Linda Ronstadt "Adios"

I didn't intend to make my teacher cry, but it happened. Tasked with writing a paper about someone I loved and lost for my 8th grade Literature class, I quickly got to work putting my still raw feelings about my grandfather to paper. Grandpa John passed away October 29, 1989. His sudden death marked the first major loss I experienced. That date and day remains etched in my memory some 30 years later. That day in early 1991, I lowered my guard and candidly wrote about my feelings on Grandpa John and the loss it took on my family. When I walked to the front of the classroom and handed in my paper to my teacher, Mrs. Hoess, she broke down in tears.

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The 29th day of October 1989 was the final day of my school's fall break and another unseasonably warm October afternoon meant another opportunity to make a few bucks mowing the lawn of my other grandparents. Grandma and Grandpa Ganz lived two houses away while Grandma Emily and Grandpa John lived two towns away. While cutting the grass, I vividly remember seeing my parents' car speed down our block, but I thought nothing of it. A bit later while I was struggling to empty the grass clippings into a garbage bag, Grandma Ganz emerged and shared the bad news. "Your grandpa John had a heart attack," she calmly told me. Even though the news stunned me, I swallowed hard to remove the lump in my throat and tried to carry on as though I didn't hear what I was just told. Clearly recognizing this, my grandma suggested I come inside to take a break.

Four days prior,Grandpa John proudly stood next to my brother at his Confirmation ceremony at our family's church in Dyer, Indiana. A very religious man, Grandpa John was beaming to be my brother's Confirmation sponsor. Even before he retired from American Steel, Grandpa spent most of his time volunteering as an usher, commentator and parish board member at St. John Bosco Church in Hammond, Indiana. The night of my brother's confirmation, my mom baked a lasagna, and I remember my grandpa wasn't feeling well. He recall he spent some lengthy time in the bathroom after dinner while we all waited. During the Confirmation ceremony, the Bishop quizzed the ninth grade students about the Bible, Catholicism and Jesus all the while Grandpa John whispered all of the answers in my brother's ear. He proudly (and incorrectly) told my brother that he was batting 100. After the ceremony, we all said our goodbyes in the church parking lot and then walked toward our respective cars. Just before reaching his Chevy Firenza, Grandpa John turned back and yelled in my direction: "You're next!".

That fateful October 29th, my grandparents took part in Polish Heritage Days at the East Chicago Public Library. Grandpa John and Grandma Emily performed in their own Polka band known as "The Musical J.E.M.S." and took the stage that afternoon. I never knew any of the songs from the 1920s and 1930s that they played, but I remember they were entertaining and could work a room. Both dressed in these white outfits with red trim (the official Polish colors!)...Grandma with her accordion and Grandpa with his kazoo and boomba (also known as a stump fiddle). While performing one of their signature songs that afternoon, Grandpa John fell. He suffered a massive heart attack that afternoon and died instantly.

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Wiping away the tears, Mrs. Hoess shared that she knew Grandpa John and, next to her husband, loved him dearly. "A special man," she called him. Her husband and my grandpa were friends and both volunteered at church. After Grandpa John died, my grandma decided the best way to deal with her grief was to get rid of all my grandpa's belongings: clothes, landscaping, tools...they all went...the majority of it during a garage sale. Mr. Hoess attended that garage sale and purchased a bunch of my grandpa's tools...not out of necessity, but because he wanted something tangible to remember my grandfather. A few days later, Mr. Hoess died.

My literature assignment dredged up layers of painful memories both for teacher and student. I never expected to watch my teacher's tears as she read my words. It was one of the first times I realized that teachers were people too. They didn't live at the school. They didn't live to assign tests and homework -- that was their job. As much as teachers and students never cross over to being friends, I felt like that incident made Mrs. Hoess my friend. She wasn't just someone who taught me poetry, she and I shared a love of the same people...just in different ways.

After I went into high school, I kept in touch with her via Grandma Emily (who lived near her and also saw her at church). A few days after I graduated from high school, a package arrived in the mail with the return address "me". I knew it was from Mrs. Hoess. "me" was how she always signed her notes and cards to me. Tucked inside her package to me was an inspirational book coupled with a note congratulating me on finishing high school. She wished me the best in college and also shared that she also was going away to a new school. She accepted a new department head position at a different school and would be moving away from Northwest Indiana. I never heard from her again. I recognize I could Google her name, but I fear what obituary Google might return. I'd rather believe she's still busy teaching her unbridled love of literature to young minds...