 30 years ago. He recalled the antics and the compete-to-the-death games in the senior lounge - a room that was really just a cave behind steel bars. He remembered the hurts and the growing pains, the dances, and the beat of the best little high school band in the state propelling them to athletic victories. He remembered Mr. Howard's thundering voice and Mr. Schumann pacing the halls with his cheerful smile advising them to "keep it between the ditches."

They had all come together again. In the familiar old school, time seemed to have stood still.  But they were changed people. Most had married and given birth, and some even enjoyed grandchildren. They had survived the deaths of loved ones, divorce, and the maladies of getting older.Yet, here they all were - the only people in the world who shared a particular moment in time. And it had been a very good time. Youhanna was suddenly grateful.

"Heads up!" he shouted above the laughter and continuous stream of chatter.  "Raise your glasses!" he ordered.

Obediently, they lifted their wine glasses and beer and soda cans high.

"A toast!" Youhanna roared. Somebody stopped the music, and there was profound silence in the old gym.

 "To both the good and hard times we shared!" Youhanna said in his big voice. "To our strong faith given to us by teachers and parents! To those who are still with us, and to those who are in Heaven!" His voice cracked.  "To all that we meant to each other 30 years ago, and to the life long friendships we made!" Youhanna lifted his glass to the ceiling. "Here's to the class of 2015!"

Silently, they stood to reach and stretch and clink their glasses together.

The music started again and swirled with soft lights around them. Joe Krajicek remembered his father and felt the sting of tears. Gratefully, he grabbed the hand of his good wife who was so like his own sweet mother in many ways.

Some of them remembered gathering together around the bonfire the night of their senior retreat, some remembered their last Honors' Mass in this very gym, and others remembered falling in and out of love during those tumultuous high school years.

And Harry remembered the Polish dog he stuffed above the tiles in Mr. Manivong's ceiling and wondered if it was still there.

MRS. HOWARD'S FOURTH PERIOD ENGLISH CLASS
Front row, from left: Cassie Westwood, Mariah Martinez, Casey Brown, and standing, Levi Cornwell.
Second row from left: Alyssa Kowalski, Robbie Van Heufeln.
Staggering back row from left: Darren Kosmicki, Harry Heidelk, Joe Krajicek, Branden Saldecki, Lexi Kleint, Caleb Wardyn, Dillon Rork, Eli Hunter, Christian Gappa, Youhanna Ghaifan, Austin Clegg and James Buettner.

Kris Nolan Brown

My stepmother Kris is only six years older than I am.

That, all by itself, is plenty of reason to hate a stepmother. Did I mention she has great legs? Don’t even get me started on her boobs.

Dad had dated other women after Mom died and even came perilously close to marrying one of them. He was a young man, as my grandmother liked to remind us, and he most certainly would choose to marry again.

Kris Nolan Brown

Why, my brothers and sisters and I wondered? Weren’t we enough company? Dad, however, did not marry in haste. It was several lonely years after Mom’s death that he married Kris. We’ve been grateful for our stepmother ever since.

About the same time that our darling mother died of breast cancer and Dad  became a 49-year-old widower with ten kids, Kris was a very young and pregnant wife. One early morning, sailing down the highway on her way to work, she came upon a terrible accident. In the mangled vehicle was her husband Tom, who had departed for work just a few minutes before Kris.

Tom was barely alive. In the emergency room before they rushed him to surgery, Kris clung to him.

“RBO,” he whispered to her. Real Bad Owie. It was their little joke whenever they bumped a toe or an elbow and needed sympathy from each other.

“Yes,” Kris said. “RBO!”

Because Tom was strong enough to tell Kris he loved her before he was whisked away, she held out hope he’d make it through surgery. But it was the last time he was able to speak. He died three days later.

In the same way Dad was making himself get out of bed every morning to go to work and care for ten kids, Kris would give birth to her only son, raise him alone, and force herself to go on with the business of living. Ken and Agnetta Nolan, her parents, supported her through that very hard time. Her best friend Tina Labellarte  was in the delivery room when Kris’s son Nolan was born. Afterward, when Kris was exhausted dragging herself to work and caring for a very colicky baby alone, she would strap Nolan into his car seat every weekend and careen 90 miles down the road straight into the loving arms of her in-laws, Tom and Jo Clare. Kris rested, and Tom and Jo held Nolan, a little scrap of a human being - all they had left of their lost son.

We learned about those heartbreaking times in her young life the very first time Kris ever came to our house. Dad had dated Kris for quite a while and decided it was time for all of us to meet, a sign that this was serious stuff. By then, most of us were married with small children of our own, and the entire Brown family battalion was nervously waiting her arrival.

Kris, of course, was nervous, too. She ushered through the door five-year-old Nolan, scrubbed and shining like a kid out of a catalogue, and we all looked each other over in an awkward silence.

Until Nolan tooted.

“Oops!” he grinned, slapping a hand over his red face.

We laughed. We relaxed. And step by step  - hour by day by month by year - we formed a new family.

“This is my sister,” Nolan once introduced me to his day care provider after I stopped to pick him up for Kris one day. Then, turning to a little boy beside him, he whispered behind his hand, “But she’s old enough to be my mom.”

Kris made Dad laugh – like Mom used to. Unlike Mom, however, Kris was a working girl. As the CEO of Goodwill Industries of Greater Nebraska, she was passionate about the business of promoting dignity and better lives for those in our community who are disabled. All across the state, Goodwill was opening stores and integrating facilities, programs and awareness into community cultures. Kris Nolan Brown was at the helm pushing progress right along.

Dick Brown wasn’t used to the new genre of the “working wife.” To his credit, however, he forced himself to evolve with the times and embrace this new era with a dynamic wife twenty years his junior. And it worked. He was happy, Kris was happy, and we were happy. Kris became our kids’ grandmother, and a sister/friend/mother to all of us. And when Dad died just ten years after they married, Kris became the anchor of our family.

Shortly after Dad died, Kris and my sisters and I nursed our grief over Coronas and margaritas at our favorite Italian restaurant one evening. It was a mistake, perhaps. We were missing Dad so much, and Kris, on top of it all, was preparing to give up her only son to graduation and college. We sat for a long time staring miserably at our drinks.

“My next husband’s name will be Harry,” Kris suddenly announced. We looked up, surprised. “Because then I can say,” and her mouth twitched in the telltale way it always does before she laughs, “I’ll marry any Tom, Dick or Harry.”

We stared open-mouthed. Then my sister Terri snorted. Just like that, we were laughing so hard our sides hurt. It felt good. It felt hopeful. And it felt like somewhere Dad was laughing with us.

Dad’s been gone 15 years now. Some of us are grandparents, and our little brother Nolan is a successful businessman in Omaha married to his beautiful Brianne. Kris, who is still dynamic and full of her cheerful energy, will retire from Goodwill this summer. In those intervening years since we’ve lost Dad, Kris has been the family matriarch at every holiday, baptism, and athletic event. She has traveled hundreds of miles to be by our sides during surgeries and graduations. And once a year, she and my sisters and I make a trip to Omaha for our annual girls’ shopping weekend – one time in white-out, blizzard conditions.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, comes between us and our shopping trip.

We sometimes forget what an amazing woman our stepmother is and how respected she is in her professional life. She doesn’t ever talk much about her work at Goodwill. In fact, only a month or so ago, she casually mentioned she’d gone to California to collect an award.

“What award?” we asked her.

After some prodding, she admitted it was the International Goodwill Industries J.D.Robbins Distinguished Career Award.  A mouthful. And it came with a thousand bucks.

Our mouths dropped.

“It was nice,” Kris said shyly.

To Nolan and all of us, she is simply Mom, Kris and Grandma. She’s the one at Thanksgiving who still thinks it’s possible to snap a picture of all her kids and grandkids gathered in front of the fireplace. There are 70 of us. Even as she's taking a picture, some of us are reproducing. It's what we do. But nothing deters Kris.

She’s the one who took in her elderly parents when they could no longer care for themselves.

She even took in two dogs after she married Dad – and one was incontinent. Kris doesn’t even like dogs.

She’s the one who laughs hardest at our jokes, the one who never forgets a single grandchild at Christmas, and the one who’s stuck with us through thick and thin.

And she still has great legs.

Youhanna Ghaifan

It's  fourth period, and Youhanna Ghaifan strides through the door of my classroom.

"How's my favorite teacher?" His big grin stretches from one ear to the other. However, I'm onto him. He greets every one of his teachers the same way.  But I still like it.

In those moments before the bell rings, Youhanna hangs over the desks of his buddies. They trade barbs and tease each other about the all important subject of girls.

"Yep," Youhanna rises.  He is six feet three inches tall, 240 pounds, and one of only two black students in the classroom.  But Youhanna isn't just black.  He is very black. His presence takes over the room. "I call a different lady every night," he brags to his friends.  "They don't pick up, but I call."  His huge laugh fills the space.

Youhanna is one of my very best senior literature students - and one of my very favorites. He's come a long way since he was an eighth grade student here at Grand Island Central Catholic. I remember the day four years ago, his first day in my class.  He informs me he hates English class and that he has only come to GICC to be near his best friend, Harry Heidelk.

He lays it all on the line. "I play football and basketball. I don't like to read or write.  I could get really tired of stuff and leave."

It seems to be a challenge.

"Don't worry," I say.  "We'll probably get tired of you first."

His eyes narrow.  "What's that supposed to mean?" he says defiantly.

But I ignore him.

As if to prove a point, he refuses to do much at all in my English class. Halfway through the semester Doris Rempe, the school counselor, summons Youhanna's teachers to a meeting. He is failing nearly all his classes. Doris asks for our observations.

"He wants to leave," I say.  "I think we should let him."

I am ashamed now for giving up so easily.  Bill Gavers, however, GICC's long time boys' basketball coach at the time, will not give up. "I'll be responsible for him," he says.  "Let's give the kid another chance." Bill, of course, sees Youhanna's potential as an athlete.  But he also genuinely cares for him.

I don't know what Gavers says to him, but Youhanna's attitude changes. His grades improve dramatically, and he works very hard - especially at his reading which has always been difficult for him. In ninth grade English the next year, we study To Kill a Mockingbird. It takes Youhanna longer than any other kid to read it, but he is absorbed and finishes it cover to cover. The plight of Tom Robinson, an innocent black man accused of raping a white girl, troubles him. Youhanna may fill his world with football and basketball, but he is no stranger to suffering, and he remembers his other life in Sudan.

Before he is six years old, he and his family will have escaped from Sudan as refugees. Youhanna understands they would not have survived otherwise. His father, Ibraham Gebra, is determined to flee from Sudan with his wife, Nafisa Toto, and their young children. A religious war has claimed the lives of two million Christians, including the brothers and sisters of Youhanna's mother and father. His mother, as a young girl, is taken prisoner.  One terrible day, she witnesses the murder of her own sister, also a prisoner. Just as she herself is at the point of execution, another prisoner, a man, helps her to escape.

Youhanna is five-years-old when he and his family flee to Egypt, a temporary safe haven for Christian refugees like themselves. His father tells him they will go to America and that Youhanna must always be grateful to God for sparing all their lives.

Of that other life, Youhanna remembers running barefoot outside with his brother and sisters.  He remembers packs of wild dogs who chase him up a tree until he cries for his mother. He remembers his father's determination to escape the country.

"My dad is always hard on me and always has been," Youhanna tells me. "It's his way or the highway.  I don't always like it. But if he wasn't so tough and doing things his way, we wouldn't have survived."

Youhanna, as a small child arriving in the U.S., learns the English language quickly.  His parents still struggle, but there is no trace of an accent in the speech of Youhanna or any of his siblings who are all enrolled in the Grand Island School system.  Youhanna and his younger brother Younan attend Central Catholic while his sisters Hannah, Lucy and Habila attend Grand Island Public.  Youhanna settles in at GICC, becomes a celebrated athlete in three sports, and very much enjoys the attention it brings. But the fact that he is black in a small Nebraska town presents difficult challenges.

He is a freshman starting on Bill Gavers' Crusader basketball team.  One night, the team travels to a small town some miles away.  During the game, big Youhanna grabs a rebound and unintentionally elbows an opposing teammate. The opposing fans, however, jeer.  The "N" word escapes.  Others take it up lashing out at Youhanna.

Youhanna himself is unaware of the mounting rage on the other side of the gym.  He is utterly focused on his game. When his shocked teammates tell him about it later, he is hurt but silent.

 I see him in school two days later. "I'm so sorry, Youhanna."

He shrugs.  "It's okay.  No big deal."

I stare at him.  "It is a big deal," I say.  "You have every right to be upset about it."

He looks at the floor.  "If I got upset every time I heard that word," he says, "I'd have to be mad every day.  And I just can't," he shakes his head.  "I can't be mad every day."

His classmates rally around him.  The ugliness of human nature has been an eye opener for them, too.  In his safe world at GICC, Youhanna can forget about the angry sting of racism.  But his success as an athlete sometimes causes him to forget his Sudanese roots, as well.

By the time he is a junior, Youhanna is getting noticed. He is a household name in Grand Island, and colleges all across the country are courting him.  A defensive end on the Crusader football team, Youhanna is not unaware of his great talent nor of the mounting interest.  It is a lot for a boy of 16 to handle, and he begins to use his power. He discovers the ease of charming adoring girls.

In American Literature class, I assign an essay. Youhanna turns in a paper.  It is written in a careful feminine hand.  I slap it back on his desk.

"Seriously?" I say angrily.  "You're trying to be THAT guy?"

He looks up, bewildered.  "What guy?"

"C'mon, Youhanna," I snort. "You want to be the guy who gets silly, needy girls to do your homework for you.Will you have girls do your laundry, too, when you get to college?"

He is outraged.  "I am not gonna be that guy!"

I lose my temper.  "You are that guy!"

We are both upset and steer clear of each other for the next few days.  He turns in a new essay, and I am pleased to see he has written it himself. Nevertheless, I fear for Youhanna - that he will forget who he is and the great sacrifices that have been made on his behalf.

Just as school starts this year, Youhanna's senior year, the University of Wyoming offers him a football scholarship - a full ride. I try to be happy for him, but I know Youhanna hasn't worked hard in English class for a full year.  His grades are barely passing. Will he blow this great opportunity and become that particular kind of college football player I despise?

But he works.  And he works hard. He devours Catcher in the Rye and loves our discussions on A Separate Peace. I wait for old habits to return, but all semester he continues to work diligently and checks his grades often. In my husband's history class, he is engaged and questioning.

"Youhanna!" my husband John claps him on the back. "You've earned your man card, Son!"

He radiates a new kind of confidence, not just because of his athletic abilities but because of his scholastic success, too.

"What in God's name happened over the summer?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I grew up."

The scholarship offer, he confides, was a test.  "I guess I just want to start working for myself.  I have to start somewhere, and I have to decide what kind of person I want to be."

And, he's decided, he wants to be a good one.

Youhanna has finally come to terms with the life his parents have given him. Their example has been soul changing. Employed at Swifts and Company, his mother works the day shift, and his father works nights.  His father, Youhanna says, has seen only three of his athletic events in the four years Youhanna has been at Central Catholic.

"I understand that," Youhanna says.  "He wants the best for our family, and he has to work."

His mother, on the other hand, is at every game. She doesn't understand either football or basketball very well, and Youhanna carefully explains the rules and strategies to her.  She doesn't speak much English, but Youhanna says he can hear her in the stands during his basketball games.

"If I miss my first free throw, I can hear her yelling, 'You can do it, Boy!' "  He grins.

Youhanna loves his parents very much. "They've always been there for me."

He is especially protective of his mother.  "If I ever hear my younger brothers or sisters yell at her, I tell them, 'Don't you EVER yell at her!' I just love her so much."

Someday, if he ever makes it big, he hopes to give his mother and father a better life.  He understands, he says, that he owes everything to them.

But in the meantime, he is a 17-year-old boy who enjoys high school
. At Grand Island Central Catholic, Youhanna is enormously popular. He's having the time of his life. But he's looking ahead.

I think of a television interview with Youhanna right after he is awarded his scholarship.  When asked what he'd like to be when he grows up, Youhanna replies in his native language - "Whatever God wants me to be."

I don't know what God will ask him to do.  But I know Youhanna will answer the call with his own unique brand of humor, energy and zest.  He will make his parents, coaches, friends and teachers proud one day.

He makes us proud now.