SUNSHINE SHUTTLE

The brown paper bag looked amazing. A huge, smiling yellow sun covered nearly the entire top of the brown bag, with the colorful words “you are sun-sational” splashed beneath it. Below that was printed, “Thanks for all that you have done this year!” Tufts of bright lemon paper looked like rays of the sun popping out of the top.

I sipped my chilled glass of ice-cold lemonade, which I had made for myself at the cool lemonade stand across the counter in the lounge, adding some fresh berries and a few drops of blackberry syrup. I was having quite the afternoon.

I retired from full-time teaching three years ago. I never thought I would step back into the classroom again, but teaching only two classes this year is kind of nice. I have plenty of free time to walk the dog more often, play video games for hours on end, and catch up on years of lost sleep.

So when Teacher Appreciation Week rolled around this year, I felt a little guilty about taking part in the celebration. Some days, I am only here for one government class while other teachers are navigating a full load of classes each day. That lemonade sure tasted good, though.

I looked at the bag. The principal stood at the table in the teacher’s lounge talking to me. I know Becky wanted me to open the bag, but I didn’t want to do it in front of her. I was content to sip on the lemonade and imagine what was inside the bag, so I told her I was going to open it at home. 

I lied. Once she left, I peeked inside. Maybe I didn’t want her to see me smile as I pulled out the surprises. 

I quickly unwrapped a Golden Grahams bar and savored tiny bites while checking out my stickers, Play-Doh, and a little rubber duck. But the "pièce de résistance" was something totally unexpected: a personalized laminated round-trip ticket on the Sunshine Shuttle to Dupes Scoops for an ice-cream treat. 

The next day, on an overcast, chilly afternoon, teachers, their eyes worn from the end of the year and their arms crossed, gathered in front of the school after the students had been dismissed.  Survivors of a full day of hyperactive teenagers who would rather be anywhere else began to smile when they saw the Sunshine Shuttle awaiting them.

I masked my own enthusiasm while holding my own golden ticket in front of me like Charlie Bucket. I half expected to see Willie Wonka driving the orange school bus, but Mr. Murphy was the perfect replacement.  Orange, yellow, and white streamers dropping down in front of the bus door invited weary souls to a magical place where today’s pressure was not to be found.

I feel kind of corny writing about all of this. But when I stepped on the Sunshine Shuttle to find it decorated with balloons, small suns, and even more streamers, I felt like a kid again. And let me tell you something, for a pushing 60, underdressed-for-the-weather man in shoes that had lost their arch support, to feel excitement about a trip to Dupes Scoops was something pretty special.

I remember a few specifics from the journey through downtown Wheeling, but for the most part, I just recall the feeling. Many of the teachers jabbered enthusiastically while I kept my arms atop the school bus seat in front of me, silently listening to some happy music playing faintly in the background as I looked out the window.

Throughout life, we often struggle with being “present” in moments. We may not always appreciate the simpler things, see the value in a kind gesture or smile, or acknowledge the road we have taken to arrive where we are. The significance of moments is often found in the time and places we take for granted.

The Sunshine Shuttle arrived quickly, hopefully avoiding the impending rain showers. Teachers are the universally certified guardians of orderly lines. With that in mind, we took our turns slowly disembarking the bus, stepping into the aisle without encroaching on the person’s personal space in front of us, and keeping our hands to ourselves.

Younger educators stood in line with the veterans. Math and science, English and social studies, art and video, staff and admins, all shivered in excitement as they waited their turn at the window. I tried to calculate the number of years of teaching experience gathered there on National Road, but I am a former English teacher who currently teaches a couple of government classes. I can add, but I struggle to keep a tally in my head, primarily because of my remarkable ability to become distracted whenever I am getting ice cream.

My turn came, and I stepped to the window, where I came face-to-face with Dupes himself, Luke Duplaga. Talk about moments. I had Luke in my class nearly a decade ago. Can that even be correct? I tried to do the math standing there, but…well, you know. Ice cream. 

Many teachers lose track of the years; some, like me, have occasionally forgotten names. We don’t forget the time spent together, even if we can’t remember the specific years and faces.  The great gift educators are afforded is the occasional opportunity to witness how a student’s story is progressing, a story far removed from the chapter in which you appeared.

It was good to see Luke. We talked a little, but Dupes still had a bunch of ice cream to hand out, and knowing Luke, I am sure he wanted to get the orders right. So I took my cappuccino crunch waffle cone, said “thank you,” then stepped to the side, the way all good teachers try to model for their students.

The Sunshine-Shuttle headed back to school, escaping the rain at just the right time. So many thoughts and emotions spun around in my head. Looking at everyone on the bus, having one last glance at the decorations and the shiny sun hanging beside me on the seat, I felt good, better than I have felt in a while. 

I was touched by the appreciation the school showed my colleagues and me. Yes, I loved the lemonade stand, the coffee cart, and, of course, the Sunshine Shuttle trip to Dupes Scoops. I will always be grateful for the week we had this year. 

Beyond the treats and gifts, the week gave me another treasure: a sense of gratitude for the career I chose, the never-ending flashbacks to previous classrooms and schools, the experiences of learning and teaching, and, of course, the enduring lifetime connections with students and colleagues.

I had my arms resting contentedly on top of the seat in front of me again on the ride home. I could still taste the cappuccino crunch ice cream at Dupes. “Becky? Can we do this every week?” 

Becky chuckled, “I wish we could.”

Living in the moment, appreciating one another, and being forever grateful. 

GREEN ROOM

The rain bothered me at first, but I found it offered a suitable backdrop for my jaunt back to West Liberty on a chilly day in early March. That day was a late-in-life effort to do some things I have been wanting to do for a long time. 

I had asked Coach Mike if I could watch a Topper basketball practice this season on one of my free days from part-time government classes at Central. He told me I was always welcome, but I seemed to find an excuse not to go. I have been quite adept at making up reasons not to do things my whole life. 

Sure, I went to watch the practice, but don’t tell Coach I had other reasons, more personal ones for my journey up the winding roads WV-88. My trip was more deliberate and contemplative. I have been back in Wheeling for over twelve years now, but I had never really walked across the quad that a younger A.J. walked forty years ago.

I took a hard right up the steep hill near Bonar Hall, where I spent my first year. I passed Krise Hall and neared the turn where I could look down at Beta Hall, half-expecting a cautionary sign reading "Proceed with Caution." Like a haunted house, my senior-year dorm nestled in the afternoon darkness and drizzling rain.

I pushed the wipers a little harder to see the memories of that year. I shook my head at the unfolding stories, chuckled a few times, and then took a picture to show Chaka. I needed to move on for now.

I parked and made my way to the quad. At its center stood the tall flagpole. Gone was the large wooden base where, as a Phi Sig pledge, I had to lean with my knees jutting forward at right angles to “think about it” after a late night of mud-diving or whenever one of my pledge brothers said something stupid. But the flag remained, as were the numerous sidewalks that led students outward to other destinations on campus. 

The Quad at West Liberty University

I took one sidewalk to the bottom floor of the library, where I strolled down the long hallway several times, looking into the empty rooms where I once sat in my English classes. On the main floor of the library, the entryway seemed larger and more spacious. Countless study tables and computers replaced the coziness of the massive bookshelves.

Another sidewalk led to the student union. Where were this burrito place, the corner coffee shop, and the pick and go store when I was a student? Were there still dances on the main floor? Someone removed the pool tables downstairs, and the aroma of stale beer no longer wafted from the little room I remembered as the pub. Nothing appeared to be what it once was to me.

I sat down in one of the many comfy couches that quietly huddled together in a space I recall as electric on a Thursday evening. Students were still on campus, working in class, practicing with their teams, or even working at jobs. Despite the changes and emptiness, the feeling I once had walking through here returned to me. I sat with my memories, wondering if this place remembered me, even a little bit.

I stepped outside, opened my umbrella, and returned to the quad. I stepped onto the longest sidewalk, which ran the length of campus, stopping at Kelly Theater. For the longest time, I have really wanted to visit the theater. I had spent the bulk of my years there acting on stage, taking speech classes, and figuring out just who I was going to be during my college years.

I quietly walked up the steps as if I were visiting the theater for the first time and slowly opened the door. A sense of reverence enveloped me as I stepped into the dark theater. Smaller safety lights illuminated areas around the sloped audience seating. I wanted to walk down the stairs toward the lighted stage, but a self-imposed restraint pinned my feet to the top of the staircase. This spot would be far enough.

Was I the ghost here, unable to touch the memories that flickered around me? The people I saw on the empty stage appeared so alive, but so was I. Bill and I argued as Hildy Johnson and Walter Burns in The Front Page as we did forty years ago. John Reilly winced and repeatedly told me to start again as I struggled with an Irish accent in his Voice for the Stage class. I sang and danced around a huge wooden doghouse with my light blue blanket as Linus in You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

More and more ghosts traveled across the lighted stage as I stood there, enraptured by a life I once lived. The longer I stayed, the more the ghosts peered at me from the corners of their eyes, subtly nudging me to leave and return another time.

The hallway beside Kelly Theater led to other parts of the building: the art gallery, the music department, and a row of lockers leading out the back door. At the end of the lockers, the green room awaited. 

The green room is a place where members of the cast and crew can quietly unwind away from the stage. It was in this room that we could think about the performances we had just delivered and those we had yet to give. It was the crossroads between what was and what could be.

Of course, we were kids then, still learning to lower our voices, particularly during rehearsals or performances. The excitement of life often overwhelmed us. Of course, those were times when my college advisor, Meta Lasch, would descend the metal stairs from her office above the green room to tell us to keep it down or get out. We always stayed.

I looked around the small room, futilely putting together pieces from two different puzzles. As I had hoped all day, I wanted my perception of what stood before me to match my memories of the past, seeking some tangible relic whose significance remained for all but was understood by only a few.

I noticed the couches and the dark walls that were so similar to what I remembered. A locked metal-mesh door cut off the office at the top of the metal stairs nestled against the wall. The door to the theater stood open to the same lighted stage I faced as an audience on the opposite side minutes earlier. I'm not sure I should be here anymore.

“Hi,” I whispered. I did not want to startle the two students who sat on one of the couches. “Do you mind if I come in for a minute?”

They looked at each other. I felt some doubt and uneasiness emanating from them. I remembered that I was a disheveled 60-year-old man with a gray beard, wearing a damp hoodie, who happened to drop by to “come in for a minute.” That could be creepy in our current world.

“I am sorry. I should have knocked or something. I am just looking around. I graduated back in 86 and just wanted to see how much things have changed. I saw something. I ignored the two students and walked across the room. Mounted on the wall were two large wooden fraternity paddles. At the center were the carved Greek letters:  ΑΨΩ. 

“OMG. You kept these? I can’t believe this. Is Alpha Psi Omega still around?”

One of the students embraced the moment with me. “Of course. Were you in Alpha Psi?”

I moved even closer to the large paddles to read the smaller signatures surrounding the large ΑΨΩ. I moved closer to my past as I scanned the paddles for my name. “I know my name is here,” I laughed like a child unwrapping a special present on this birthday.

I found it right above Cheryl Saseen’s signature. Cheryl wrote her name in a black Sharpie that stood out prominently on the paddle. Mine? My name was a slightly muted silver Sharpie. Why did I write with that color Sharpie? I could barely see my name. Still, this was pretty damn cool. 

I turned back to the student, “Would you mind getting a couple of pictures of me with this? No one will believe this is still here.”  I gave her my phone. “Do you know how to take pictures with a phone?”

She laughed. “I think I can figure it out.” I attempted to move as close as possible to the paddle so I could point at my name, but pieces of furniture were pushed closely together along the wall. “You know what?” my photographer asked. “Why don’t you climb on top of the chair so I can take a better shot?”

“Are you sure?” I glanced out the door to make sure no adult came in to catch me stepping on university furniture. I climbed onto the chair, then contorted my aged body into an uncomfortable position to look back at the camera and smile.

Beta Hall 

The English Hallway

The Stage

Forty Years Ago