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If I had to list all the people in my life who influenced me, shaped my personality and helped me grow, and hone whatever talents God gave me — well, the list would fill up pages. After all, it’s easy to call to mind people who spent a lot of their time in my world — mother, father, grandparents, siblings, cousin, aunts, teachers, friends, coaches, colleagues (sports editors, managing editors, co-workers).
As memories of those key people danced in my head recently, my thoughts turned to the “minor” players in my life. The people who only visited my world for a brief time, but had an incredible impact on me — either immediately, or years later. And I thought, geez, I wonder if they know how their words, their actions, carved a path for me to follow? A good path, one that helped me avoid getting lost in the woods?
Had it not been for a phone call from Mrs. Pat Walsh the summer I was entering sixth grade, I may not have developed a love for sports other than basketball. At that time, I was counting the days until I could join St. Pat’s girls’ basketball team, season starting in November. I was anxious to prove my worth in the “family business.” But one late August afternoon Mrs. Walsh called me and asked if I would like to play volleyball. I never thought about it, I told her. I’m just waiting for basketball to start, I said.
Well, until then, she said, you should play volleyball. Come to St. Pat’s for practice, and bring your friend Denise. Two years later, Denise and I were the CYO all-stars for St. Pat’s. I continued playing in a women’s league after college, and ended up being a volleyball official (referee) for a few years. And volleyball, as a sports writer, was one of my beats.
If I hadn’t followed Mrs. Walsh’s instructions and not played for her, I wouldn’t have developed the skills and nuances I needed to intelligently cover the games as a sports writer. And the same rang true for softball.
Mrs. Barbara Goodman? Her million-watt smile made me feel that nothing bad in the world could ever happen. I remember looking at her outside of church and thinking that a smile, a laugh, really can soothe a soul. It was a smile that could envelop you — it made you want to be near her. Even today, if I see a photo of her, I smile.
Growing up, there was a “handyman” who did work for our next door neighbors — Cy. He was kind and strong and had a remarkable work ethic, a gentle giant in the truest sense. I’d see him working during the hottest of days, never once complaining. My grandmother would bring him a glass of iced tea, and while handing it to him over the fence, would urge him to sit in the shade. He’d accept the iced tea, and smile and say with a chuckle that work needed to be done. Every once in a while he’d bring his daughter and she and I spent the afternoons playing. Cy didn’t do anything “remarkable” so to speak, to change the course of my life. But he most certainly left a lasting impression on me — I think of him often, of his kindness, and gentle and generous nature. It’s because of him that I understood at a young age the true definition of “gentleman.”
Diane Hertzog was my teacher in third grade — her first teaching job. No doubt she expected to educate her class of eight-year-olds in penmanship, religion, adding, subtracting and spelling. And she did a fine job teaching us. But it was what she said to me while we were doing an art project that not only hit home, but helped me understand grief.
Miss Hertzog told the class to get our out crayons because we were going to make Father’s Day cards to give to our dads. I sat there, and glanced down the aisle to Bryan McPherson. At the same time he lifted his head to look at me. We had the unique bond of losing our dads within months of each other — his over the summer, mine in October. I nodded at Bryan, and we both approached Miss Hertzog’s desk. I asked her what were Bryan and I supposed to do, since our dads weren’t here anymore. Her face softened and she looked at both of us and said, “Your dads are still with you in your hearts. So make Father’s Day cards for your dads, because they’ll see them, and love them.”
Hearing my teacher say that my dad was still with me — well, that made it true — after all, teachers knew everything, my 8-year-old mind thought. I went back to my desk, got out my crayons, and poured my grief into that card. Miss Hertzog’s words brought everything together for me — that my dad was never coming back, that I will always miss him, but that if I keep him in my heart, I’ll never lose him. He’ll always be with me.
A memorable, and valuable, lesson, for sure.
When I was growing up, my family was friends with the Kutz family. Mrs. Kutz cut my hair for years in her “salon” in the basement of her house on Freedley Street. The Kehoe kids and the Kutz kids spent a lot of time together since we were all in the same age range group. Except for Joanne. Joanne was the oldest. And the most influential in my life.
Joanne had physical and developmental disabilities and spent her life in a wheelchair. And she wasn’t really verbal, but she could communicate. And she could laugh. Her laugh was what I loved most about her.
As a little kid I spent a lot of time with Joanne, and so I grew up learning about disabilities, but I didn’t have to make a decision to “accept” Joanne despite of her challenges. She was Joanne, a member of the Kutz family who faced more obstacles than most people, but still found joy in life. And she was my friend. My goal, every time I was with her, was to make her smile, to laugh. Because Joanne taught me, by her grace and strength, that there were no greater joy than making someone — making Joanne — feel loved and appreciated.
At that young age — 5, 6, 7, 8 years old — I was being introduced to, and growing comfortable in, the uniqueness and beauty of the world of special needs. A world, many years later, I would be immersed in with the birth of my son Matthew.
The Kutz family moved away and I lost track of Joanne — but the photos I have of her, and of me hanging on the back of her wheelchair, remind me of the impact a young woman with physical and developmental challenges truly had on my life.
I think about them often — Mrs. Walsh, Mrs. Goodman, Cy, Miss Hertzog and Joanne — and I know they probably had no idea the impact they had on me. A comment from the heart, a smile, a quiet nod of the head, a laugh…on paper those aren’t much of anything. And quite common, really. But each, in their own way, helped me find the good in life’s challenges. And it made me realize …
You just never know what kind of a difference a small gesture, a kind word, a smile, a selfless act, can make in someone’s world.
Email Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers at crodgers@timesherald.com
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