Co worker, Michelle, and Sargie on Thursday afternoon

January 31, 2020 - Friday morning

17 degrees/partly cloudy/calm winds

Pentoga Road

It's official. Sargie has now joined the ranks of the retired. She raised her head early this morning, mumbled something about never having to go to work again, smiled, said she loved me, then fell sound asleep with a smile on her face.

I've told Sargie that retirement is the best job she'll ever have. Now she'll get to experience it for real.

Look what came in yesterday's mail.

They must have the wrong person. Fifty years couldn't have passed since a pimply faced, seventeen year old, stumbled up onto a stage to receive his high school diploma. 

High school. I hated high school with a passion and if it weren't for band and orchestra, I'd probably have been a casualty of the Vietnam conflict. Our's was a huge consolidated school with hundreds in each class. 

At dear old Pekin High School, Home of the Chinks, (yes, your read it correctly) I often felt like a number, seldom a name.

We were divided into two distinct groups, those who were college bound and the other's who were given, for the most part, social promotions. It was expected that most of the males would be drafted anyway. Why waste tax payer dollars trying to educate us?

It was tough following a sister who excelled in academics. She graduated near the top of her class, #3 if I remember correctly. I came along three years later near the very bottom of mine. 

The harder I tried, the more I failed. Finally, I just gave up.

Our school, like most, had a social structure that made life difficult for a kid like me. The Haves, those who were college bound, learned from the very best educators in the system. The Have Not's were cared for by either rookie educators or teachers who were merely putting in their time until retirement. 

Rarely did the Haves and the Have Nots mix. It was an unwritten rule that those who comprised the cheerleaders, athletes, student council, National Honor Society, and other extra curricular activities not mix too heavily with the lower class. 

It just didn't happen. Consequently, high school was a very lonely and extremely frustrating time for me.

Thankfully, I had a band director, Mr. Fogelberg, who helped to show me the academic light my junior year. D's and F's turned to A's and B's. By my senior year, I'd reversed course and asked my counselor for her assistance and help to be admitted to college.

Miss Strauch attempted to put the final nail in the coffin when she said, "I don't know why you'd bother to apply to any college. No one will take you, so don't waste my, your's, and their time."

Thank God for Mr. Fogelberg. He called universities and colleges, and arranged for several auditions. I was offered two scholarships for my musical abilities alone, one from Northeast Missouri State and the other from Illinois Wesleyan. 

I chose Wesleyan where I went on to graduate with honors.

I later honored Mr. Fogelberg for saving my life by becoming a band director myself, one of the many hats I eventually wore in the field of education. 

When I brought one of my high school bands on tour years later, though retired, he sat in the front row and was my biggest supporter.

I was dragged to my thirty-fifth reunion fifteen years ago and I'll admit, I enjoyed being introduced as a Professor of Education. This PCHS graduate had crashed through the boundaries of the Haves and Have Nots and, as Mom used to say, made something of myself. 

I'll not be attending my fiftieth reunion. My high school days are long gone. Self admittedly, the hard feelings I've carried all these years are juvenile, but they served to help me be a better educator, to believe all children are equal and to never give up on even one. 

Fifty years have passed and I'm a big boy. It's time to let go of those hard feelings. I hope my fellow classmates enjoy their reunion.

Page Two:

After churning out a quick three miles Thursday morning, my intention was to repair the flue on the wood furnace, but found the snow had completely demolished the stove pipe and fittings. Replacements were purchased Thursday afternoon.

The propane heater was started in the shop and I spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon fashioning a bowl and name for one of Sargie's coworkers. 

Michelle has been a near and dear friend to Sargie while at the eye clinic and we've promised to keep in touch. She's a sweetheart.

I went to town and found our large grocery was suddenly closed due to possible structural failure caused by the heavy snow. It's to reopen Saturday morning.

I made my way to the eye clinic where we had an informal end of the day gathering.

Yeah, I had to photo bomb this selfie. Don't ask me why.

Even at the last hour, I put Sargie through her optician paces and am proud to say I was her very last patient.

With hugs and kisses, we bade all goodbye as Sargie made her final exit from the working world into that of retirement.

Now the real fun begins.

I'm going for my walk this morning then hope to repair the flue on the wood stove. After that, we'll see what the day brings. Macrea, Mel, and Hambone, are to meet us at this evening for a celebratory supper to honor Sargie's working years, one she certainly deserves.

Time to strap on the boots and get to walking.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...