As the leaves finally turn, release their grip, and tumble and spiral onto the dormant mat of grass that was once our summer lawn, Terry and I have enacted a new ritual. We resurrected a fire ring acquired years ago at a “Ruffed Grouse Society” banquet. In fact, the black metal ring has cut-outs of grouse silhouettes, all the better to increase the air flow to the inferno therein.
We pray for a calm evening and a beautiful sunset over Cedar Lake, the combination of which has been all too rare this fall, and use Terry’s Girl Scout skills to build a roaring fire, and we sit west facing and destroy evidence. We are destroying the evidence of 40 years of dental practice. No, not patient or income tax records, but the detritus of ancient bank statements, sales receipts, cancelled checks, and the like. God bless Terry; she initially attempted to shred the mass, but it proved too much, and we opted for a pyrrhic victory.
So far so good. We even made s’mores one night. I had forgotten the cloying sweetness of the graham cracker, marshmallow, and Hershey bar confection - we decided s’less was more than enough for us. We now opt for the calming infl uence of a “Moose Milk”: peppermint schnapps and hot chocolate.
Saturday night we attended the annual Riverwood Foundation Gala, a fundraiser for our most impressive community hospital and clinic. The Gala is an evening of great food. Many local chefs provide samples of their best fare, and the guests graze among the steam and dessert tables and vote on their favorites.
The local physicians put on several karaoke routines, eliciting funds to encourage their performance; believe it or not, this is a major money maker — and a lot of fun.
Our featured entertainment was Joe Schmit, a famous sports writer and commentator up from the Cities. I knew about Joe through my friends Joe Soucheray and Pat Reusse, and I was curious about what he would bring to the evening.
If you ever have a chance to hear Joe Schmit, go! Joe is a deeply spiritual man, a cancer survivor, a humorist, and I would say an ethicist.
Joe began by speaking about the responsibility we parents have to raise good children. He gave the example of a father taking his large family to an expensive amusement park. The ticket prices for people over 13 were $30.00 each; 12 and under ten bucks. He looks at his child who just turned 13 and says, “Today you are 12”. Well, he saved $20.00, but just ruined his 13- years-old’s sense of integrity.
How often do we face these moral choices? How often do we succumb to moral relativism and thus shrink from doing what is right to doing what is easy? (Believe it or not, Dumbledore once said that to Harry Potter, but it is still true!).
Joe talked about all the famous athletes he has had the privilege to interview, the likes of Mohammed Ali, Harmon Killebrew, Wayne Gretsky, Venus Williams, Patty Berg, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, and Tiger Woods. The one person he regretted being unable to interview was a nun from Morris, Minnesota, Sister Helen Mrosla. He had heard her story and sought her out, only to find she had died some years ago. Here is the true story verified by SNOPES:
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary’s School in Morris, Minnesota. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving - “Thank you for correcting me, Sister!” I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I made a novice teacher’s mistake. I looked at Mark and said, “If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!” It wasn’t ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, “Mark is talking again.” I hadn’t asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it. I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer, and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark’s desk, tore off two pieces of tape, and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark’s desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, “Thank you for
correcting me, Sister.”
At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior high math. The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in the “new math”, he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third. One Friday, things just didn’t feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with themselves and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Mark said, “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.” That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday I gave each student his or her list, and before long, the entire class was smiling. “Really?” I heard whispered. “I never knew that meant anything to anyone!” “I didn’t know others liked me so much.” No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn’t matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip, the weather, and my experiences in general. There was a lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply said, “Dad?” My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something important. “The Eklunds called last night,” he began. “Really?” I said. “I haven’t heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is.” Dad responded quietly. “Mark was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend.” To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffi n before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, “Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.” The church was packed with Mark’s friends. Chuck’s sister sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”. Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was diffi cult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to
bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to me. “Were you Mark’s math teacher?” he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. “Mark talked about you a lot,” he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates headed to Chuck’s farmhouse for lunch. Mark’s mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. “We want to show you something,” his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it.” Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded, and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark’s classmates had said about him. “Thank you so much for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark treasured it.” Mark’s classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, “I still have my list. I keep it in the top drawer of my desk at home.” Chuck’s wife said, “Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album.” “I have mine too,” Marilyn said. “It’s in my diary.” Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet, and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. “I carry this with me at all times,” Vicki said without batting an eyelash. “I think we all saved our lists.” That’s when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.
The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don’t know when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
Joe emphasized the importance of kindness over condemnation, something our new Pope Francis preaches, but I digress…that’s what I do
*Dr. Stein is Executive Editor of Northwest Dentistry. He is a general dentist in private practice in Aitkin, Minnesota, AitkinDent@AOL.com