PLYMOUTH — My high school graduation was anything but a celebration.
For me, it was a time that marked the end of a very blurry senior year and the angst of where I would go from there.
As I have lamented before, my mom passed away on the day before Mother’s Day — a month before my high school graduation.
When Mom passed, it marked the end of a years-long struggle for her — filled with doctor appointments, hospital stays, emergency journeys to Philadelphia’s Hahnemann Hospital, and — I am certain — pain, fear, and much sadness.
My dad and I never left Mom’s side through it all. We always held out hope that she would somehow come back, and our family life would return to normal.
At 17, I was not prepared for losing one of my parents, and I really had no idea how to cope with such a tremendous loss.
When I graduated high school, there were 691 others in my class at Wyoming Valley West. It was June 6, 1968, and ours was the second class to graduate from the new “monster district” that consolidated nine towns into one school.
I was like a zombie — especially for that month between my Mom’s passing and graduation day. It really was the worst of times for my dad and me.
But we persevered. We managed to endure three and a half days of greeting my mom’s family and friends at her wake. The funeral was held on the fourth day, and it was emotionally draining.
It was difficult, at the very least, to finish out the school year. Graduation didn’t have nearly the meaning it would have with my mom and dad sitting together in the stands. Sometimes your proudest moments — your greatest achievements — lose much of their luster when you suffer a loss like that.
I do remember many of my classmates being excited about the day. They couldn’t wait to stroll up to accept their diplomas, smile, and wave to their families and friends in the bleachers.
And there was a lot of talk about graduation parties. Which ones were you going to go to? Were you invited here or there? Do you think the punch will be spiked?
I didn’t begrudge any of my fellow Spartans for enjoying their graduation day — it just wasn’t joyous for me.
My dad was still distraught from the trauma of losing his life partner. A proud man, he struggled to stay composed and to be strong for my sake. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I know he wished over and over that my mom could have been there. He knew how important this day would have been for her — to see her only child graduate from high school.
In the daily struggle to cope with our loss, no plans were made for a graduation party for me — we didn’t even discuss it. In a class of 692, I was probably the only one who didn’t have a graduation party planned. I didn’t care — celebrating was not on my mind.
Then somebody stepped to the plate. My mom’s friend, Sandy, told my dad she would host a graduation party for me at her house, just down the street from where we lived. My dad accepted Sandy’s offer, and we had a party attended by family and close friends.
There was a very low-key, mild celebration, and I will never forget the kindness Sandy showed to my dad and me. It seemed somewhat disrespectful to celebrate anything just four weeks after my mom had died, but we smiled and chatted and had a nice time.
In retrospect, that party might have provided much-needed therapy for everyone. It was our first venture into this new world without my mom. Our family and close friends were there to help ease the pain we all were feeling.
My mom was such a wonderful person — a genuine, caring human being. We only had her for a short time, but she managed to leave an indelible mark on everybody — especially me.
As did her friend, Sandy Kraynack Potoski. Sandy was full of energy and always ready for anything at the drop of a hat. She would run to Golden Quality for CMPs or to Stookey’s for BBQs, or she would sit on our front porch and make us laugh.
When I came down with the mumps at age 10, Sandy taught me how to wiggle my ears.
You never forget people like that. They have special, magical powers.
They do nice things all the time because they are genuinely sincere and they care.
That’s why we had a graduation party.
Sandy’s parents — Ecky and Mrs. K. — were like grandparents to me. Her family was my family.
That’s why, on Christmas Day 1968 — just seven and a half months after my mom had died — we were all devastated when Sandy died of leukemia. Sandy was only 28 years old.
So when graduation time comes around, my memories are not of pomp and circumstance.
They are of family, friendship, compassion, grief, CMPs, and wiggling ears — and my mom and her dear friend, Sandy.
All of that, I will forever celebrate.