by Jeff High
Yet as I sat there and thought about the two of them, a simple reality washed over me. These two women loved me. Less than a year ago I had come to them a stranger. Now all I knew from both of them was pure affection and devotion.
It was a crushing realization.
I needed to concentrate, focus on the words I was about to say. But a wealth of feelings poured over me, paralyzing me. It seemed that my time at the podium was now destined to be a disaster.
The processional music started, abruptly waking me from the fog of my confused state. The seniors filed in. Some were striding anxiously; others were plodding along; all were wearing irrepressible smiles. They were seated and Principal Suggs gave a few opening remarks. This was followed by an invocation and the singing of the school alma mater. I had a few last moments to think.
I found myself looking around, absorbing all that I could see and feel: the perfect blue of the sky, the warmth of the sun, and the soft breeze that drifted in from the lake. A spontaneous excitement, a collective pride, permeated the air. Before me lay an ocean of smiles, of beaming, adoring faces. And as always, the people of Watervalley humbled me. Despite their uncomplicated outlook and their unadorned ways, they had become my people, my friends, my community.
As the students and faculty and parents sang allegiance to their school and their small town, it seemed in that moment, under the sunlight of this perfect day, that we had all been gathered into one shared life. In that instant, time stood still.
I was reminded again that my presence here was part of a larger story. In the faces of the students before me I saw the light of hope and in their parents’ eyes shone the joy of expectation.
But most importantly, I saw in the eyes of Christine a pure and selfless love . . . strong, audacious, unapologetic. My guarded and protected heart could not comprehend it, could never allow itself to be so open, so genuine, so vulnerable. Yet I knew in that breath that I saw in her gaze a potential for happiness beyond the farthest reaches of my dreams.
I shuddered to think that I could be so incredibly fortunate, to breathe in such air, to experience such a day, to know such a feeling that defied the brokenness of this life. For years I had silenced my emotions, seeking some perfect time and place for them to safely find a voice. But I was wrong. This was as close to pure happiness as anyone ever got.
I had been struggling with what to say to the graduating seniors because I had foolishly assumed that idiot chance had thrust their way of life upon them and had limited their choices. But I was wrong. What I had failed to see was that time, and chance, and difficulties, happen in all lives, including mine. I had wanted to be prescriptive, to give them the cure to life’s challenges. But I had no such answers, nor did I need them. I only needed to assure them of what they already knew.
Principal Suggs had called my name a second time. I abruptly realized that I had been sitting oblivious to the progress of the ceremony, lost in the past minutes’ revelation. The entire gathering was absolutely silent, waiting for me to stand and speak.
Quickly, I rose and shook the principal’s hand, thanking him. I moved to the podium, spread my papers, and took a deep breath. For several long seconds I stood speechless, able to do nothing more than stare at Christine from across the crowd. Finally, Principal Suggs cleared his throat and I realized that the long silence had grown awkward. I looked toward him and gave him a shallow nod. I finally knew what I wanted to say.
But first, I wanted to have a little fun.
“Thank you, Principal Suggs.”
I gazed buoyantly at the crowd before me. “Graduating seniors, distinguished faculty, school administrators, students, parents, family, and all you old people who just come to these things, welcome!” The crowd rippled with laughter.
“I am delighted to be here and amazed at you graduates sitting before me. Just look at you. You’re all grown-up, confident eighteen-year-olds. And to think, I knew many of you all the way back when you were just shy, budding seventeen-and-a-half-year-olds.
“The other thing that amazes me about all of you is that after four years at Watervalley High School, none of you know the words to the second verse of the school’s alma mater. Admit it. I watched you. All of you mumbled right through it.”
The graduates laughed, exchanging nodding glances among themselves.
“Before I get started, it’s important that all of you know something. Though you see me as a doctor with several degrees and various accomplishments, there was a time when I sat exactly where each of you is sitting. No, really. I came over here early this morning and sat in every chair, all forty-two of them. It was fun. I took selfies from each one. Oh, also, I think I absentmindedly stuck my gum under one of them, so if you get bored and start feeling around . . . well, just be careful.” The students cackled. Clearly they were content to spend the entire time laughing rather than listening to a handful of clichéd truths.
“I want each of you to know that a couple of months ago when I received the invitation to make this speech and attend the prom, I was greatly honored and set aside a considerable amount of time and went to some effort to prepare. Of course, I’m talking about the prom and not this speech. I started working on that last night. After twenty agonizing minutes, I couldn’t come up with anything so, as a short diversion, I got into an online game of Assassin’s Creed with a guy out of Wisconsin who kicked my tail for several hours. Fortunately, he was only nine years old and eventually his mother made him go to bed.”
This comment brought about some confused looks from a few of the older adults, but the senior high class laughed outrageously, ending with a short applause.
“So, as I started preparing my speech this morning, I have to confess that I was pretty conflicted. There are several messages I would like to share and it is difficult to pick which one. So what the heck, I’m going to give them all to you. Not to worry, though. I should be done in three or four hours.”
This brought a roar of laughter from the parents. Even they got that one. Now I began to shuffle my papers, pausing for effect.
“Well, this is fun. But I think it would be good to say a few things of substance to you before I end. So, here it is. I’d love to stand before you today and be the pied piper of possibility, to offer you lofty thoughts about reaching for the stars but keeping your feet on the ground, to tell you your life is an open book and you are completely empowered to write whatever you want on the pages. But I would do so knowing that, sadly, those things, at least in part, are lies.
“Furthermore, if I was to do that, I would be insulting each of you, wouldn’t I? I would be assuming that you have learned nothing about life over the last eighteen years. I think we all know the world can be difficult, and unfair, and, worst of all, sometimes uninteresting.
“So, fact. If you haven’t been paying attention for the past several years, then you have limited your possibilities. Since many of you have been applying to college, I imagine you’ve already figured that out. Fact. If you have been going through the motions, sleepwalking, if you will, through any or all aspects of your life—whether it be your academic, your social, your athletic, or yes, even your spiritual life—odds are you are likely to do the same in the years ahead, and it will take a conscious effort to change course.”
I paused for a moment and looked to the side. Then I looked directly at Christine, whose smile had never faltered, and at Connie, beside her, whose face beamed with pride.
“You see I know this because . . . well, because I have sleepwalked through certain parts of my life. I have failed to see the strength and courage of those around me. I have failed to understand the selfless hearts of those who have loved me. And I have failed to appreciate the good and beautiful things in my life. Sometimes, even when those things and those people were right in front of me.
“So my comments to you today are not so much about attaining your hopes and dreams, but about how
you live your life. It seems our souls are restless and we are easily enamored with the glamorous, with the new and different, and with the promised adventure and glow of distant lights. These things have their place. And yet it is the modest, happy life—the life that each day is filled with love, and significance, and simple enjoyment—that in our heart of hearts each of us seeks.
“So, with that understanding, here is my advice. Chart your course, set your goals, and be about the business of attaining them while keeping one simple thing in mind. Life will, and invariably does, change your plans. And know that the disappointments, the setbacks, the unintended redirections, can become catalysts for reinvention. For it is how we adapt and how we persevere that defines our lives.
“And sure, have dreams that are big. But I would also encourage you to have dreams that are small. Have big hopes, but have little hopes too. Take pride in big accomplishments, but take delight in small ones also. Practice tolerance, kindness, and patience. Because the world out there will rarely reward you for these things in the short term, but it will revere you for them in the long run. And every day, every single day, take time to try and understand what your creator is doing with your life.”
I paused for a brief second and chuckled lowly. “And if you don’t think you have a creator, spend some time each day trying to figure out what makes you so sure.” This brought an array of smiles from the teenagers.
“You see, I have come to realize that in this life, all things have their time and are gone. During our short years here we attain only a few glimpses of what perfection can be, of what heaven can hold; and those glimpses are what give us hope, give us courage, and remind us to hold tight to all that is good and true and enduring.
“I want to close by telling you something about myself. As many of you know, I grew up in a large city, went to college in a large city, learned my mad dancing skills you all saw at prom in a large city. And while I know that some of you may look to the distant horizons with great envy, I would submit to you that growing up there did not give me many of the advantages that you have had by growing up here in Watervalley.
“Life in the city did not teach me to appreciate slow winter days, or the change of the seasons, or the sweet, laughing sound a brook makes in springtime. It did not teach me to appreciate the multitude of colors that can be found in a sunset, the beauty of frost on an open field, or the good honest smell of a hay barn. It did not teach me the blessing of having a good neighbor, the joy of knowing that everyone I pass on the street knows my name, or the contentment of recognizing that there is a place where your roots are so deep, the storms of life cannot blow you away. It did not teach me a thousand things that have been second nature to each of you all your lives. Things that in their own way are beautiful, strong, and eternal. The earth endures, and living in Watervalley has taught you this. Living here has taught you to be close to the soil, to cherish friends, and community, and faith, and to know there is a place you can always call home. Never underestimate the value of your experiences here.
“Therefore, Watervalley High seniors, go. Go and live your lives, pursue your dreams, and follow your passions: whether they lie here or thousands of miles away. And know that your days in this small community, in this wide valley, among these familiar hills, have well prepared you to live a happy, fulfilled life. Good luck and God bless.”
I finished to a thunderous standing ovation, one that I wasn’t at all convinced I deserved. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the moment. Diplomas were awarded and the ceremony closed. Afterward, I received an endless array of handshakes and thanks. All the while, I was searching for Christine. But she was not to be found.
Eventually I saw Connie, who smiled at me in her stern way and spoke in a deadpan voice. “Nice speech, Doctor. I never knew you could be so funny. Maybe you should host a talk show.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, you haven’t seen where Christine went, have you? I saw you two sitting together.”
“She went home.”
“Oh, okay.” I did my best to answer casually, still unsure if Connie knew about our falling-out.
“I think she was going to go riding on one of her horses.” Her response was aloof, detached.
“Well, certainly a pretty day for that.”
Connie stared at me flatly, offering me the opportunity to tell more. But I chose not to. Finally, resigned that her game of silence would yield nothing further, she added, “So, Doctor. There’s still plenty of this fine, beautiful day in front of you. Whatcha going to do with yourself now?”
I stared out across the lake and up into the warm blue sky. Then, I gave her an answer that I don’t think she was expecting.
“Connie, I think I’m going to go milk some cows.”
CHAPTER 46
The Words
I drove home, changed into some blue jeans and boots, and drove the Corolla out to Christine’s, thinking it was a better fit for the mud and manure of the farm than the Austin-Healey. I arrived shortly before two o’clock, parked beside the house, and immediately hiked the short distance to the dairy barn. Christine was nowhere to be seen.
I found Angus Pilkington in the concrete pit of the milk parlor, where he had just begun the afternoon milking. We shook hands and he seemed elated to see me.
“Dr. Bradford! What a grand thing! So, you’ve finally decided to give it a try?”
“Yup, Angus. Here I am. Put me in, coach.”
We talked for another minute and Angus repeatedly expressed his delight that I had joined him. He found me a long rubber apron and gave me a short tutorial on how to prep the udders and attach the electric milker. The cows entered on either side of the pit and were fed while they were being milked. The four electric milkers hung in the middle and were alternated between each side.
It was a rancorous and noisy affair.
The cows bayed on a regular basis, the radio blasted country music, and the suction of the milk machines made a loud and constant tonk-tish, tonk-tish sound. Several of the cows turned from their feed troughs and tried to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. At Angus’s instruction, I spoke to them in a soothing, steady voice to keep them relaxed and calm. Curiously, that’s what kept the milk flowing.
Pretty soon I got the hang of using the milking apparatus and Angus showed me how to strip out the last of the milk by hand when that was called for. He talked nonstop, laughing and joking and telling me in great detail about each cow’s history along with hilarious milking stories he’d accumulated over the years. I was having a great time.
Roughly two hours passed and the last of the herd had been brought into the parlor. I was sharing an endearing conversation with one of the older Holsteins when there was a light tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find Angus grinning from ear to ear and pointing to the landing at the end of the pit. There stood Christine with a delighted expression of shock and wonder.
“I think someone’s looking for you,” Angus said.
Christine and I exchanged smiles. She was wearing riding boots and pants and a white T-shirt.
“Time to turn in your apron, Doctor. I’ve got it from here.”
Angus shook my hand vigorously and walked me to the front where Christine was standing, still regarding me with astonishment.
“Well, I was wondering where you were,” she said. “I saw your car parked at the house and have been looking everywhere for the last half hour.”
Angus slapped me on the back and responded enthusiastically, “He helped me milk the whole herd and did just grand. The cows took an immediate liking to him. He’s got the magic touch with them, I tell you, a real natural with the lady parts.”
His comment was innocently intended, but I could tell that Christine and I conjured a different meaning from it. I proudly lifted my chin and nodded in agreement. She cut her eyes at me and suppressed an explosive laugh. I thanked Angus again and Christine and
I walked outside into the afternoon sun. She had tied her horse to a nearby fence post.
Sunlight reflected off her dark hair, and as always, she was radiantly beautiful. I smiled affectionately. She spoke with fondness and uncertainty.
“So, you’re milking cows?”
I folded my arms and continued to smile at her, awash in an unquenchable joy at seeing her again. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Christine nodded and looked away, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I see.”
She was nervous, off-balance, but her eyes kept returning to my fixed and adoring gaze. She seemed to be gathering herself, trying to read my thoughts.
She spoke cautiously. “So, is this your way of doing penance?”
Having asked this question, she searched my face, not wanting to miss the slightest nuance in my answer.
“No,” I said firmly. I paused and looked into the deep well of her dark eyes. “This is my way of telling you that I’m in love with you. It’s my way of telling you that you are the most beautiful, most fascinating woman I have ever known. It’s my way of telling you that I don’t know what will happen when my three years here are up. But it doesn’t matter. Because in three years, and for years beyond that, I will still be in love with you.”
Christine said nothing. She simply stepped toward me and pressed her cheek against my chest, wrapping her arms around me in an embrace full of affection, belonging, release. I held her for the longest time and it seemed that she was content to stay right there, listening quietly to the beat of my heart, which now so unfailingly belonged to her.
I brought my hand lightly to the side of her face, lifting it toward mine. “I’m sorry. I should have told you this long before now.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. We kissed, long and luxuriously. Again she pressed her cheek to my shoulder and held me tightly. I continued to gently cradle her face in my hand. It was a perfect and tender moment.
