High School With Grace

Another daughter finished high school last night – six down, two to go. Grace is an excellent student, engaged in the classroom, involved on campus, active at sports. Unlike her old man.

Grace took mostly honors courses and finished with a high GPA, in the top 10 percent of her class. I have no idea what classes I took and finished just outside the top 60 percent of my class with a GPA closer to the average number of children per US household in 1974.

Grace had many friends, was liked by students and teachers alike, and belonged to several clubs and organizations. My only friends were Jerry and Larry, and a wildly unpopular guy named Billy Bob who thought he was a radio announcer who interviewed everyone within reach with a cheap Bic pen. I’m unaware of any clubs or organizations at my high school, but Mr. Jackson, my cranky English teacher, let me borrow books.

Grace was the best one on color guard, always in time with crisp steps and accurate throws. She went out for track so she could run for fun and ended up as a pole vaulter who jumped a lot higher than I am tall. She took one tennis lesson and the guy insisted she try out for the school team the next day. She ended up on the varsity squad. Me, I was fifth-string running back on our football team, only because we didn’t have a sixth string. I didn’t play my Junior year. I did play tennis, and was pleased to beat out Jerry and Larry, both long-time players. I was offered a scholarship for baseball, but didn’t pursue it.

Grace earned more than $60,000 in scholarships, which will pay her way through the college of her choice, where she already knows what she wants to do. College never crossed my mind until six years after high school when I was about to have the first of eight children and realized that I had no marketable skills and no education. It took seven years to get my BS and longer still to get a real job. I’m guessing Grace will do both in much less time.

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but Grace rolled away enough to plant deep roots in well-nurtured ground, and has blossomed in every way, ready to produce real fruit. Grace, I’m proud of you, you big creep.