REMEBERING A MOTHERLESS GIRL [Sa, 8-27-22]

 

I have felt uneasy for several years now, because I did not write about Charlene when she died.

I almost always eulogize a departed friend, especially one of my Oakland City classmates, but I did not write about Charlene when I saw the notice of her death, because I had nothing to say 

I did not know her well in our school days. We were in the same class in high school, but we had always been in different classrooms before that, so I did not even know she existed until high school. I was class president our first three years in high school, and I encouraged Charlene to be a part of class activities, the way I did with all our other classmates, but she never came to class meetings or parties.

In fact, she did not participate in anything. No band or clubs. I don’t think she even went to ballgames. She didn’t say anything in class. Her grades must have been okay, but not spectacular, because we never heard anything about them one way or another. She was a pleasant girl, a little chubby, clean and well-dressed in current teen fashion, but she did not mingle.

Except one time that I know about. She threw a party. At least, it was at her house. I was running around with a friend that night. He said, “Let’s go to Charlene’s party.” I was surprised that there was a party at Charlene’s. I said, “I wasn’t invited.” He replied, “No one was. It’s just… you know, y’all come.”

So we went. It was a nice house. A quiet party, but everyone having a good time, dancing some, talking, drinking lemonade. Charlene sat to one side, observing, smiling. She said, “You’re welcome,” when I thanked her for the party. That’s about the extent of all our conversation.

She never came to our class reunions, even though we had them every five years. I asked about her, though. Some classmates had a little contact with her. They knew she had become a school teacher, in Monrovia, about 120 miles from Oakland City. They knew she had married. That was about it.

Over forty years, I drove through Monrovia from time to time, right by the school buildings. I didn’t think of stopping to talk to Charlene. But I always thought about her, wondering how she was doing, a girl who had been so disengaged in school, now a teacher.

Here’s the thing, though. Charlene’s mother died sometime when we were in grade school. I did not know about it at the time. Because she lived in town, and I in the country, and since we were in those different classrooms, I didn’t know anything about her until we got to high school. I didn’t know she was motherless, until that party at her house.

There is one more thing I learned about her through the years. She taught Home Economics. The art of home-making. Jon Stewart rightly says that not every person who has a chaotic childhood becomes a comedian. Not every motherless girl spends her life teaching other girls how to cook and sew and manage money and children--how to make a home. But Charlene did.

John Robert McFarland