A Personal Introduction -Ken Greer
Today, it is my honor to share a reprint of a column written by the late Dallas Morning News columnist Ann Melvin, who passed away in 2010. The piece you are about to read, which I have simply come to call “Wait!” was written around 1979.
I first received a copy of this column many years ago from a kind friend, Mrs. Jaudon Wilhite, who worked at First National Bank. At the time, it struck a chord with me that has never quite faded.
There is something about this column that captures those moments with remarkable clarity. It speaks to the heart of anyone who has watched a child grow through the junior and high school years.
I hope this timeless reflection means as much to you as it has to me over the years.
As a companion to this column, a photo of the MVHS graduating class of 1979, provided by Linda Wafford Hammond, is included.
Back to School: Wait!
By Ann Melvin
“Hey, wait,” she said. “You forgot lunch money.”
“I’ve got plenty,” he called to her, and shouldered through the screen door. A pause. A glance. A half-smile—those remnants of the old-time kiss bye-bye. Then he was gone in a clangor of engine, tires on gravel, headers and hard rock through an open window.
It was a last first day of school.
She stood in the silent driveway and watched down the open early autumn road. Hey, wait. I didn’t mean for summer to be over just yet. There are books we haven’t read and talks we haven’t talked and that trip to Houston we never took.
What about the play we were going to see and the last watermelon we were going to cut out on the old table under the tree you planted in the second grade that is now so tall it shades half a yard?
I was going to get you started reading The New Yorker and talk to you about Broadway and foreign affairs. Well, we did go to the baseball games and we did take the dog for a couple of walks.
It’s the talking that hasn’t been easy. That night we took the horses out for a bareback ride in the moonlight or the other night when you drove us back from Nebraska and we rolled down the windows and smelled the dark, mysterious fields lush with uncut corn—those were good times. But times without words.
I want to give you more words; words like prodigious and recalcitrant and enervate. Oh, sure, I had a prodigious course of intellectual work lined out in my mind for our last summer before you are through with school, but your recalcitrance is enervating.
At least I got you to reading Reader’s Digest.
Oh, there is so much of life besides words that I wanted to give you, force on you, teach you, and I am so surprised to find there has been so little time to do it all.
How does this happen so suddenly? Every time I think I am learning how to do this—get a baby to eat carrots, teach a child to tie shoes, be PTA officer, set dating curfews—as soon as I learn how to do something, I don’t need it anymore.
I wish you kids would just sit still for a minute.
Hey. No regrets. It’s all been grand. We did go to the ocean when you were little. Remember the time the man-of-war stung you and I poured pickle juice on the sting and it worked? You thought I was wonderful. So did I.
And the boat you made and put your sister in that sank.
Well, she’s a pretty good swimmer. At least you tried.
Remember Ted and the rope swing and the time the Chargers won the championship with your banana kick and the water moccasin you brought to the house in a gunny sack?
But, listen, these are not maudlin memories. Sure, there are a lot of good ones—memories; but you are the most here-and-now human I know, a continuance, yesterday, today, and most of all, tomorrow.
Actually, this all feels pretty good. Your dad and I fell in love and danced in the dark, the pale light coming through the bay window of the old clubhouse. Now here we are with your brother in college, you beginning your senior year in a letter jacket, your sisters getting permanents today.
How does this happen? A parent wants to talk about Life and winds up with one-liners about pickle juice and permanents.
Have we talked enough about the importance of family, the consolation of good work, the necessity for honor?
You still need so many things.
That reminds me… do you have enough socks? You need two more nice shirts for dress up. Those shoes look OK. Do they still fit?
Have you had your senior picture made yet? Did you order your All-District patches? Did you take pencils this morning?
Did I tell you I love you?
Hey!
Wait!
