I Was Once an Alfalfa Sprout or something like that…
Okay, I’m not 100% sure that is true. Maybe it’s just something I dreamed up along the way but I do know for sure that I went to school in this big house in Buffalo County, Nebraska. It was called Alfalfa Center and there were only a few dozen students all the way from kindergarten to sixth grade, but for a while it was one of my favorite places. It’s hard to remember all the different schools I’ve been to, as our parents had quite the wanderlust gene and moved us all around the states into many small towns. We never stayed anywhere long, barely long enough to remember anyone or anything about the places.
However, this school is linked to a childhood tragedy, which is probably why I remember it so vividly. They say your strongest emotions set your deepest memories. But before we get to that, I’d like to reminisce about Alfalfa Center. I remember our music teacher, not her name but the songs she taught us as we sat on the old hardwood floors around the piano she played. One song, Orion, visits me on nights when I look up into the sky full of stars. And the food! Oh my gosh, the home-cooked lunches there were to die for. We’d start smelling lunch cooking mid-morning and it was so heavenly that it was hard to get any more work done until it was in our bellies. I say we, because my twin sister and older brother accompanied me there. I’m sure they also remember the food, the music class, and maybe even the teachers.
There were only a couple and Mrs. Cernik comes to mind well. She was a large bleached blonde woman with long kept fingernails that she used on the back of our necks or on our arms when she was displeased. I can recall dreading the moment when she walked around the classroom, peering at our work over our shoulders. I got those fingernails a time or two myself. But my poor brother was her frequent victim. I specifically remember my mother having “a talk” with that teacher once about what she’d do if her kids came home with any more bloody trails down our arms.
But back to good things. The bookmobile was a part of this time in our life and it was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. My sister and I always read at a level higher than others in our grade and we also left that bookmobile each time with stacks of books so high we could barely see to walk. Reading and my books were everything to me. Our family didn’t have much, but when I could escape into a story, I didn’t care about much else. We lived in the country and I’d take my book and find a haystack, or climb into the loft of my neighbor’s barn, and be content for hours.
We all had a few friends at Alfalfa Center School. I remember my class only had 5 or 6 students, but there was one girl who I considered my best friend. Her name was Tracy and everyone loved her. She was eleven years old and just full of smiles, laughter, and energy. Big brown eyes and blonde hair, she just lit up a room.
Tracy’s parents were stricter than mine and it took a while for them to agree to let her ride the bus home with my siblings and I to play after school. The day finally came and we arrived home and spent an hour doing chores. Then we asked Tracy what she wanted to do. It was her idea to walk up the dirt road and cross the highway to go explore a huge abandoned home that everyone called the haunted house. I remember she thought she was the only one out of all our classmates who hadn’t gotten to see it up close.
We lived near a very rural highway with not much traffic back then. It was a cold day and Tracy and I traded coats, but we all bundled up and headed that way. At the highway, my brother crossed first. When he did, I looked right and saw a car just peeking over the hill coming at us. I yelled stop and held my hand out to grab Tracy before she stepped out into the road, but my fingers just grazed the material of my coat she wore.
She was almost to the center line when we looked left and saw a car coming that way, too. Tracy had hesitated in the middle and saw it too.
She called out, “I can make it!”
With my sister and I on one side of the road, and my brother on the other, the driver really had nowhere to go. He hit the brakes but there wasn’t enough time. Tracy was only inches from making it to the other side when his car hit her. I won’t paint the picture here but it was a horrific scene. My brother ran away in one direction, and my sister went screaming in the other direction. Later I learned she was running to the gas station to call for help.
With them gone, I knelt beside Tracy, sobbing and begging her to get up. My eyes saw the damage, but my psyche wouldn’t accept it.
I was still there kneeling beside her when the first person arrived on scene to help. I was led to a neighbor’s house where I was told to call Tracy’s mom and tell her what happened. I remember that call so vividly. First she hung up on me, thinking my sobbing and incoherent blabbering was a prank. Then I called again and handed the phone to my neighbor, Miss Charlotte, and she verified that Tracy was enroute to the hospital.
She later died. Or maybe she died there.
I don’t know for sure.
We weren’t allowed to attend her funeral. My siblings and I suffered with guilt. I had recurring nightmares for years.
At the little quaint school I loved so dearly, we were suddenly outcasts.
“You killed her!”
“If she hadn’t known you, she’d be alive!”
Kids can be cruel. And at only ten years old, I believed everything they said as they made us retreat away from them at recess, or told us to go away, that we weren’t allowed on their team or at their birthday party, or whatever. I really wished it could’ve been me, to end everyone’s grief. I was just a poor kid from a family of four children. I wouldn’t be missed. I really thought that. The taunting and ostracizing confirmed it.
Eventually our parents decided to move again and we left it all behind.
But did we?
I can’t imagine the pain that Tracy’s family went through to lose their daughter so tragically. I’m sure they’d find it hard to believe, but Tracy has been with me all my life. In the moments when I am terrified to cross a road. Or later when I think of my children near a highway. Or when I was pregnant and thought for sure God would take my child because Tracy’s family didn’t deserve to lose theirs.
I always wanted to do good things to make up for Tracy being taken and me being spared. I felt I needed to prove that I was good enough to have been salvaged. Probably twenty-five years after the fact, I found Tracy’s sister on Facebook. I poured my heart out to her, and wrote Tracy’s mother a letter. I told her how sorry I was and how Tracy’s death had plagued me with guilt for my entire life. I wanted her to know I was a good person. That I had always taken the right path. I guess I needed to prove something to her. I’m not sure what.
But isn’t it crazy how tragedy can mold us into who we are?
About a week or so ago I was in a bad emotional place. That day in a group I’m in, someone asked if we thought their grandchild should attend the funeral of her estranged drug-addicted parent. I was a strong advocate for letting that child go and have that closure. I was thinking of Tracy and the closure that I was never given and the years of nightmares and guilt. Forty years still wasn’t enough to take away the pain.
Later that night I was talking to a friend about my emotional state. I didn’t tell her about Tracy, just some other things. She told me I needed to find some peace and to get out my Bible. I promised her I would, though honestly it had been a very long time since I’d done just that.
Do you know that later I was climbing into bed when I remembered my promise. When I got out my Bible and cracked it open, I turned to a page at random and there, staring back at me was the only picture I have of Tracy, along with the newspaper clipping about her accident.
I think Tracy was telling me to be at peace about her death. Yet I don’t know if that will ever happen. I still see every tiny second of the accident replayed in my mind when I think of her.
But I also still love that little white schoolhouse.
Despite the trauma it reminds me of.
I’m not sure why I felt led to tell this story. It’s painful. Yet some of it is bittersweet. I was reminded of the bookmobile today by reading someone’s post. Then it made me think of Alfalfa Center. I reached out to a friend who was there then. She sent me the photo. Then we talked about Tracy and she was shocked as I told her about our experience. For she went through her own grief when Tracy, also her friend, died so tragically. She doesn’t remember the taunting and I don’t think she was a part of it as I remember her always as a kind soul.
Yet through our conversation and across many miles, she said she wanted to hug me. Quietly, I was crying on this end. She didn’t deny my memories. Instead she comforted me. And I feel bad that I never knew how much she suffered either.
We are all fragile, y’all. And we all have emotional baggage.
But if you are still holding guilt from some long ago tragedy or trauma that was not your fault, I see you.
I hear you.
And I wish you peace.
You are such a master with words. I am speechless. ❤️
Thank you for sharing a piece of your heart. That took cour age. I had a classmate that died when I was 6 and in first grade. The boys were playing football on a different area of the playground. One of the boys fell down and got some grass in his lungs. And could not cough it up. He died on the play ground. I remember that day. I remember the sound of the ambulance. I remember seeing his parents rushed to the area and they watched as he was put in the ambulance. And I remember the siren. I remember watching his parents following the ambulance. I remember hearing teachers crying. I remember my mother talking to me about what happened to my classmate. She asked if I knew where he was now. I said yes mommy. He is playing in heaven with Wayne. She asked if I wanted to go see his parents. I said no ma’am. But I want to send some flowers. She asked what I wanted to send. I said red roses. 1 from me,1 from my brother Shane, and a white one for Curt. With a bow. So, we went to the local florist, and placed the ordered. Wayne is my little brother. He and his twin was born very early. My mother was in her 7th month of pregnancy when the boys decided they could not wait. They weighed 3.5 pounds and 3 pounds. Wayne lived 30 hours and then went to play in Heaven’s nursery. Shane, the 3 pounder, grew up to be my playmate and best friend and protected. And he really grew! He is 6 foot 2. He is a great baker. He is very smart. He loves to help people deal with loses. He works in the funeral business. He misses his twin. They were identical. He wanders if Wayne would be taller or the same size? Would they be alike or different. Shane dreams of him. Its a twin thing. Its amazing how at a very young age, something very bad will stay with us forever. And yet, the good moments often fade in our self.
Wonderful loving story. Yes in the Bible is where we fine peace. I have been through things that have caused me lots of pain, an regret. Others say they forgive me, but the way they look at me ,says other wise. Forgiving myself is the biggest battle.
Wow, you are such a good storyteller. Your wisdom and strength are so powerful as you weave your story and make us feel and see the incredible cloth of your life, wrinkles, tears and flaws. But we also awaken our own pain and grief through you and forgiving ourselves is the best outcome of your stories.
You are an amazing writer.
Thank you for sharing this story. What an impactful writing…leaves me in tears for each person you mentioned. I’ll think of this for a long time.
Kay, there’s so much I feel I could say to express my sympathies, yet at the same time just about everything you wrote I could relate to. Not exact experiences, but experiences all the same, if that makes sense? Our youth, our family lifestyles, and more. I do believe we grow and prosper despite the obstacles we are faced to overcome. Thank you for sharing this as I completely understand how difficult this must’ve been. My thoughts are with you. Just a question? Have you ever thought about putting together a group / website / blog where people could share their experiences and people could comment on them? Maybe some sort of open discussion forum?
So sad you felt so guilty, and guilty enough to carry those memories with you so long! God bless you, Kay, my prayers are with you.
It is so easy to write that I think Tracy would want you to live in peace. I do believe she would. I can only imagine the pain you have with this. You are a courageous woman. This event, is just another example of your strength. I am glad your family moved so that the kids would stop their horrible behavior. The biggest question right now is, did you forgive youself????
Kay, I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been carrying such a heavy burden since you were only ten years old! I know that logically, you know you are not to blame, but it’s so hard to get our emotions to that place. I hope you are able to find some peace with the feeling that Tracy wants you to let it go.
Thank you for your bravery in sharing your story. When you share pieces of your soul, you have no idea how much you are helping me, and I’m sure many others.
My word, that would be traumatic for any child. Oh and where were those long fingernails when the other kids verbally abused you? As the (possibly only) adult in the room, the teacher should have set things straight right then and there. Not sure if “Alfalfa” was like a Montesorri-type place or private academy or public school but if there was an adult besides Ms. Bleach Blonde Fingernails they should have shown some leadership as well as help all the children process the loss.
I was bullied a lot in school too. Hence living about 1,000 miles away from hometown.
My heart and prayers go out to you. I hope that now that you’ve opened your Bible again that you will continue to seek comfort there. Given time it truly will bring you the peace that passes all understanding. I am speaking from experience, not just repeating a cliche.
As children we deal with the weight of the world. You just explained how you did. Love and hugs Kay.
Thank you for writing this blog and sharing your story with us. I am praying that writing the piece will provide you with more peace and acceptance.
You had remarkable strength as a little girl navigating the complexity of being thrown into the middle of death and all of the taboo’s and senseless blame that goes with it.
Praying for peace and healing for you,
Brenda Bowie Wise