A Tear (CCHS & Life on a Personal Note)

(Taking a break today from the Berks Catholic posts to reflect on a more personal aspect of it.)

Death is a part of life. We all know that. We all expect that.

Death comes in many ways. From the end of an era to the passing of someone close to you, it closes one chapter in your life and begins another. Having lost many friends and family and survived life’s unexpected and tasking challenges so far, two of the most important lessons I’ve learned are that time doesn’t necessarily heal the pain and one can never forget. Then again, these aren’t always bad things.

After about a week or two, news of my cherished high school’s closure finally sunk in over the past couple of days. Today I found out that the individual dreams and aspirations of several old friends of mine came to an end. And, this afternoon the last of my childhood pets passed away.

When trying to offer solace, I often find myself saying, “It could be worse.” Applying that logic to my own circumstances, my thoughts can easily conjure a hundred more desperate and sad scenarios. After all, it’s only a school and a pet. I could’ve lost my home and a person, right?

You see, my alma mater and dog (Lexie) are tied together, symbolically anyway. My family got Lexie when I was in high school (yes, she had a very nice, super-long life). The point is that within one week I’ve lost two important pieces of my past. Figuratively, high school is a place where we transition from childhood to adulthood; literally, the building is our home away from home during our teen years. Whether we like it or not, the CCHS teachers and administration were very much a part of our extended families. Lexie was a member of my family and the spoiled baby at that. Just like school provided us an escape from our personal troubles at home, Lexie was my family’s silent therapist as she would always be willing to console and play with us.

Digging deeper, it’s important to note that I’m not just living in the past or dreaming of better days gone by—because they certainly weren’t better. I love my family and life today. The thing is that seven years ago my husband and I made a decision for our new family that physically severed the ties to our pasts.

When we moved to California, we left behind our individual families, our friends, the home we created as well as our childhood homes, the familiarity of our hometown, and all the places that meant something to us—Gring’s Mill and Lausch Parks where we used to go for walks and just muse about life and music, CCHS Stadium (the place where we fell in love over football season ’93), Berkshire Mall (the only place we could really go to hang out when we were teens), Arby’s @ Fairgrounds (Jeff’s 1st job), Boscov’s East (my 1st job), the list is endless.
California was a fresh start and was a dream come true since we finally got out of Reading—something we always wanted. Seven years later (and it didn’t even take this long to figure it out), Reading had everything we wanted for our family (except viable jobs for us—a big issue, yes). Most importantly, it was an inextricable part of our joint histories.

As I’m constantly reminded by native Californians, what’s not to like here? Quite frankly, nothing! It’s breathtakingly beautiful, there are hiking trails a-plenty, wine country is in our backyard, and within a few hours you can be in the desert, mountains, or ocean. Though our “new” friends are few; they’re wonderful. Our life is everything we always dreamt of, but it’s not home. Why? Because our families are “home.” And home isn’t here; it’s 3,000 miles eastward.

Living so far away we’ve missed the most important days of our family and friends’ lives—graduations, weddings, births, baptisms, funerals, family reunions, class reunions, holidays, and just hanging out with them—going to a concert or two, having a glass of wine over a great conversation, and offering a physical shoulder to cry on when it’s needed most. As our parents get older and siblings lives’ evolve, we’re not there to help them. Our children are growing up fast and their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins are missing out on valuable time with them.

With CCHS’ closure in a matter of months and Lexie gone, two important pieces of my childhood history will have died. Yes, life will go on; it always does. And great memories help me cope. And yet, even if just for one moment, I’d love to walk the halls of Central and hug Lexie one last time to say goodbye to them and to an era.

Cherish every second of today for tomorrow it may be too late…