The parcel sat in a corner of my office, taking up valuable space and collecting dust. But, for some reason, I simply ignored it.
Then, two weekends ago, again for reasons unknown (well, actually, the pouring rain had spoiled my plans to work outside Saturday afternoon), I finally opened it and could scarcely believe my bloodshot eyeballs.
The thick folder was brimming with raw materials from days of yore, things forgotten or discarded long ago, or so I thought.
The coffee-colored package was part of a larger assortment of miscellaneous boxes collected some nine years ago when we moved Mom from the Bishop homeplace to Rockhill Mennonite retirement community. Many items were given to consignment or the local Gift and Thrift store, some put in storage and the remainder divided amongst us siblings.
At some point, I transported this particular folder to my office with good intentions of checking its contents, which never happened until now.
I unearthed a treasure trove, a documented narrative of the most formative period of my life – a stack of priceless art work by Jimmy Bishop; illustrated animal stories that I think match some of the better children’s books on the market today; essays from freshman English class (handwritten, not even typed, some even with decent grades and “clever” and “well done” notes in the margins from the teacher); a complete collection of columns written for the “Weather Vane” student newspaper my junior year at EMU and photographs from my college commencement in June, 1967. Thanks, Mom!
How did I manage until now without this precious cache?
The contents included my report cards from grades 1 through 6 from Doylestown Township (Pa.) Elementary School. I dreaded each time this document arrived – and this ritual took place four times each school year – and I had to take it home for my parents’ signature. From grade school through college, I struggled to pass math, even as my best grades came in English. I excelled in social studies – outside the classroom, that is.
I grimaced in reviewing the handwritten teachers’ comments. This one from third grade was especially telling: “Jimmy is a good student but is not too earnest in his work. His attitude is rather negative at times.”
These comments followed from my fourth grade teacher: “Jimmy is a pleasant boy to have in the classroom. I wish he would be a little freer to help in discussions.” Then, from the second marking period: “He has become too free – I’m sure he will improve.” And then at the conclusion of fourth grade: “It was a pleasure to have Jimmy in my classroom, but oh, what a loud voice at the wrong time.”
Somehow, I passed on to Lenape Junior High (a brand new school when I entered seventh grade in 1957) and from there to Christopher Dock Mennonite High School near Lansdale, some 25 miles distant.
The folder also contained my high school diploma, documentation that this ardent scholar “has satisfactorily completed the Course of Studies prescribed for graduation from this high school, given at Lansdale, Pennsylvania, this fourth day of June 4, 1963.”
Three of the persons who signed the diploma are no longer living – Richard C. Detweiler, supervising principal; Harvey W. Bauman, principal; and Paul R. Clemens, president of the board of trustees.
What means even more to me today than that degree is the award that I found with it, “in recognition of achievement in the field of creative writing” presented by the Franconia chapter of Mennonite Writers’ Fellowship, signed by Principal Bauman.
Looking back, receiving that unexpected honor during the commencement ceremonies provided the necessary prodding to begin a serious examination of what I really wanted to do with my life after high school. I was largely concerned at the time with keeping my car on the road and a young lady next to me on the bench seat, having some change in my pocket and doing whatever I needed to do – not knowing what at the time – to land in the catbird’s seat as a rockin’ jock at a radio station.
I applied, in the waning days of summer, to then Eastern Mennonite College and was accepted at the 11th hour, not having ever visited campus. It would prove a wise decision.
But now, the question arises: what to do with this archival material. Who else but I – and perhaps my spouse – find it of any use? I can’t bring myself to pitching everything. Do I wind up consigning the contents to the inner recesses of our walk-in storage closest to decompose until I move on and my daughters have to decide what to do with it?
I realize this is but one more ironic element of the life cycle: These accumulated items, no matter how important they seem to me now, really have little worldly, monetary value. But the memories they represent and infuse in my spirit are priceless.
– Column by Jim Bishop
Share
Contributors
