A Bit Late, But Here's to You Ron Grenke

                     A Bit Late, But Here's to You, Ron

My adult daughter told me that I lived in a bubble. Huh? Me?

The comment felt perplexing because I regard myself as an open minded progressive. As a result of this conundrum,  I decided to spend time in self-reflection. Finally, I came to the conclusion that we all live in some sort of bubble created by our experiences, our culture, traditions, etc. As we journey through life, hopefully, we acquire new experiences, meet diverse people, listen to different points of view,  and enjoy unfamiliar food.  Our bubbles should enlarge; you've heard of paradigm shifts, right? That's it. I certainly do not want to be stuck in my 1950's perspective, not even the one from last year. I want my life to be filled with change. 

In the 1980s we moved from Illinois to Texas and was hired by the Lewisville Independent School District to teach at a middle school  in Flower Mound. What a great place to work, but also a bit problematic. I lived in Lewisville and with one family car, that was otherwise used, I found myself in need of getting to work, and my daughter needing get to elementary school. 

The first week of teacher inservice, I hung a sign on the workroom bulletin board asking if anyone in the Lewisville area could give me a ride to work. Quite a commitment for the entire year. The next day, the 8th grade science teacher sought me out, and Ron said he would be more than happy to take me to school each day.

"Ah, one more thing. Would it be too much of an imposition if we dropped my daughter at her school on the way? She starts first grade next week." (I purposefully left out this tidbit until we were solid on my ride.)

Without blinking, he answered, "Sure."

So for the entire school year, Ron Grenke picked Kimberly and I up at our house, dropped her at Timbercreek Elementary, then went onto the middle school. I must admit, my previous bubble had not known any one who was gay, and Ron was my first introduction. 

He was kind hearted. Generous, Giving. My bubble began to grow. One morning when he picked my daughter and me up for school, his car was filled with several delightful gentleman. They were talkative, joked with one another, introduced themselves to us. I looked at my six year old daughter. Her face was open and innocent. Of course, she had no idea of their life style. She was too young to be told, anyway. But here she was, thrilled to meet Ron's friends, which I knew were adding color to her life. And value to mine. 

By the next school year, I acquired a second car, so I was able to get Kimberly and myself, back and forth from our schools. 

Ron and I remained school friends. Kim no longer saw him due to the lack of need for transportation.  One afternoon, I saw Ron stumbling around in the hallways. This was at the start of the aids epidemic. A man who never missed a day from work in years of teaching, now was racking up absences. It wasn't hard for any of us  to guess what was happening to him. To this day, I regret not having the fortitude to talk to him, let him know how much I admired him. To say, I was here for him if he should need a ride to anywhere, for anything. But I didn't. I wasn't scared of catching aids. I just didn't know what to say.

And then, Ron died. It made an impact on my life and on everyone who knew him, including my daughter. Only recently did I realize how much it affected her.

When my now adult daughter returned to Dallas on a business trip not long ago, we went out for dinner, and returned to the hotel room with a bottle of wine. In the middle of a midnight heart to heart, Kimberly began to sob. "Do you remember Ron Grenke?"

"Of course I do."

"I loved him and he died." Her words were simple but impactful, as though coming directly out of the memory of a child's heart. "He was so good to me. We talked about school and he had funny stories. I loved him, " she repeated. "At the time, of his death you just told me he died and then walked away. I didn't know what to do with my pain. I didn't know how to process it and you didn't help me."

Until that moment I had no idea how much Ron meant to her. As a colleague, he meant a lot to me. Looking back, I may have wanted to shield her from the ugliness and controversy of aids so I avoided saying more when she needed to know more. 

Sadly, I could relate. I was six, her age, when my beloved Uncle Ralph died. I remember sobbing to my parents, begging to attend his funeral. But I was too young to attend, they said. All these years, I still regret the decision they made for me.

And I had inadvertently made that same decision for my daughter. Ron passed. Our life went on. Yet, this exemplary man, who taught science to hundreds and hundreds of middle schoolers, who was kind to every person he ever spoke with, who took time to help a woman with her daughter get to school each morning for a full school calendar year, and who left his entire inheritance to the educational foundation for teacher grants. 

Now, as grown women, we lifted a glass to remember him, a wonderful human being. "Sorry we are late. But, here's to you Ron Grenke. We still love you."