Belonging

Santa Fe railroad tracks -- this is where I was "brung up."
This is Stafford, Kansas.

A basic human requirement is the need to belong. As I traveled back to my home town last weekend, I am nervous. I remember being in 9th grade. I don't know if people will be different 49 years later. Girls are not so nice in 9th grade. Probably boys, too. I never felt like I belonged. Well, OK, there was that one patch when six of us joined together and became The Sexy Six. We even had our song that two of the girls wrote. It's not polite. You'll have to ask me in private to sing it to you. It is pretty funny. But truly, I am worried that coming back, I will feel like a 9th grader. That I won't belong.

Ah, Stafford, town of 1200 residents, you were my home for almost 18 years.

My husband and I drive around town before we check into our B&B. I need to see the old homestead and take a few pictures of this town that shaped me before I saw any people. Then we go to the reunion. The first people I see are Mike and Susan. Here is Mike with my 5th grade school picture, freshly pulled out of his wallet. Is it creepy that he's been carrying this around, or is it fun? I choose fun. We laugh and laugh. The entrance into the reunion is sweet.

Mike and Susan and my 5th grade self.

The next morning we dress in our school colors, of course, and begin to gather to ride on a float in the Octoberfest parade. Jan hands out boas. Festive!

Steve brings his hay rack into town for the Octoberfest parade down Main Street.

Here's my friend Sherry. For years and years I walked to her house to pick her up on the way to school. Of course we walked through snow. Barefoot. Uphill, there and back.

Eddie says to me just before this picture is taken, "Do you remember that you were my square dancing partner in 2nd grade?" I reply, "Oh, right!! Did you like it?" "No."

Eddie and Sherry

It is so good to be here. There is laughter and surprise about trying to figure out who the old people with wrinkles really are ("Oh, my gosh! It's my old boyfriend!"). It is heartwarming. Community is reconstructing itself in a very different way than the childhood and teenage years. We remember together old antics, and we laugh. It is healing.

Main Street hasn't looked this lively since last Octoberfest.

Until I ride on this reunion float, I never notice that at the top of the old Peacock & Soice, it reads
"FURNITURE AND UNDERTAKING."

Such an interesting combination of things in this parade.

Like this, too.

There is wonder in the reuniting. This is Susan. She has been a long time friend. She is as droll as they come. I was in her wedding in June 1969 and she was in my wedding in August 1969. Susan, do you remember when we were in junior high and we stopped off at Curtis Cafe after school to get hot, sticky buns dripping in pats of butter? Terrific!

Susan

But I have a mission. It's time to go to Leisure Homestead. I need to speak to one person in particular.

Lu Dale

This is Lu Dale, my preschool Sunday school teacher at Stafford Methodist Church. I clearly remember walking into her class and seeing on the wall a picture of Jesus and the little children. Look at her smile, even now in the Stafford rest home. Do you see why I had to come and tell her thank you? She became Jesus for me all those years ago when I was a frightened, little, redhead girl. Would I have become a pastor without that love? I doubt it. Thank you, dear Lu.

Redneck Beastrow
Ah, Kansas, you are the best.

In the afternoon Jimmy Smith tells me that Daddy, one of the two doctors in the town, was at his house for seven straight days after his little brother contracted encephalitis. Later, when Jimmy's mother developed cancer, Daddy dropped in weekly because he just "happened to be in the neighborhood." Jimmy says, "Your father saved my family."

Jimmy Smith

And there is Bil, the sweetest of old friends. At the the alumni dinner he tells me about what my father meant to him. I realize I am close to tears, hearing about the impact my doctor daddy had on so many Stafford families. I had no idea that this reunion would also be a time of deep gratitude for my father.

Bil

Jean, my father's long time friend, confidant, and the receptionist at his clinic.

I watch the weekend unfold. This sense of belonging. What is it? Where does it come from?

We gather for one last shot of some of the members of the classes of 1965 and 1966, with a few ringers on the far left and the front right, welcome additions, for sure.

Look at those faces. 

On Sunday morning, we stumble out of bed (the class of 1951 has kept us up much of the night) and go downstairs where all the folks staying in the neighborhood B&Bs have gathered for breakfast.

Spickard House (where my grandma's dearest friend & Scrabble partner used to live!)

After breakfast it's hard to leave. Here are Meta, Susan, Judy, and Alice Kay, pep club and cheerleaders, as completely zany and wonderful as they were 46 years ago.

I leave this "Historic Downtown Stafford" with a sense of joy. Conversations over the last two days play ping-pong in my head, vying for attention. We have mellowed, most of us. There is a sweet comeraderie that comes from shared history. That part doesn't leave you, if you come in amity as so many of these classmates came. That sweet comeraderie actually helps define how you do belong.

The need to belong isn't about trying to get other people to like you, as we felt we had to in 9th grade (and perhaps for many ensuing years). No, it's not that kind of belonging. It's more that these decent, engaging people of goodwill gathered together for a day and a half to share our history. But it wasn't just sharing history. It's how our shared history is combined with the unspoken pain and the joy of all the 46 years that have passed in each of our lives. We are grown-ups. We have seen hard times.

But I'm not saying that it's all about belonging in a new community of 64-year old adults. What happened to me, and perhaps to others, is that at long last, I feel like I belong to my past. I belong to myself. That the times of fear or hurt -- the times of feeling like we didn't belong -- were somehow pulled together over these few, shared hours in Stafford, Kansas. We brought the pain of living with us, as older adults, and we covered the wounds in sweet humor. Can this be the sweetest part of aging? To belong to oneself, pain-covered-in-joy? I think it just might be.

Yes, it's my history, too.