30 Years Ago Today: I saw the Little Town in the Valley for the 1st Time

I wasn't in the best mood when I came back from northeast Kansas with a note on my dorm room door that read, "Call Don Wells, sup't. at Cheney."

I had just completed another interview. It was the spring of 1989, and I had driven all over the state from South Haven to LeRoy to Winfield to Scott City to Jetmore to Ness City, and Horton to name a few.

The view driving from Horton back to Tabor College in Hillsboro, Kansas, was incredible. The hills, the landscape. But I was tired and prayed aloud if I'd ever get a job in an area that wasn't so far away from a larger city.

So, I traipsed down the flight of stairs in the dorm to the payphone and set up the interview. Yes, a payphone. Back when we had to use a calling card and everyone around us could hear the conversation.

I was drained. Missing too many classes and filling up the Olds Calais on a daily basis. But I needed a job, for I was graduating with an English education degree.

I'm not sure what made me apply at Cheney. Was it the visit to the district's booth at the Fort Hays job fair when Russ Busenitz and I drove out there from Tabor College one spring day? No one else went, and there were other potential teachers graduating that spring. Why were we the only two to go?

where it all began

Or did I see Cheney's opening on a paper print-out in the career development office in the TC Library? Spent a lot of time there looking at the teacher openings. Spent a lot of money on stamps too sending out application letters and transcripts. So different from today. I also received by mail, the South Dakota teacher openings bulletin and even had an interview lined up at Miller in my home state once college was out.

But I went ahead and called USD 268 to set-up the interview. It was for Friday, May 5, 1989. I don't remember seeing any students or athletes around, so the interview must have been later in the day. Maybe I requested that time, so I wouldn't miss anymore classes.

My interview began with the 7-12 principal, Dick Wells. No relation to the school's superintendent, Don Wells. This was back when principals and superintendents interviewed the teachers, not a team of potential colleagues (although the Winfield interview was done in that manner due to the team-teaching nature of the position).

what a jewel, this note from Jim Gillett on day one

The Cheney opening was for a 7th and 8th grade literature teacher. Literature. Not really my thing. I preferred writing, grammar, punctuation. And my student teaching experience included 9-12 at Halstead High. Would I want to teach jr. high students? I did have coaching experience with them at Hillsboro Middle School during my college years. So, maybe.

The current literature teacher, Theo Voth, was going to be the 7-12 librarian, so that's why there was an opening. I was reassured she'd be able to guide me if I needed help. Theo also taught public speaking, which the district called oral communications due to certification issues. Since she would be taking over the yearbook, they wanted me to have the public speaking duties. I never got to meet Theo during the interview, but I did get introduced to co-workers, Paula Voth and Jack Goss.

school year #1: 1989-90

Next I had my interview with the superintendent. He was conversational and pleased with my interest in basketball. Seems they'd been wanting a woman on the coaching staff for the high school. And for years that was the norm. Always had to have a female on the bench. You can read more about my coaching and teaching life at Cheney by clicking here on my school website.

Sup't. Don Wells also wanted me to get certified to teach speech, something that would require more college classes. This was almost a deal breaker for me. It had already taken me five years to get the degree I had because I'd changed my major my sophomore year.

But I liked the small school atmosphere of Cheney, the proximity of the classrooms, the size of the town, and its closeness to Wichita where my sister Brenda lived. I agreed, that if offered the position, I would do my best to get as many hours as I could towards that speech certification.

Mr. Wells wrapped up the interview by assigning me an essay. I do not remember the topic. He handed me his pen and told me to sit in his chair behind his desk. We said our goodbyes, and I was to leave when done.

No other interviewer had asked me to do that. It didn't phase me a bit. I had been editor of our college newspaper for two years, so I welcomed the chance show him one of my strengths. I sure would like a copy of what I wrote. Maybe it's in my personnel file.

I had not worn my typical interview outfit that day. Was I tired of it? Was it even clean? Instead, I wore a crisp white oxford type shirt and a black and white skirt. It wasn't new. And after I landed this job, my sentimental nature kept me from giving it to charity until many years later.

That interview outfit: me on the right.
I'm with college pals Julie & Teresa in 1983.
The only picture I've taken with Santa.

Afterwards, I drove around the town to check out the homes and the environment. I chuckled wondering if I could ever live here with all the dips at the intersections. You see, my car had a hook installed in the front of my car in case I ever needed to be pulled out of a ditch. Dad's South Dakota thinking.

I called my sister from the payphone in the southwest corner of the Jim's Foodliner parking lot. I love telling students there used to be a payphone there.

We met on the west side. I remember telling Brenda that I liked Cheney, but there was one teacher I met, a long black-haired lady, and she was quite the whipper-snapper.

Yes, that was my first impression of Paula Voth. Don't worry, I told Paula this story when she retired.

I began fantasizing about having an apartment in west Wichita and driving to work in Cheney. I'd be all grown-up and on my own. Making my own money. Dad would not be telling me what to do.

And that could have happened because Cheney did offer me the job. And I did accept it. And I did go back to take some classes that summer at Wichita State University. Interpersonal communications and introduction to radio and television. Spending more money to make money. Isn't that the saying? But once my Cheney job started, I did not live in Wichita. Cheney became my home.

in the dorm signing the teaching contract

In fact, I didn't even get to pick out my first apartment. Dad, Mom, and Brenda did that. They drove to Cheney during the weekend of my graduation, found me a one-bedroom apartment, and put down a deposit. They saw Wilma Brandes walking among the Jefferson Condos on 2nd Street. I learned later that she was Theo's aunt. Wilma got them in touch with Stan and Darlene Woolf who owned the unit. The rest is history.

When my family came to Hillsboro on graduation day and told me this, can you imagine me being okay with that? I can't either, but I guess I was. One less thing to worry about.

That's how it all began.

Whenever I'm returning to Cheney from Wichita and arrive at the top of St. Joe Road, there's rarely a time I don't recall that day. The day I first drove over that hill. Thirty years ago today.

It's a beautiful scene.

The little town in the valley.

My home.

6 Favorite Christmas Treats

One: peppermint chewy candies 

The only store-bought item on my list. Couldn't find them this year. Had to dig out the stash I buried in the cabinet. I like anything peppermint. These candies have a Christmas tree in the middle. For Valentine's, a heart. Maybe stores will sell them in February.

Two: Mom's cranberry relish 

As a child, I never ate it, but after my sister Brenda served it one time at Thanksgiving, because she knew our nephew Michael liked it, I tried some. Now I make it for my family. My little nephew-in-law Wesley couldn't get enough of it one year for Thanksgiving at my mother-in-law's. It's quite a sight when I make it though. I have to stand on a chair to smash it down into the attachment to the mixer. Nothing makes me feel short like that does.

Three: peanut blossom cookies

The ones with the chocolate kiss on top made with a bit of cream peanut butter. I prefer Mrs. Elmer Hofer's recipe in the old Hutterthal Church cookbook that Mom gave me when I moved out on my own. I'll be making my second batch of these during Christmas break.

Four: fudge 

Simple ingredients from Laura Goosen's recipe. She was our pastor's wife when I was an elementary student. Wrote about her famous bun recipe here. I have to freeze this fudge it to cut it otherwise it's too gooey. One small piece satisfies me for hours.

Five: cheese ball 

Mom's recipe with pimentos. Son-in-law Nate almost ate half of it in one setting the other day he liked it so much. My niece-in-law Amy in South Dakota loves it when I make this at Christmas time.

Six:  Mom's fruitcake 

Yes. Fruitcake. I make it every year for my seventh graders. because of "A Christmas Memory," a short story we study by Truman Capote. Kids gag, spit it out, eat it fast to get it over with. I tell them it's okay, they don't have to like it, and that they won't hurt my feelings.

But many do the opposite and come back for more at the end of the day. Past students hear I've brought it again and pop in for leftovers. And teachers peek in to say, "If you have enough, may I please have a piece?" And of course, I oblige. This too is my mom's recipe in that old church cookbook.

What I didn't list 

Notice I didn't say sugar cookies? I do enjoy the melt-in-your-mouth ones made by my friend Paula Voth, but I cannot make them. My husband and step-daughter Brittany joke that I'm not good at making the simple things: mac and cheese from a box, eggs, pancakes—so it doesn't surprise me that I can't make these.

Mom couldn't make them either, but that didn't stop my Kansas sister Brenda and me from trying sugar cookies one holiday season. We took them home to the family in South Dakota. People didn't seem interested in eating a Christmas stocking that looked like a cowboy boot, so they got dumped to the hogs.

I also enjoy homemade caramel, but this too, Mom and I couldn't master. Janice Peterson, the mother of my childhood friend and classmate Adele, made incredible caramel. I have the recipe in a classroom cookbook from third grade. Each of us brought family recipes for Mrs. Gilchrist to organize in a cookbook that we gave to our moms for Christmas. I need to find that thing and try the caramels again.

Soon holiday celebrations will cease and so will the treat making. No. Wait. Valentine's Day brings more of the same. I'll make more fudge. And peanut blossom cookies. And look for the peppermint chew candies in the stores. Then after that, it's Easter. Oh, how I love solid chocolate bunnies! And peeps. And candy message hearts. And Russell Stovers.

Oh, how my sweet tooth rules. I have a mouth full of cavities, capped teeth, and an implant to show for it too—but that's due to not brushing my teeth when I was little and lying to Mom about it.

What are your favorite holiday treats? Which ones are the must-makes? Which ones belong in the hog pen? Are there some holiday treats you make all year round?

Fun-Loving Pranks Preserve Teacher's Memory

School is about to start. As a teacher, I have many fond memories and only a handful of nightmares of my interactions with young people.

The Class of 1996 holds the record for well-meaning pranks. One involved the beloved Mr. Smiley Face Man.

He was the lid of an old plastic container that I kept inside my podium. If a student seemed to pout about something, didn't like that I said no or was upset about a wrong answer or another student, I'd flash Mr. Smiley Face Man at him. No words. Just flashed the yellow-faced lid his way by placing it in the air, putting it in front of my face, or walking it over to the student. Worked every time.

Until one day, I arrived at school and found a ransom note.

Mr. Smiley Face Man had been kidnapped!

I think the lid was returned, but hey, maybe it wasn't because I cannot find it anymore. I would certainly not trash an icon from my early teaching years. I don't recall paying the ransom of three Jolly Ranchers either. 

See, for those of you who think I have a great memory, this one escapes me. Maybe the three kidnappers, now grown men, need to remind me how the case was solved.

The culprits? I only remember two for sure: Kevin Giefer and Cody Ast.

Who else was in on it? Todd Davidson was one of their sidekicks. Could have been Jason Gregory, now on the local school board. Or maybe it was the fella who is now the activities director, Todd Hague.

I pumped Kevin recently for information. He wouldn't budge, or maybe he's old like me and forgot.

And yes, that's the original ransom note in the picture above. It's kept in my pie-safe bookcase that I wrote about here.

as 7th graders, the Class of 1996 in Cheney, Kansas

Another incident occurred with this crew that again proves I have a sense of humor, a must for teaching pre-teens.

One time after lunch, I returned to the classroom. I had my cup of iced tea with a straw. I set it on my desk and returned to the podium to continue whatever I'd been teaching. The class seemed extra quiet, but I didn't think anything of it because sometimes 12-year-olds get in little tiffs at lunch as to who talked to whom, who sat by whom, and who's going where.

I approached the podium. On my open binder—a pile of poop.

Yes, a pile of human-sized excrement.

At first I thought of the two eighth graders we'd caught stabbing pencils into the ceiling during a study hall period Paula Voth and I shared. Did they do this? Their parents were contacted about their vandalism, and the two were given detentions. It didn't seem like a big deal: kids screwed up, parents agreed, kids paid consequences, end of story. So them retaliating by pooping on my podium didn't make sense.

Besides, how could a person get their poop so neatly placed on my binder? Did they actually squat up there and do it? Because it sure looked fresh, and it sure didn't look like it had been moved. No smear marks anywhere.

I stood there stunned. I didn't dare look up at the class because I had no clue how I was going to handle this.

A faint male voice finally said, "It's not real, Miss Hofer."

I took a deep breath. "Oh, it isn't?" I said.

I continued to stare at it. The class remained fairly quiet, for they didn't know how I was going to react.

Cheney Class of 1996 as 8th Graders

I grabbed my straw from my iced tea and poked it. "But it looks so real, " I said. "There are even wrinkles and creases in it." I bent down and looked at it from various viewpoints.

I poked it again. And again. The class began a low chuckle now as a reaction to my reservations. I still wasn't looking at them, but I was relieved.

I picked up the binder, walked it to the trashcan, and tipped it so the fake feces slid into the garbage. I don't remember what I did with the straw.

I returned to the podium area, and with a deep breath, I finally looked at the 20-some eyes who'd been staring at me and holding their breaths.

"Whew, I'm glad that wasn't real," I said. We all started laughing.

Then the culprit, the owner of the plastic poop, stood up. He dug it out of the trash and said, "I bought this when we were on vacation in Colorado. I begged to buy it." 

The culprit? Kevin Giefer. 

Then the students all retold how I came in the room and reacted to it. We all laughed pretty hard.

Kevin's antics make for good memories, don't they? So, here's one more.

He used to bug me that I wore granny shoes, so the creative writing booklet was named after him that school year. I dubbed it Granny's Memoirs.

Was this the same class the Uthe sisters and I played a joke on? I think so. More about that another time.

This was the Class of 1996.

Twenty-plus years ago, they walked into my classroom as my second set of seventh graders. I taught them for two years in literature and then again in high school public speaking.

They taught me it was okay to smile before Thanksgiving.



Did you play harmless pranks on your teachers? Or, maybe you're the teacher. Share how you've recovered from some fun-loving student jokes.

Circle of Life

This week, welcome Amy Wallace, the

1995 Miss Kansas runner-up, as my first guest blogger. She

writes a real tear-jerker here, so grab your box of Kleenex and prepare to meet one of the many who influenced this professional woman, wife, and mother of three.

Read more about

Amy at the end of this post.

 

Circle of Life  by Amy Wallace

“Hey kid!” I can still hear his booming, gruff, yet tender voice. The voice of Ray Donald Jones, RD, or Don, but just Grandpa to me.

In my upper elementary years, he was the lunchroom monitor at my school. That didn't last very long. I think he called a kid a piss ant. That was one of his favorite things to say. I’m sure his loud, gruff tone didn't sit well with the grade school parents!

I love this picture because it shows his sharp-dressed style, fabulous
hair, and him looking at me with such adoration.

Each summer Grandpa would come out and help with harvest at our farm. His job was to drive the wheat trucks. When I first learned to drive, I did the driving and he was my co-pilot. He cussed me up one side and down the other about how fast I was driving. He was probably right.

My husband recalls a funny memory from when he was a boy. Sean and some buddies were hanging out at the local gas station where Grandpa worked. The boys were looking at the magazines when he surprised them shouting, “Hey you kids, this ain’t a [gosh darn] library!” Oh Grandpa, he wasn't known for his grace or tact!

My favorite photo of us is framed in an old rusty horseshoe. When I was competing at Miss Kansas, he had a gorgeous bouquet of flowers delivered to me, and in the arrangement was a horseshoe for luck. Included with it was a card addressed to "Amy Graber Futere Miss Kansas." Spelling wasn't his strong-suit, but I loved it and still have the envelope today. The frame holds a photo of us after the parade at the meet and greet. There wasn't a more proud Grandpa in the place!

  

top picture: my favorite picture with Grandpa Don in the lucky horseshoe frame
bottom picture: proof of his spelling skills

One afternoon I was painting my bedroom. I had the door closed so I could paint behind it. He threw the door open and marched straight in stepping on the tray of paint right at the edge flipping it over. Paint went on the wall, the door, his pants and shoes, the carpet—everywhere. Graceful he was not.

He came off as pretty rough and tough, but he had a sensitive side. If I ever stayed home sick from school, he would stop to check on me. When I moved to college and he couldn't see me all the time, he called just to check on me.

Once married, we moved to Garden City. Grandpa decided to send us valentines in the mail. How sweet! But he didn't put enough postage on them, so we had to go to the post office and pay to get them. We had fun teasing him about that every chance we got.

the Valentine's Day debacle

 

In April of 1997, I was student teaching and we celebrated Grandparent’s Day. Grandpa came to school with me. This is one of my last good memories of a healthy man. I was so proud to have him there, and he was so proud to have been invited.

I don’t recall the exact time I was told he had cancer, but I specifically remember when I realized he wouldn't get better. They were moving a hospital bed into his house. This was it. It was coming to an end, and there was nothing that could change that.

As we celebrated Christmas in ’97, we knew it would be his last. He was thin, weak, and tired. He gave my mom a tree to plant in her yard, and I knew that he knew. The end was near.

It was February. We started a round-the-clock vigil at his bedside. In anticipation of his upcoming birthday, we requested a card shower. It was a treat each day to retrieve the cards and read them to him.

On a Wednesday, I emptied the mailbox mid-morning. Once again, our tiny town didn't disappoint. The box was full of birthday greetings. I sat next to his bed and read each one. His eyes were closed, his breathing loud and rattly. Suddenly we realized the mail had just been delivered. The cards we just read were from the previous day. Now we had a whole new batch to go through!

We read the new batch of cards and his breathing got slower and farther apart. And then, just as gentle as a soft breeze, he was gone. And there was peace. He left that sick body with his family at his side. There was no more suffering. It was finished. It was 1:18 pm on his 74th birthday, February 18, 1998.

4 Generations:

my mom, Peggy; me, the baby; Nellie Jones and her son Don, my grandpa

If someone had asked me if I wanted to be in the room as he passed from this life to the next, I’m not sure what my answer would have been. But as God must have intended it, I was. And I will forever be grateful for that experience. 

Death was not scary. It was quiet. It was peace. It was sacred. It was a moment, one last moment, that could be ours. Something we shared. I was there for him, and he was there for me. And I will cherish it for the rest of my life.

About a month after his passing, Sean and I learned we were pregnant with our first child. When she came into this world nine months later, we gave her his name, Macy Dawn. He would have loved her compassionate heart and fiery spirit. She wears his name well, but that is a story for another day.

Does Grandpa Don remind you of anyone in your family?  Have you ever had the opportunity to be with someone as they moved from this life into the next?

About Amy Wallace

It is my great privilege to be a guest writer for my good friend and colleague, Melodie Hofer Harris. During the summer of 1994, I was at a bit of a crossroads in my life. I had just completed two years of college at K-State, and the love of my life (now my husband of 20 years) had graduated and was moving on to the real world. I wasn't sure where I fit into that picture, or for that matter, the big picture of life. To help pay for my schooling, I was competing in the Miss America Circuit.

That summer I participated in the Miss Cheney Lake Pageant held annually each July in Cheney as part of the Sedgwick County Fair. I was getting to know my home-hostess, Paula Voth. As I explained my lack of direction and uncertainty about school, work, and life in general, she encouraged me to apply for a position that was open at her school. I filed my application with Superintendent Don Wells and landed a job which changed the path of my entire future. I was hired as a teacher’s aide at Cheney Jr. High where Melodie Hofer was a teacher. 

Two years later when I married, Melodie presented me with a handmade crosstitched “Wallace” that still hangs on my refrigerator. In 2001, I returned to Cheney to work as the curriculum director and three years later, became the principal at Cheney Middle School. Today, Melodie and I remain co-workers, but more than that, friends.