A letter to my son's class

The names spark no recognition. The faces are those of strangers.
As I peruse the list of Facebook members from my graduating high school class, I’m dismayed at how few I recall.
I now have trouble summoning up the last names of some of my closest high school friends. I lost track of them when I packed my bags and headed for the University of Missouri-Columbia in pursuit of my future. There was no room in my bags for my past. They were too filled with dreams and expectations.
Now, more than 30 years later, I would give anything to open an old suitcase, reach in and share some long-forgotten memories with an old high school friend.
Who was that girl that I skipped school with to go shopping for prom shoes on the day I was inducted into the National Honor Society? To my horror, my parents were present when my name was announced in the auditorium but I was nowhere to be found.
What was the name of the guy I had a crush on in junior high school who complimented me on the mint-green pants suit my mother made for me? I was on Cloud Nine for days.
Who was that boy I used to debate in journalism class. He was a conservative card-carrying member of the National Rifle Association and I was a dyed-in-the-wool pacifist.
Granted, there are people who seem to make and keep connections throughout their lives. Sadly, up until now, I didn’t realize what a treasure friendship was. I didn’t realize that you have to tend to a friendship much the same way you tend a garden. You sow the seeds, cultivate the plants and harvest the fruits of your labor.
But it doesn’t end there. To maintain that garden, or friendship, you begin all over again.
In many ways this eighth-grade class at St. Stephen Catholic School has shared experiences that has brought it closer together than the average class.
You’ve inaugurated a new school and helped prepare a new teacher for a leadership role as an assistant principal and an assistant principal for a leadership role as principal.
You’ve comforted classmates through the deaths of parents as well as grandparents, aunts and other loved ones, and you shared the grief of a beloved music teacher upon the death of his wife.
Afterward, you helped your parents launch a campaign to find a cure for the disease that took the lives of those you loved.
You’ve endured all the psychological trauma of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, and come out of it relatively unscathed.
You’ve sadly bid farewell to classmates who moved away or went on to other schools while welcoming new classmates into your close-knit circle.
You shared the spiritual thrill of receiving your first Eucharist together after overcoming the fear of your first reconciliation. And then you were confirmed together as God’s children.
You’ve learned the angst of childhood rivalry on the school playground as your personalities began to develop and too many of you wanted to be leaders, too few followers.
Then you discovered the relief that comes when you realize you can compromise and still be assertive.
You’ve shared the national spotlight with the Tampa Bay Lightning hockey club when the team, under the management of a classmate’s father, won the Stanley Cup.
You’ve experienced pure childhood joy, as well as some stomach upsets, trying out every thrill ride together at the Spring Jubilee while your parents squeezed lemons, sold tickets and fried clams in the food tent.
We’ve watched you mature physically, mentally and spiritually, and I don’t think there is a parent among us who doesn’t feel as if you all are our children. I know I’ve fallen in love with you all.
As I look around at this eighth-grade class and all that you’ve been through together – the victories, the losses, the laughter and the tears – I pray that you’ll hold on to these memories and friendships as tightly as you can. Savor every moment. I promise you won’t regret it 30 years from now.

All my love,
D’Ann White

Furry friend makes wait tolerable

I have this recurring dream.
Sure, the scenery and people vary some but the theme is always the same.
I’m in the Tampa Tribune newsroom trying to do the only thing I know how to do – write stories based on information I’ve gathered and interviews I’ve conducted.
I’m in ecstasy, knowing that I’m using the gift God gave me just as He planned.
But, inevitably, someone approaches me, usually a trusted friend who I expected to always support me. And this person blows my cover.
“You’re not supposed to be here. You were laid off.”
I wake up sweating and sobbing with the knowledge that my nightmare is real. I’ll never again sit in an office with my fellow reporters and feel the joy of producing copy that will appear in the next day’s newspaper.
I’ve lived through a number of hardships in my lifetime – watching my little brother waste away and die from a cruel disease; a brutal rape at knifepoint by a serial rapist on the campus of the University of Missouri-Columbia; the accidental shooting of my boyfriend by an alcoholic Vietnam vet with post-traumatic stress disorder; acting as the primary caretaker for my sister-in-law as she died a slow, lingering death from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma; the death of my beloved father.
But none of those tragedies had the lingering effect on me as the heartbreak of losing my job. To me, my job was not only part of my identity, it was my purpose. Childhood friends recall me carrying around a reporter’s notebook in grade school, interviewing my classmates. I wanted to be a reporter for as long as I can remember.
The desperate economy combined with the demise of newspapers made finding a new job virtually impossible. Well-meaning friends tried to tell me I needed to find a new career; I needed to reinvent myself. But that’s easier said than done when journalism is all you’ve ever known and done, all I’ve ever wanted to do.
I began applying for any jobs that had the words “reporter,” “editor” or “writer” in the job description. A year later, I’ve applied for 124 jobs and have gotten exactly two face-to-face interviews. My prospects seem gloomy, and I’m rapidly losing hope.
But there’s been one bright spot during these frustrating months.
I became a new mother.
I fell in love with her when I saw her adoption photo and I knew she had to be a part of our family despite the fact that I’d just been laid off and money was tight.
Just 6 months old, she had curly red hair nearly the color of mine and big, coffee-colored eyes that matched my husband’s.
She was the perfect baby, never mind the fact that the curly red hair covered her entire body and she walked on four legs and showed her pleasure by wagging her tail.
I’d always wanted a poodle, and she was available for adoption for the cost of a vet visit and shots.
In the 10 months that she’d been ours, little Mini, short for Mignon, which means “petite” in French, has been my saving grace.
She’s better than Prozac. Just seeing her greet me with her funny little dance is enough to cast me from my doldrums. When the depression hits, she seems to know, curling her little body into mine as I softly cry.
The tears rarely last long. Her antics usually leave me laughing as she grabs her toothbrush and begins brushing her own teeth or teases her older brother, Oliver, the Yorkshire terrier, by stealing away whatever toy with which he happens to be playing.
I can’t help but wonder if this 5-pound puff was heaven-sent specifically to get me through this difficult period of my life.
I know God must have a plan for me. Surely, it’s not my destiny to sit idle when I have so much to give. But it’s nice to know I don’t have to wait all by myself.