WSHS Class of 1964

From: Jim DeSaix

To: WHS '64 Classmates

Re: 55th Class Reunion

Thank you for being my classmates. We were a big class -- 850+. Some of us were very good friends. And, some

of us were nearly strangers. Nevertheless, the group came together, and as a whole, I believe we were a credit to the history of our alma mater.

When I think of all the opportunities that we had at WHS, we all should feel truly blessed. There was something there for everybody. The English and foreign language departments were excellent. The physical sciences including the labs were surely the envy of every other school in the state. Musically, we had an ALL-Star band, an outstanding Symphony Orchestra, a chorus that made two stereo records during our three years in high school, phenomenal athletics, a beautiful public school stadium and Arena to showcase our teams, and much, much more. We were so fortunate to have all of these opportunities given to us, I trust that each of us is grateful.

We graduated from high school, and we spread our wings. For the most part, I suspect that each of us has enjoyed our own " trip ". At least, that is true for me, and I hope it has been true for you.

Each one of you was a very important person in my life whether we were in class together, in sports, or just saying "Hi" as we passed each other in the hallway between classes. You are special to me, and I want you to know it. Thank you.

Your classmate and friend,

Jim

Other People’s Parents An Essay
by Marty (Sikorski) Sozansky for the WSHS Class of ’64

I slept over at Janet Nerison’s house one Friday night in 1959. And what a house: a new three-bedroom ranch-style in the western part of Sioux Falls, where young ascending families were moving by the dozens. The house was a palace of modernity to me, especially the basement, which was outfitted as a “recreation room,” called just “rec room,” but only by families that had one. The rec room boasted green linoleum floor tiles, a ping pong table, and assorted old furniture. Janet and her sister seemed destined to spend their teenage years in that room, surrounded daily by Boys Who Wanted to Go Steady.

Janet’s parents went out that Friday night—probably to “Mr. and Mrs.,” a social club for couples who danced away one night a month to live music. My parents weren’t members. They didn’t dance, didn’t drink, and didn’t associate with People Who Get Tired From Carrying Their Money to the Bank, as my mother described most everyone who lived in a ranch-style house or had a car less than 12 years old.

In the morning, over corn flakes in the completely yellow kitchen, Janet asked her mother about the evening, and if the couples had gone out for a meal of some sort after the dance. Her mother replied that yes, they had.

“What did you order to eat?” Janet asked her mother.

“A hamburger.”Janet rolled her eyes and laughed, astonished:

“A hamburger?

“It doesn’t matter what you eat,” her mother replied, “as long as you act like a lady."

Now, fifty-five years later, Janet’s mother’s words still echo: not for their language, which would certainly be reviled by 2014 feminists (including me), but because they were an early metaphor for something I came to believe passionately: gracious behaviors and words have the power to transcend the ordinary and, often, to build bridges among human beings.

Most of us, of course, acknowledge that our own parents—those members of the Greatest Generation, so named by Tom Brokaw—were the single greatest influence on our early lives. But recently, as I approach our fiftieth high school reunion, I see that other Greatest Generation parents like Mrs. Nerison—other people’s parents—also molded me in dozens of ways I never realized.

Along about 1963, Peter Heege (WSHS ’65) hosted a party in his basement rec room a few months after I had miraculously acquired an Actual Boyfriend. Anticipation was high, along with a little anxiety on everyone’s part. Would it be a “good” party? Would any of the boys try to actually touch a girl? What if a couple found a sofa under the stairs and started making out and Mr. Heege threw us all out? He was, after all, a lawyer.

The rec room was darkened but not too dark. Idle conversation, teasing, laughing, slow dancing, and 7-up were ordered up. During one dance with my Actual Boyfriend, I glanced at the stairwell. Mr. Heege had silently opened the door to the basement and sat quietly on the top step, executing his parental role. In spite of the respect he naturally commanded—he was a lawyer, after all—he seemed relaxed. He smiled, but only slightly, and made eye contact with no one, though he carefully surveyed the room. After about three minutes, he got up quietly and walked back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Once more during the evening he chaperoned for three minutes: same step, same position, same casual attitude. I thought Peter’s dad really gets it—he’s not making a display of his presence, and he’s not trying to be pals with us, but he’s certainly there and it’s clear why he’s there. And I tried to take clues from that years later when I was parent to an adolescent.

Some of my classmates’ parents inspired me in completely different ways, because they pursued interests and hobbies that were outside my own world, and thus my world opened up.Like Steve Dock’s mother: a tall, attractive woman with dark hair and the first person I ever heard about who was a very, very good bridge player. She had, I learned, earned master points—whatever that meant—for playing bridge, and she might even have traveled outside of Sioux Falls, and thus presumably even outside South Dakota, to play in bridge tournaments. Lliked and admired Mrs. Dock, because by all accounts she dared to set very high standards for her self, worked hard at her endeavor, and, it seemed, wasn’t afraid to compete.

Mary Stahmann’s mother, of course, seemed to set the highest standards in everything--from maintaining a beautiful home to working at her own creative activities to building community organizations. If she was home when I was there, she took the time to sit with me in the living room and often engaged me in conversation about a project she was working on. One day she explained that she, along with other members of the Sioux Falls YWCA Board, were busy planning a series of afternoon coffee parties in their homes, in an effort to interest more women in joining the Y. This was a generation before we began to study and practice the principles of Organizational Development and Community Building as necessities for any successful organization. Mrs. Stahmann and her peers knew then that building organizations starts with building relationships—one coffee party at a time, cloth napkins in abundance.

Mary Solberg’s parents were educated, dynamic people who rocked if not all of Sioux Falls, at least some of the pillars of Our Savior’s Lutheran Church when they plastered a poster of Senator John F. Kennedy on their front door during the 1960 Presidential campaign. Another friend’s mother told me that Mrs. Solberg expressed some angst as she and her husband were struggling with their decision: “I know he’s a Catholic,” she was reported to have said, “but in every way, everything he stands for is what we believe.” This, under the watchful eye of Martin Luther himself. What young person wouldn’t be moved by their passion for acting on their deeply held ideals?

And there were many more. Linda Olson’s mother insisted that her children walk all visitors to the door as they left the Olson home, instead of letting even the neighbor children show themselves out. I still follow that practice all these decades later. John and Jim Ogle’s mother knew by the early fifties that it takes a village to raise a child: she always made me feel as if she were watching over me, just as my own parents did. One day when I was at Jean Vander Ploeg’s house, her father came in from the car barefoot, having somehow lost his shoes at the country club. But instead of chastising himself, he laughed: the gift of not taking one self too seriously.

And sometimes when I sit down to try to make something out of nothing, I remember fondly Barbara Gorman’s grandmother, Mrs. Hargreaves, who dazzled me all through fourth grade with her clever projects, made with materials on hand and her own creativity.

I suppose I should acknowledge that not every encounter with other people’s parents was enlightening or positive. But those experiences were important, too, in teaching me that the world was much bigger and broader than the tiny one in my tiny house on South Menlo Avenue. Certainly Other People’s Parents could never replace my own parents, either in memory or in influence, but I am grateful for their gifts.