West Communications Sunrise and Sunset Chats: Keystone School

Showing posts with label Keystone School. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 3, 2024

Remembering the Light in the Life of Doris Helene White Soares (1957 - 2024)

Attorney Doris Helene White Soares found that her homegoing would be during the Thanksgiving holiday period of 2024. At the age of 67, she was 33 years short of her ultimate goal of living to age 100, a goal she often reminded people was hers. It wasn’t because her mother, Lois Cooper White, had lived 99 years, just four months shy of her 100th that Doris had that as her goal.

She was simply one to note benchmarks of time in even numbers and she liked the concept of what life would look like in the year 2057.

In her lifetime, Doris managed to do what all southern women and mothers of other strong southern women want for their daughters—to shoot for the moon and reach it. Doris was brought up with a love for books, good writing, impeccable spelling, decorum, Southern manners, faith in God, church worship, respect for elders, an appreciation for one’s family roots, a study of her heritage, and one gently charming stubborn streak that powered her to get past barriers, subtle and substantial alike.

We met in 1970, as she was one of 11 students who would cause Keystone School’s 9th grade class to actually have to span six pages of the yearbook that year, as the usually small class sizes experienced a giant growth streak.

In the 1970-71 year alone, Keystone students who were destined for the “best” colleges around the country faced challenges of their own as the waning days of the summer of love, flower power, and the general transition from AM radio to the more unchartered waters of FM broadcasts marked a time in music where you’d find Dean Martin, Motown, The Beatles (at the height of their scraggly look, transcendental meditation and mountaintop contemplations abounding), The Buckinghams, Neil Young, and a few Canadian upstarts including Joni Mitchell were about to hit radio gold.

Doris entered Keystone with a bang. Our multicultural enrollment was real, but small, but then, again, the Class of ’73 had 10 people, the Class of ’75 had 11 people, and here we were, the Class of ’74 with 32 people. Diversity wasn’t just for statistics; it was for real, and it didn’t need to be “practiced.” It was who we all were, a happy little microcosm of people who were meant to be family for the rest of our lives. Naturally there were disagreements at times, but they were healthy, educational, and often funny or peppered enough with humor to make them a learning experience.

Keystone was not a nerd academy; it was a social experiment of understanding, goal-setting, intense study, relentless pursuit of knowledge simply because you were interested in it, and then, a safe place to be smart without ridicule. Most of all, we tried to be kind to one another, despite our similarities and differences. That was basically all you could ask for in the fall and spring of the early 1970s. Politics was as interesting then as it is today, and we all held strong opinions, which were safe to express without fear of retribution or persecution from our superiors, unlike today’s more volatile environment.

In school, Doris was not a fan of science; she preferred history, English, writing, and she tolerated with grace those who were attempting athletic prowess on the basketball court, because she was an avid cheerleader who knew how to get a crowd going. She fit in easily, but it’s more likely that she managed to project a level of ease where there was none.

Her younger cousin, Trena, had been at Keystone from early elementary days, but Doris also had an older sister, Lois Diane, who graduated from San Antonio Edison High School the same year Doris graduated from Keystone. They were devoted to one another; in 2003, Lois Diane was visiting Doris in Massachusetts when she passed away from cardiac complications in her sleep at the age of 47.

Lois Diane White

Keystone’s junior and senior proms were important benchmarks and Doris kept good photographs and scrapbooks of those rites of passage as well as our high school graduation ceremony, and shared those in our school alumni postings on Facebook.

Elizabeth Lee Newman Easterlin and Lois Diane White

Prom 1973, Doris and escort Rickey Allen

Brenda Chin Chan

Pam Benzaquen Kilgore, '74 who graduated early in 1973, and Dawn Lee Wakefield

Mr. Boling, Elizabeth Boling and Kathy Johnson

Doris' high school senior picture, May 1974, Keystone School, San Antonio, Texas

More than a supporter of HBCUs, Doris’ mother Lois was an alum of Paul Quinn College in Waco, Lois Diane had enrolled at Tuskegee Institute in Alabama right out of high school, son Stephen Cooper was active (in basketball and academics) at Hampton University in Virginia, and daughter Leigh Alexandra did her doctoral research on HBCUs as her research topic. Doris’ father, Leevester, was a mortician, an avid sports fan and music lover, whose primary career was in civil service working for the U.S. Post Office. She described him as “The best man in the whole USA.”

Proud daddy with his girls.

Fittingly, the man she married, jazz bandleader and extraordinary musician, Steven Soares, was the very next best man in her life and they were indeed a perfect match for one another. Grandson Miles Henry rounded out her family and lit up all of their collective lives.

For college, Doris chose Central State University, an HBCU school in Wilberforce, Ohio. She sailed through the academics and social parts of school with grace and ease and was an active soror in Delta Sigma Theta sorority (DST) all of her life, starting with Central State.

Ever a force for good, it surprised no one that Doris would be an attorney in her postcollegiate profession. She represented the Commonwealth of Massachusetts as an Assistant Attorney General in her professional career. Over the years, Keystone reunions would draw most of the 21 of us who graduated in 1974 back to the San Antonio campus built of old Victorian mansions for class-organized reunions in 1985, 1990, 1994, 2014, 2018, and 2024.

1994 Gathering of Keystone alumni, Emily Morgan Hotel, San Antonio, Texas

(Front L to R) Gloria Muro Shaw'74, M.S. (deceased), Dr. Luke Dones'75, Dr. Jack Kent '73, Prof. and Dean Elizabeth Boling '74, Elizabeth Lee Newman Easterlin '74 M.S. (deceased), Doris Helene White Soares, JD '74 (deceased); (Back L to R) Dr. Burton G. Shaw, Jr. '75 (deceased), Dr. Bernard B. Beard '75 (deceased), Dr. Richard P. Meinig '75, Ross A. (Buddy) Logan '74, Dr. Charles V. Mobbs '74.

Doris managed to get to most of these reunions, despite the distance from her home in Boston. Roots and tradition were important to her, plus her mother and sister still lived in San Antonio. Steven Cooper was barely 3 months old when I first met and got to hold him for the first time. Doris made being a wife and mother of two and practicing attorney look as easy as anything. Naturally, it was not.

Steven Cooper Soares and Leigh Alexandra Soares

Alumni reunion weekend, 2014, Keystone School

2018 reunion, Doris Soares, Kathy Johnson, and Mary Newell Pape

In recent years Doris relocated her family and returned to San Antonio as home base to provide oversight and gentle care of her beloved mother, Lois, who lived to age 99, and resided finally in the most exquisite of senior living communities under Doris' perfect supervision. She composed and delivered the most beautiful tribute to her mother when the time came, showing her strength above personal loss.

Mrs. Lois White

It seemed she had only five minutes between losing her mother and a diagnosis of her own cancer. Talk about unfair. She didn't ever turn her sorrow or pity inward. She was too much a fighter for that. In between battling chemotherapy she was a fierce force for the San Antonio chapter of DST Alumnae, and she continued mentoring other young women with hopes and dreams while setting an example for her own family on how to cope with life in faith.

In April this year, thanks to Doris’ insistence on the Class of ’74 doing "something" to mark the occasion of the 50th year since graduation, Karen Cheyney'76 made it happen. They toured the campus and were popular attendees in classes of present-day students who quizzed the seasoned alums about the “old days” of how things used to be.

Pictured from April is our beloved Doris, surrounded by our adored "Mrs. M" (Judy Moczygemba), Stephen Cheyney, Karen Cheyney, David Cheyney, Keystone Headmaster Dr. Billy Handmaker, Doris, Charles Mobbs, and Luke Dones.

Doris had been an honored guest in previous years as well on alumni day and inspired more than a few students to achieve dreams, set goals, and work like all get out, relentlessly to reach them, and then to be humble and modest. It's not every Keystonian who can say that they interviewed Alex Haley for the school newspaper when they were a senior in high school. Doris could, and did.

In a perfect world, no one battles cancer alone. Her Keystone family supported Doris with love, communications, and prayers as a strong constituent group that fell in line somewhere in 37th place behind other groups of those who love Doris. Her family was her core group, her faith in God and lifetime of worship gave her strength to develop her motto and mantra, “Armor on, prayers up, Let’s Go!”

The Soares family, son-in-law Marcus Parker, Doris, Miles Henry, Steven, Dr. Leigh, and Steven Cooper

Her DST sisters, her fellow barristers, her friends from childhood forward, her Jack and Jill alumni, and later parent alumni, on and on, everyone loved Doris.

Read and see Doris’ own words here:

Cervivor Podcast https://www.facebook.com/cervivor/videos/410050134759406

Knowledge + advocacy = survival. The real deal: Black patients have lower survival rates for most cancers, if not all....

In a communication where she was reviewing the list of people (so far at that time) who’d passed away among our group, here’s what she said 9 years ago:

Doris Soares: "Just reading this list (thanks for the link, Dawn Lee). How sad to recall all the changes in the past 41 years since I bid farewell to Keystone. Know that the names and faces of everyone who made up my world there for high school never fade---get blurry, maybe, but never disappear."

True enough, Doris…you are always a permanent part of our happiest memories.

So, today as we sit here we are reminded that if you were active in the faith that Doris had, she believed in God’s perfect timing and plan for all his children, in the hereafter where you are reunited with those who have gone ahead of you and even if you’re not of that mindset, you just know that somewhere in a garden of goodness, where there is love, there is Doris.

For all who believe and count on eternity, a new cheerleader has arrived on the scene, bustling with energy, filled with joy, and 1,212 good ideas. Put her to work, Lord, and when you can spare her a little, please help us by having her keep an eye out on all of us. We could use the backup.

Doris, it was a privilege to know you and call you my fellow Cobra and I thank you for all the shared memories of important times we had. And, for your homegoing soundtrack, let's revisit those happy times where we all had...Pieces of April to hold onto.

Love, Dawn Lee

Here are some of Doris’ writings about her navigation of her journey with cancer. She never fails to acknowledge her core team: husband Steven, daughter Leigh and son Steven Cooper, aka “The best cancer posse in the galaxy” and her “first line of defense.”

https://www.curetoday.com/authors/doris-helene-white

You’ll see photos of Doris on her journey and some of her reflections in her own handwriting.

https://cervivor.org/tag/doris-helene-white/ In her own words:

“This journal is so much more than frequently illegible cursive words. No, these pages are quite often a battle cry, this warrior’s call to arms against the most unexpected enemy: her own cells. These pages are like an old-timey, gutbucket, blues chart from backwoods juke joint—a full-throated, belly-wail of agony and joy, growled by one who knows the score (literally and figuratively) and ain’t afraid to tell you all about it. And, always, always, that hard-cover book is my hymnal, sketching lines of praise to Him in Whose armor I outfit myself every day. This little unassuming book contains uniquely metered lyrics of love and faith and strength.

I will write my way out of this Egypt. The inked lines will chart the path to my Red Sea….”

As a final reminder, she took her civic duty seriously ALL of her life. She voted early in the 2024 election, just to make sure. This photo, while not looking anything like the Doris we know, love, and remember, is one I cherish just as much as any of the others. She did it her way!

With ever an eye on the future...Doris will be watching over, and listening carefully to the arpeggios and allegros of young Miles Henry...the future looks bright!

Wednesday, March 27, 2024

In Loving Memory of Patricia Boyd Contreras

She wasn’t the kind of girl who was the center of attention in any room she might be present. In fact, she was just the opposite. She blended in perfectly, seamlessly, and without a trace that she’d ever been there until suddenly you looked up and wondered why someone important was gone. It was just her way of being understated, unobtrusive, and yet, one of the most important people in any group of those gathered—a genuine friend, listener, confidant, and savant. Her superpower was compassion. Her best asset was her memory for what was important, most of all, to you.

It’s hard to quantify a life in what she was not. Rather, I prefer to say that one of the most gracious lights in the galaxy has just grown dim, for a short time, until it finds the permanent new home by which to help those she loves by guiding their way.

This week we learned of the passing of one of my dearest childhood friends from Keystone School, Patricia Lynette Boyd Contreras, at the still-young age of 71 years. To say it’s been hard is an understatement. In the past three weeks alone, I have learned of the passing of three of my school friends, each of whom harkens back to meeting them ca. 1962. To have someone be in your life, and you in theirs, for over 60 years is profound. But to me, Tricia Boyd was not just a schoolmate, she was a big sister.

It was during the Cuban Missile Crisis that this first grader, at the impressionable age of 5 years old, met and became friends with my fifth-grade fellow Keystone School classmate, Tricia, age 10. While President John F. Kennedy and his team skillfully negotiated a military situation featuring Soviet missiles over Cuba, two young girls were hunkered down in the comforts of an exceedingly large living room in San Antonio’s then very new Castle Heights subdivision.

Tricia was 10 and a smiling, calming presence during a time that I barely understood. We were together at the home of two mutual friends of our mothers, were dressed in pajamas, stretched out on the carpet atop pillows watching a large black and white console TV.

Both our moms had recently divorced our dads. Neither of us was disturbed by that fact, but it was nice to know you weren’t the only one in that situation. Life goes on.

The station was tuned into live coverage of the event, and between Tricia and I, we kept one ear on Walter Cronkite and another on whatever we could figure out the adults were saying.

The reason for the summons to a common area was the large brick home that had an underground shelter built near enough to reach quickly on property far enough in the still undeveloped part of San Antonio to be private. What was going on in the world at that time was no less scary to children back then than the present-day trauma and tragedy surrounding children today.

My parents had only been divorced a short time at that point, and one of my two godfathers, our host for the gathering, thought it was best that we were all together for those first days. The only memory of that time was Tricia’s reassurance to me that everything was going to be alright, not to worry. I never forgot her kindness and compassion.

Throughout our years together at Keystone, she was four years ahead of me, and so our paths didn’t cross too frequently. However, there was a general comfort in being on the same campus with someone you knew and simply being reassured that whatever questions you might have that was bearing on your mind, you could ask her (what’s third grade like? Is division hard?) And yet, for my next eight years, Tricia was always there for me, a dear friend who reassured me that no matter what was ahead, she just kept smiling.

The unique layout of what was then about 250 students housed in a small village of historic Victorian mansions converted into makeshift classrooms. Tricia’s mom, Pat Boyd, drove one of the school’s three transportation vans to and from school each weekday. Aside from the fact that 12 grades of classes all existed concurrently and crossed the campus every 50 minutes, the first graders would be guaranteed to spot the high school kids while they were on the four-square courts for their recess periods. Daily interactions created a sense of calm and looking ahead to preview what was next ahead in the education path. Nothing was scary that way. Everything seemed within accomplishment, and sometimes that’s the smallest of edges you need to move ahead.

Tricia had a wonderful, yet normal life at Keystone. She took a year to be a cheerleader and she often worked on projects when Mr. Greet needed extra students to pitch in on a mail-out. He had a list of first-call helpers and she was always happy to contribute her time. It was also just part of the Keystone way.

She was interested in science but not obsessed with it. Although she was a member of the Future Scientists of America, it’s likely that 90% of the high school were members. She enjoyed interacting in the Spanish Club from junior high forward.

She was a good student, but she did not obsess over whether she had the top grades on a test. Tricia had a strong sense of style and enjoyed being part of Joske’s Teena Texas Advisory Board.

Just as Prof and Coach Eargle were mentors to me at different parts of my life, Mr. Greet was a mentor to Tricia. Our administrators knew our grades just as well as our faculty did. They kept tabs on us whether it was a test or a special project, a competition, or a scholarship application. Our future was their business.

Tricia chose the University of Texas at Austin and she was an excellent student there, so it was only natural that she would become a Registered Pharmacist. In her adult life she was fortunate enough to marry and to have two amazing daughters of whom she was so very proud. Throughout her adult life, her mother, Pat, was a champion to her and to her older brother Clayton. Pat Boyd was a businesswoman, a gifted operatic singer from Australia, and a very intelligent woman.

Personally, I can thank Mrs. Boyd for recommending Keystone to my mother and to Tricia’s dad for arranging for an interview for my mom to reconnect with civil service employment in San Antonio after many years in the private sector. It would be 50 years before I knew that, though. Over the years, Tricia and I lost touch; we were busy with our lives in separate cities but thanks to a Facebook alumni group, many of us reconnected and began catching up with each other’s lives.

Seven years ago, our friend and fellow Keystonian, Texas poet laureate Carmen Tafolla was being honored downtown, so Tricia and I made a plan to surprise her with our attendance. We met at her favorite restaurant that Tricia and her Mom enjoyed eating regularly, and we had the best opportunity to reminisce about childhood, life, our mothers, Keystone, and our dreams when we were kids. The ceremony that evening for Carmen was exceptional and we were both so proud of her. That’s what Keystone was all about—family gathering together for family’s sake. We were forever each other’s cheerleaders, happy to bestow well-deserved accolades as they were often due. That was the Keystone way…your best competition was against your own personal best, not that of others.

The first thought I had on learning of Tricia’s passing was that she was reunited with her Mom, and that would be a gift in itself. They were two peas in a pod, lovely, fun, witty, kind, caring and devoted to their children. Jillian Contreras and Meghan Contreras McQuade grew up knowing their mother loved them dearly, and that their grandmother similarly loved them. Tricia gave the following beautiful interview to a San Antonio newspaper when her mom passed away. Read it here:

On Monday, April 1, funeral services will be held for Tricia at Porter Loring Mortuary North at 10:00 am. Interment will follow at 2:00 pm at Lakeland Hills Memorial Park near Lake LBJ, in Burnet, TX, where her father is also buried. Details here: https://www.porterloring.com/obituaries/Patricia-Lynette-Boyd-Contreras?obId=31058010

Those who were in Tricia’s actual high school classes, above and below, can share far more than I can about the day-to-day aspects of her young adult/teenage life. It doesn’t matter that our reconnection had taken over 40 years to happen. I’m truly grateful that it did. Whenever you have the opportunity to connect with people who truly mean something special in your life, follow your heart and pick up the phone, send a card, zip off an e-mail, toss an Instant Message, or better yet, just get in the car and get there anyway you can.

Don’t look at it as it could be the last time you have a chance to see that person. Instead, just seize the day and make the best use of your time to share your time with those who impacted your life in a positive way.

In honor of Mrs. Boyd Garcia, Tricia’s mom, here are The Seekers and "I am an Australian”: “I am an Australian”:

and

In honor of Tricia, as we grew up in the days of go-go boots and mini-dresses, and her equal love and devotion to her dad as well as her mom, here are the New Seekers with "Georgy Girl":

Patricia Lynette Boyd Contreras

December 11, 1952 — March 15, 2024

Sunday, April 10, 2022

Blest Be the Ties That Bind—The Gravitational Pull of Keystone School

For more than four decades, I’ve been one—of many—who enjoy keeping up with my classmates from Keystone School in San Antonio. Not just my high school classmates, but the activities and whereabouts from many students from classes spanning 1963–1985 have remained important to me all my life. I’m not the only one who feels this way.

High school reunions are nothing new, but for a small private school in San Antonio to have intense loyalty among several generations of students such that it borders on a feverish determination to remain connected is unique. For hours now, on the drive up and back today, I’ve thought about how it came to be that one school could mean so much to so many. It truly reminded me of the gravitational pull of Keystone, drawing so many of us near to it, bringing us back to home base over the course of our lives at different times. [Photo of Main Hall, Keystone School]

In the 1960s, gatherings were typically official holiday functions at the school. There were never blatant overtones of requests for financial support. In fact, it was the exact opposite message communicated by the leadership. They did lobby heavily for some graduates to return to the school to teach when academic studies were completed; they were purposeful and straightforward about that mission. Several graduates did just that, and the school added a broad general dimension to its growth, contributing to its primarily unspoken legacy then.

Later, reunions expanded offsite to favorite restaurants or classmates’ homes, but no matter where or how, for years we took time to meet. Individual class sizes averaged 20 students, but it was not unusual for only 10 or 11 to comprise the complete graduating class. For the next two decades, interest in reunions became more class-oriented for private gatherings. One local alum might include some 70s friends in the 60s-era gatherings but those were limited occasions.

There was no single precipitating cause for trying to reconstruct a schoolwide gathering, but time and opportunity intersected at the 10-year point past my high school graduation. It wasn’t easy to get the first reunion started, but we began in 1984. A dear friend and mentor, Tommye Brennan Howard ’63 (real name Patricia, but don’t ever call her that) and I renewed our friendship that had begun in 1962. She was my first call, and after a brief chat, we were off and running.[Photo of Tommye Brennan Howard]

In 1985 we had our first schoolwide grand reunion (since the 1960s school holiday coffee events in Keystone’s cafeteria). Ours became a two-day gathering at a local hotel ballroom, with dinner, dancing, and DJ, followed by a BBQ at the school campus the next day. The two of us spent our spare time over six months to find alums, recruit them for the weekend, and plan the event. We burned up AT&T Friends and Family calling plan with memories and reminiscences.

The school-based gathering welcomed our alumni parents and/or immediate children for a chance to visit. Some parents attended even if their children could not, having relocated out of town, because there was a great relationship throughout many classes that way. We were all as happy to see others’ parents as we would be their children.

As a five-year-old, fresh into first grade, I believe half my Keystone friends were ages 17 and older. I had a few of my own classmates of interest, but I was constantly pestering the second graders to tell me “what came after” addition and subtraction. Patiently they’d tell me about multiplication, assure me that Mrs. Kumin was wonderful and I'd love her class. I was having the time of my life with Mrs. Lucy Hines in first grade. I just wanted second grade to be as good and thus began my early days as a sleuth of sorts. Thanks to Carla Carter'73 and Marilyn Harper'73, they relieved my anxiety that I would not be disappointed in what came next. [Photos: Clockwise Mrs. Hines, Mrs. Kumin, Carla Carter, and Marilyn Harper.]

People my own age were nice but really not as interesting as the upper classmen. The high school seniors adopted me as their mascot aka "chief errand runner." When they were clear on one side of the school’s sprawling campus landscape near South Hall, in San Antonio’s Monte Vista Historic District, they wanted to get messages to their classmates who were exiting “North Hall” (the fancy term for the three story, plus basement, old adobe apartments) that featured ingress and egress via iron and concrete stairs that resembled more fire escapes than classroom pathways.

Willingly, I’d scamper “all the way over” to the other side of campus to deliver a message ala Wakefield Western Union to the classmate about the next meet-up time and location of the other seniors.

[Top: South Hall; Bottom: North Hall.]

As a first-grader as yet undiscovered food allergies kept me indoors from recess for several weeks…which found me in the school cafeteria at the same time when the Latin Club high schoolers practiced their Christmas carols for an upcoming holiday event, in Latin, of course. I loved how they sounded and paid close attention. Learning by immersion, I suppose.

In my sequestration from additional germs and temperature irritants, I picked up “Adeste Fideles” and several others and started singing them in Latin in church without the hymnal. My mother managed to keep her surprise to a minimum, just smiling and not making a big deal of it. Well, the Latin verses came right to mind so why not sing ‘em? Thank you Mrs. Sallie B. Johnson.

Conversations with various members of the class of 1963 were my favorite part of Keystone that first year. They were wise, they were kind, they smiled, and they were very, very tall. Most of all, they gave great hugs. I hugged back.

When you’re new in the world of school, and your parents had just divorced, and you were told that you couldn’t attend public school because you weren’t old enough yet to enroll…Keystone rescued me from an additional year of nice but boring kindergarten.

It became my home away from home, and for the rest of my life, I would find safety and security in any halls of learning, whether modest or grand. A feeling of calm would wash over me at the site of old (very old) wooden desks, deep rich paneling and exquisite crown molding that were built into the old mansions reconverted into our classrooms with minimal changes.

The old-timey radiators were the place to be near in the winter. My adventures would soon begin in the books in the lower school library, carry forward in my imagination, and ultimately emerge through my writing as I grew up. From countless biographies to "The Happy Hollisters," to "A Wrinkle in Time," my spare time hours were booked!

So, to stage that first reunion, it was only natural that Tommye would reach out to “her group” and I’d reach out to “my group.” The result was at least 300 students including spouses made it to one or the other reunion event. That was 1985.

Around 1994, Lizzie Newman Easterlin, my ’74 classmate, decided it was time for another reunion; this one featured mostly the 70s folks. Virtually singlehandedly, she organized another splendid weekend event and people came into SA from all over, another success. She put the call out, and whoosh, “If you build it, they will come” resulted.

Lizzie's husband at the time was new to us but he showed great enthusiasm and no signs of boredom or disinterest at (finally) meeting all the people he'd heard about for a few years. After meeting a certain group of "sciencers" as Coach Eargle called them, he walked away shaking his head, confiding to one fellow he knew well: "Don't any of you guys have regular jobs like mine? I heard 'If I tell you what I do, I'll have to kill you,' so many times." Of course they were joking...well most of them were...a few were...one was. Let's just say their jobs required high security clearances and leave it at that.

A few years later, the reunions sort of stopped because no one was around to stage them and do the work to gather everyone. People were getting busier in their careers, families, and after some additional geographic relocations, it was harder to get a group together. Keystone officials over the years (after Coach Eargle passed away) sponsored this or that holiday gathering but no more did most of the graduates’ call San Antonio home anymore—we’d scattered to the four winds.

In the 1990s, a Yahoo.com online group was formed, primarily of 70s/80s alumni, key 60s folks, and students who attended Keystone, even for a year or more, joined the list. It was at least a collective outreach to bring people together. Occasionally someone would start a discussion thread and others would chime in, maintaining light contact.

Other classmates found personal visits with some of their friends to be centralized to mini-reunions when they came into San Antonio. Some would come in for sporting events, e.g., a Spurs home game. A photo or two might be posted. Lives were busy and no matter what everyone was doing, we all expected to live forever. Howard Morrow organized a band, The Bad Assets, and we chose Bill Fischer's Shenanigan's Club as the site, and a musical reunion of classmates brought many of the 70s folks back together...as in "Let's get the band back together" kind of reunion. Threat of a tornado kept some folks away but others appropriately ignored it and gathered. The Bad Assets would have another appearance at fellow group member Jay Hill's place. Jay, a classmate of Howard's who played a mean bass was kind enough to host one gathering where live music returned. Lizzie Newman and Gloria Muro Shaw (and Burton) attended, and Lisa Ransopher '75 sang with the band. The event had more talking than singing though...

Then, in 2011, a major event happened…our beloved English teacher, Jim Klaeveman, aka Ivie James Klaeveman, died. His obituary appeared in the Express-News and Lynda Tussay '73 shared it by creating a Facebook community page for Keystone alumni. We couldn’t believe he’d passed “so early,” as he seemed to be barely older than we were when he taught us.

Even as early as 11 years ago, we didn’t think we’d be losing someone we regarded so highly before we could even reach out to tell him what his teaching had meant to us. Keystonians weren’t like that anyway…there was no chorus of “To Sir with Love” being sung or anything like taking us "from crayons to perfume." In fact, we all still feel the pain of having our best word patterns and ideas smashed to bits because we were not specific, clear, concise, or logical in our presentation. He was the toughest taskmaster from whom we learned the most. We all had just been lulled into a sense of thinking the teachers we knew would always be there.

It wasn’t just me. It was so many of us finding time, when back in SA, to pop onto campus and see what had become of the “old place.” That practice began in the 1960s, and many of us “lifers” were delighted when we’d look up and see a fairly recent graduate back in town, coming to campus to visit with Mr. Greet, Prof, and Coach. Later, they would return to see Mr. Babel, Mrs. Oppenheimer, and Mr. Klaeveman, whose time at Keystone accounted for decade(s) of longevity. To remember and to be remembered was always a reward you could count on.

At least a decade ago, classmate Rick Meinig'75 would travel to San Antonio from Colorado and spend a week or two consistently in April, sometimes Easter week or Fiesta Week. During Rick's time here, many of us from the 70s and early 80s (and some spouses) would reconnect at events ranging from Spurs games to outdoor lunches at restaurants with patios. The pattern that began once soon became an annual tradition, which continues today for at least 25 of us plus or minus.

Next up: You never know what to expect at a Keystone reunion. Exciting things can happen! ...coming soon. [Note: All photos courtesy of DLW Yearbook Collection.]

Thursday, December 31, 2020

Reflections on 2020, Prayers and Wishes for 2021

About 2 am on New Year's Eve day, I left the computer and set my alarm for “early,” not wanting to miss a minute of productivity on the last day of the year. That’s how holidays flow for freelancers.

You work when you can and when you can’t, you figure out what you can work on next until more work appears. I’ve been blessed with work to the point that on these “holidays,” I am still found at the computer, my choice, my pleasure.

So when the day unfolded, I had no idea what awaited me that would bring me such excitement and amazement.

Throughout the holidays, friends-as-family have been abundant in reaching out and keeping tabs on me, how I’m doing, making sure I never feel alone.

I call this a blessing—and I’ve had so many of them during the holidays this year. This morning my checklist only had two items on it, but the text message that came through added a third, which is not unusual. That blessing would come later in the day.

The year 2020 has been what my late friend, Dr. Thyra Plass, used to call “a whale of a year.” Meaning open to interpretation, but at the minimum—overwhelming. As the past 365 days have passed, the mere mention of the year 2020 causes people to wrinkle their faces, as they jump immediately to people and things we have lost in our lives. That’s natural as for many of us the ravages of COVID-19 have impacted us all directly and indirectly.

Children have been resilient in their willingness to adapt to new kinds and forms of education; my favorite 8.5-yr-old pal shared, earlier this summer, that he was not going to have a traditional birthday party this time due to ‘coronavirus’ and didn’t have a single ounce of regret in his voice, only acceptance. Said the entire word better than most professional news anchors, too.

At the time I recall thinking about how I wished others were more stalwart about the limitations our world had been dealt to combat an unanticipated foe. His ability to cope with disappointment about his party hit me like a ton of bricks…natural leaders are born and this is how they grow up. This year we’ve seen leadership of all styles from exemplary to horrible and at the end of the year, all any of us want now for the next year are essentially empathy, kindness, and health and safety for all whom we love.

That’s not much to ask for and we also need it as much as want it. Thus, 2021 is welcome and as everyone scrambles to find black-eyed peas to cement the deal, so will our hearts seek out validation for understanding how we all managed to make it through last year.

The first line of defense includes our medical and safety emergency front line teams—from doctor’s offices with gifted nurses to hospitals and specialists, to police, fire, and 911 teams, our community has been fortunate in leadership, including Dr. Seth Sullivan and our municipal leaders in Bryan, College Station, and Brazos County, who stood together in unity, addressed issues early and head-on and always gave us reason to trust in their word, and we followed their directions for the most part.

All year long we’ve seen and heard of neighbors’ kindnesses to each other, the amazing things that our community has done in collecting food for the Brazos Food Pantry, serving hot meals to our healthcare providers, making sure children had meals at school with continuity, and our own BTU utility gave us 15% discounts two months in a row (at least) to help with the costs to survive COVID while jobs were eliminated, reduced, or strained.

Overall, we have emerged stronger and even more empathetic as ever. It’s not safe to take chances and we are still safest at home, but our spirits have been uplifted with every telling of tales of kindness shown on a regular basis. It’s one of the reasons, of many, I remain here as my home. In 2021, we will continue to make progress towards achieving health and returning life to normal for as many people as we possibly can, because we all work together to do that. People take time for each other here, and one dear friend is constantly my inspiration as I see what all she does for so many.

Other friends are strong in their faith, others strong in their actions, more are strong in prayers for those in need, and on and on it goes. We all have our special gifts to offer and every action and gift means something to others. Meeting the needs…that’s what you all do for all of us here.

It was close to noon when I scanned Facebook and saw a post from a young woman who was reaching out to anyone who happened to be reading—it was on a private group page that will stay private for purposes of maintaining anonymity but that person, whose name was previously unknown to me, posted that she had reached her very lowest point and felt close to ending her time on earth, in need of a professional to talk to today but not knowing how to find one.

Within minutes, group members posted phone numbers, prayers, two strangers said she should go to the ER and she could private message them her phone number and they would meet her there so she wouldn’t be alone.

New Year’s Eve; the end of a year in which despair was an operative emotion, where depression was so common none of us want to admit it was real to us, but it was, and here is an honest soul reaching out. The answers were overwhelmingly positive and uplifting and one more time, love was shared, hope was offered, and faith flowed freely. A final update on the post tonight confirmed that things were better for her and that good care was being given. Prayers were answered and it was the miracle of the day. Turns out it wasn’t the only miracle of the day.

Later in the day I received notice that a family whose loved one they’d been expecting to pass away today had occurred, and we made arrangements to meet this afternoon. Before I left the house, the strangest feeling came over me. I had 3 Russell Stover chocolate candy bars on my dining table, remaining from stuffing little cherubs’ stockings. I looked over at them and thought about taking them with me, but I couldn’t figure out why. I ignored the impulse and headed to the garage. At the laundry room, I paused, turned around and shook my head as I picked up the candy bars and put them into my jacket pocket and off I went.

In my five years as a celebrant, I have never taken anything but my pen and notebook to meet with a family. So, as I walked in and greeted the family members, I had no control over what I said or did as I reached into my jacket and pulled out the candy bars and said, “These are for you!” and I had no more wondered why I offered up the candy or where those words had come from, but I had my answer in the blink of an eye. The looks on their faces said it all. “He loved chocolate” they both said in unison!! “It was his favorite thing!” The visit was wonderful as they shared the many reasons they loved him.

Then, on the way home I saw a text where a favorite memory had been shared on Facebook, which reminded me instantly of another God moment that had happened, January 2016, when my best friend was reflecting aloud about something she never knew about her parents' lives before she came along. We can all relate to not having asked enough questions while they were here.

Another of those fortuitous happenstances produced an answer in the blink of an eye as we went looking through some things. Presto, that answer appeared almost like magic, a supernatural gift, particularly as her parents had been gone for many years. Some five years later, that memory came up again today—a reminder that miracles happen every day, and that memories of those miracles are new once again, each time they come to mind.

I can only conclude that because so many of us have texted, Facebook IM’d, posted, talked on the phone, Skyped and Zoomed through 2020 about how we couldn’t wait for this year to be over, that there is a collective sigh of relief as we turn the page onto 2021. But I’ve determined to remember all of the good things that happened as people gave from their hearts, of themselves, in faith, hope, and love for others as we banded together to survive.

The lessons of 2020 included the loss of several people close to us, unexpectedly, some from COVID and others gone too soon to cancer, as well as a few other reasons. Alumni from my childhood school (grades 1-12) remain close some 50+ years later on yet another Facebook group. This year we learned of the passing of some of our classmates, each one of us impacted by the loss of one of us. One especially stood out in our hearts and minds as he was the unofficial “Dean” of the group—a wise attorney and brilliant humorist named David. David had gone to Keystone School for 12 years and was another school "lifer." Brilliant, wise, and funny as heck, David always knew the right thing to say. He was a caring, brilliant attorney, and the word “wise” should be specially reserved for David.

It was memorable that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg died on Rosh Hashanah, the “cusp” of the end of the year, symbolic in its own right as she is considered “a person of great righteousness.” David, a man of decided righteousness, died the next day, September 26. Surely, the Justice needed a solid right-hand attorney to work up responses to cases that would eventually find their way to us. Justice is ahead for 2021.

Throughout this year, I, and so many others in our community, have been blessed by the example of faith of a young 18-year-old woman, Rebecca, whose life serves more than just one purpose in this world. Coming from the loving family of faith she does, if ever you considered yourself a person of faith, you've been praying for her, joining in the legions of us who know her story.

For those who approach life from a different faith journey, just the fact that she is among us still today would cause you to understand that when logic, reason, and rational thought fail, faith fills that gap and explains so many things. Why this precious child and her family have had such a decade of suffering is a question I will one day demand answers to, should I gain entry into the great beyond.

It hurts to know what she has endured, and still, and yet, this child is an angel on Earth, sent in part to remind us that we must believe in things unseen, any way we can find our way to do so, because love and faith explain why science and medicine cannot.

Answered prayers are the only reason that makes sense, and her Earthly work is not done, not by a long shot. She plans on graduating from Harvard and all wise bets are on her to do just that, as she received word of her early admission already.

Yes, 2020 was a year we bid farewell to many in our lives whom we would prefer would still be here with us, anticipating the great things to come in 2021. They should be here with us to see how things turned out, to experience the good times that are hopefully on their way. It just emphasizes that each moment with those we care about, love, and call our family—real or extended—is precious and we should not take a moment for granted.

This coming year comes with no guarantees and indeed we face many challenges to come, but with faith comes hope, and in hope we find love, for real, for always. May each of us be blessed in all the ways that we need to succeed to have a healthy life. May we remember always to be kind. We may not know how others feel but we can have empathy, a quality long missing in 2020 as we all had plenty of reasons to miss it in some leadership, and may we seek and model truth in all that we say and do this year. Happy New Year!

Lots of love and thank you to each of you who have filled my life with joy, hope, and friendship,

Dawn Lee

Tuesday, November 3, 2020

An Eight-Year-Old Perspective on Election Day, Education, Faith, and Freedom

This morning I greeted the day enthusiastically, calmly, and confidently…for about five minutes at which point my brain started doing its usual analysis of the fact that it was the birthday of John H. Eargle, Jr., co-founder of Keystone School, long since gone from this world, about how important education had been to my mother, and how our school used to hold mock elections every four years to teach civics and garner enthusiasm in voting, which we can all benefit from, those of us who have gone through levels of enthusiasm and anxiety when it comes to “politics.”

As a child I used to sit quietly around the table as the grownups had interesting and active discussions of the politics of the days, the 1960s, and at first I found the entire topic boring. I never once heard the sharing of differing opinions rise about conversational level, though. By the 1970s, my high school classmates and I were watching presidential hearings after school or the reruns late at night.

Though family and friends' discussions were passionate, there was always a collegiality about the discussion of opposing sides and when it was done, and the visit was concluded, or moved to another topic, the visits always ended with hugs and kisses. I grew to like politics or at least tolerate them long enough to pay attention to details, make up my mind and await the day I was old enough to vote.

I remember even in elementary school, asking my mother why politics were so frequently talked about and she said, “it’s a good thing in our country when there are two sides and people talk about the benefits of each side.” She continued, “Dawnie, the day people stop speaking aloud about politics is a day to beware of, because that will mean we are no longer a free country. I hope you will never see a time like that.” Some 50 years later, it had almost reached that point.

Facebook, Twitter, and other mediums where platforms are frequently expressed became a graveyard for anger, epithets, mockery, and hate-filled speech. Many people were quick to write about who they supported and voted for, and why those who didn’t see that way could remove them from their list of friends. And so we arrived today at many people afraid to say who they voted for, lest they lose half their friends, or make someone mad, or anger their bosses and scotch any chances of a raise—win or lose, you could lose. That’s not how it is supposed to be, but it is.

This morning, something more important in the lives of some I care about was going on—something far more important than the country’s future…was going on. A beautiful young woman in San Antonio was in the midst of critical life/death surgery to try and repair some major damage that had happened during a prior surgery. This beautiful young brilliant woman has been through about 90 of these surgeries in the past decade, and what she experiences would crater most mature individuals, while she is in massive pain but copes with it with what can only be described as “the peace that passes all understanding.”

Rebecca, her name, is not originally of this world. Really, I’m fully convinced she was an angel let out of Heaven long enough to be born and to live and to grow to teach people she knows, and others she doesn’t, how to pray—unceasingly, fervently, and to expect a perfect outcome of an answered prayer. That’s the only reason I can think of (logically) as to why a child should ever have to endure what she has while here on earth, and her family to have to experience these ongoing tests of faith. This is an answer I’ll have to wait until I get to Heaven to understand but it’s high on my list of questions. Of course, I have a list of questions…you know me.

Following a prayer in my early morning path that involved me actually speaking out loud with the Lord, when my prayers are usually silent, I then took to scanning the local paper online. I indulged myself in a moment to enjoy the diversion of my horoscope. I wasn’t looking for answers outside God. I was looking for what might be there to surprise me. It read:

Consider consequences and options first. Quiet the mind through meditation. Psychic communication with wild creatures will be especially lucid. Your creative talents shine. Use your imagination. A child or new friend inspires you. Tonight: You might just want to luxuriate and take a nap.

Hmm…I’d been quiet and meditated (if that’s what you perceive as meditation, quieting the mind to receive a gift of thoughts). No wild creatures here…Barney’s still across the street, sleeping, and won’t arrive for a while. Luxuriate and take a nap? Not a chance. Hmmm, a child or new friend inspires you. Wasn’t planning on being out except a trip to the post office.

And then my phone rang, it was FaceTime and it was my eight-year-old pal! I immediately smiled as the call connected and I saw the sky. The sky, not my pal. He said, “Hi there!” and I said, “Hi! Whatcha doing?” “Fishing,” he said. “Did you get the day off from school?” I asked. He said, “Yes, it’s Election Day.” I said, “Oh, that’s interesting. Are they using your school as a polling site?” I am entirely forgetting he’s only eight and might not know what a polling site is. I worry too much.

He said, “No, it was a polling site last year but not this year.” Eight years old. Okay. I said, “Where are you?” as I could see only sky. He said, “At a creek not far from my house.” I said, “Beautiful sky, honey” and he said, “That’s what Pippa said when I talked to her a few minutes ago.” I laughed. Pippa and I often postulate how pretty clouds are during drives along the roadways.

So, he explained that he had just caught a channel catfish that was fairly large but he threw it back into the water. I asked about his bait and he said, “Today, I brought some bread and it’s working pretty well.” We discussed bait, hooks, fishing poles (he has two fishing rods, thank you very much), and how we were both not fans of minnows. Worms didn’t rate discussion. He said quickly, “Let me call my Dad to check in.” “Okay,” I said, brightly.

We talked about school and his favorite subject. He knows I groan if he tells me “Recess” whenever I ask, so he said that Math was pretty good. He also said that one of his neighbors used to come fishing with him but couldn’t be away from the house right now. He was actually under about 14 watchful eyes by phone who can keep the proverbial eyes on exactly where he is and use the GPS to be there in two minutes. So if you have concerns about his being “on his own,” forget it. Lewis & Clark were solitary explorers. The training wheels are still on for him, but he’s not aware of them.

He said, “I’m going to leave the iPad where it is and then move over to a different spot to see if I can get better fish there. You probably can’t see me, but I’ll be there.” Oh wow…this child…channels messages to me in a way that hit me like the proverbial 2x4…my concerns and fears this morning for Rebecca and her surgery….it was like God telling me, “You can’t see me but I’ll be right there.” Trying not to tear up, I said, “Okay, honey.”

We got back to talking. He asked me whether I’d voted in the Election this year. I said, “Yes, I voted on the second day of Early Voting.” He paused and said, “Who did you vote for?” I paused. I said, “Actually I voted for a lot of people this year. There were so many on the ballot.” I was being cautious not to influence him with ‘my’ politics when he was at an age where discernment of who a family votes for, who extended family votes for, who the country votes for—all those factors are in play. I didn’t want to say anything wrong.

I thought about all the ways in which my friends whose careers in entertainment had given their time to encourage voting. Carl Giammarese recorded a version of James Holvay's and Gary Beisbier's hit for The Buckinghams, "Susan," for a group called "You Can't Stop Me from Voting." Then, Kiki Ebsen and others joined voices at the invitation of Terry Wollman on his fabulous collaborative song (with Lillooet Fox and Rachelle Lynn Gislason), "Beautiful (The Sound of Us)," featuring Ray Jupiter and Donald Webber, Jr. and a multivoice choir to encourage voting this year. Also, Kiki was invited to contribute two songs to a genius playlist ,"Music to Vote By," designed by Kelly Fitzgerald, John Diggins, and Michelle Mangione. If you're stuck in line, you're not stuck when you have music. All these wonderful events with talented musicians using their gifts to uplift were developed to encourage Americans and inspire them to get out and vote this year. My mind wandered and I found myself so proud, smiling at my friends' accomplishments, staying positive while they couldn't pursue their own careers, and taking time to give to others.

My eight-year-old future Supreme Court justice pushed me, “Who did you vote for in the Presidential election?” Yes, he speaks this way in full, intelligent, complete sentences all the time because that is how his parents and others speak to him, with him. I paused and said to myself, “I have always told this child the truth and I’m not about to change now, and I’ve always answered his questions.” So I told him. He said, “What do you like about him?” and I gave a one-sentence true answer. He said, “Okay.” He said, “How do you feel about (the other guy)?” and I said, “I’m not a fan. He took it all in, didn’t question, didn’t comment. I liked that. He asked, I answered.

Our discussion went back to Halloween and I said, “What did you all do for Halloween?” He said, “on Halloween itself, we didn’t go out. It wasn’t safe.” I said, “I’m sorry about that honey, I think next year things should be different.” He said, “Longer than that, because (presidential candidate he said by name--they are currently both presidential candidates so no guessing allowed) said the vaccine won’t be ready until 2022 at least.”

I wanted to cry and beam with pride at the same time. Eight years old. Knows what a vaccine is and that next year might not be a time when kids can return to normal Halloween. This was the same child who explained matter-of-factly and not at all sadly that “this year my birthday doesn’t have the usual kind of party because of Coronavirus.” He didn’t say anything less than Coronavirus. I know adults who forget its formal name and refer to it as “this thing.”

Birthday and Halloween denied to my little pal thanks to the pandemic. His parents had created loving, wonderful alternatives to celebrate both events but what the usual was, wasn’t this year. And he was not the least bit feeling sorry for himself. This child, Lord help.

Ha. “Lord, help” was a trademark expression of the cofounder of Keystone…a native of deep east Texas and it was his point of exasperation that was reached before he uttered it. I laughed as that is what I find myself uttering as a prayer without even realizing it. Ah, the things we learn as children.

I asked if he had packed anything for lunch. He said, “I might have some of the bread I brought for the fish, but I am getting a little hungry.” He said, “I will stay here a little longer.”

"Would you look up places to find turtles in (the name of his subdivision)?" he requested. Off to Google I went and then we discussed a particular nature conservancy, and he knew exactly where that was. I said, “You really love turtles, don’t you?” and he agreed. He knew all the correct names of the parts of a turtle. Asked him about reading and I was delighted to hear he’d been enjoying two books recently and I said, “That’s good; I love it when you like to read.”

He said, “It didn’t used to be something I like, but I like it right now.” I said, “Well, I’ve got a series of books that may be a little old for you because the oldest boy in the family is 12, but maybe you would like it. If you like one, I have a whole series.” I’m thinking that I want to send him “The Happy Hollisters” from my young days as a budding solver of mysteries that would lead my mother to christen me “Miss Marple, Jr.” or “Nancy Drew, Jr.,” depending on her choice at the time. Only those old enough will know who or what a Miss Marple is.

My heart was thrilled when he said, “I’ll try one and see how I like it.” I’ll be wrapping up volume one for mailing soon. Fingers crossed.

He proclaimed, “Next year I’m in 4th grade!” and I said, “Yes, that’s great.” He said, “But I love 3rd grade right now. It’s my favorite so far!” and his heart soared, you could hear it over the phone. I was working on something on the computer and he was busy fishing while we conversed, just two pals hanging out while we accomplished our goals. He is one of two pals I do that with; especially during the isolation of the pandemic, it makes a difference to be on FaceTime, Skype, and Zoom with your friends and to just hang out for a while. You emerge from that renewed as it’s the next best thing to being there. The fact that he is eight is irrelevant. Any time spent with him is time well spent.

All of this to say that today the future of our country will be determined when all the votes are in and counted and the winner is announced. As long as we are alive, I hope there will always be at least two parties and room for an independent when it comes to needing an option. I hope that people will always continue to vote and remain active in each election. Whether or not they wish to share their opinions on a public social forum that can often lead to separation and bad feelings, may we always live in a society free enough to express our opinions openly, without fear or favor resulting. And may we always have gratitude for the blessings we have received in life so far and reasons to always be optimistic for the future ahead.

May each of you have a powerfully fruitful Election Day and Evening. May we improve our circumstances and quality of life to preserve life, rather than lose any more lives. That continues to be my regular prayer. And, if a miracle for Rebecca is your will, “Lord help” remains my fervent prayer. May my eight-year-old pal continue to be a fisher of men as he is today a fisher of fish. I see his future unfolding and he will be whatever he was destined to be, or wants to be, and it might just be that he will be a Supreme Court Justice. To me, he will always be supreme. As Ruthie Foster sang on "Austin City Limits" last Saturday, “Woke up this morning with my mind, stayed on freedom.” To which I add the other lyric, “Woke up this morning with my mind, stayed on Jesus.”

May God bless America, always. Amen.