Owosso High School

Presentations

2019 55th Class Reunion

The Case of Two Report Cards
By Chas Lyons, co-chair 55th Reunion

In an old, crumpled cardboard box packed with forgotten memorabilia, two report cards appeared.

One was dated 1951, signed by my kindergarten teacher, Pearl Casler. The other was dated 1957, signed by my seventh grade homeroom teacher, Robert Lee.

Pearl had marked “Satisfactory-Plus”, the best grade you could receive, on three lines that read, “Shows Initiative and Creativity, Completes a Task, and Makes Good Use of Time”; traits that would serve me well years later as a newspaper executive.

Probably coincidental. Or, who knows, maybe Pearl Casler had sized me up at the age of five as someone with potential, squared my shoulders, and nudged me forward in that little town of Corunna, population 2,400 people.

The second report card, seven years later, was the worst report card of my life. Mostly C’s, one or two B’s, and a couple of D’s. There was a note from my homeroom teacher, Robert Lee, that said I was doing below average work at Emerson School.

It is not hard to figure out what happened since that high point in Pearl Casler’s classroom. After my dad was killed in an automobile accident, our family life spun out of control. I was nine-years-old. That winter the furnace went out in our home and my mom, a widow with seven children, moved us to an apartment over the top of Doctor McKnight’s office in Owosso. Life became all about survival in the midst of chaos, trying to figure out what to do on your own, and not always doing it very well.

There were moments when I longed for my dad to appear, briefly, so I could ask him a question about something that was puzzling me. Looking back on it now, I know he was not the kind of dad who seemed to have many answers. Mom was the decision-maker, the person with the answers, the resilient one. But her’s was an overwhelmed, unapproachable life, saddled with her own troubled up-bringing, the oldest of 14 children raised in a three-room house with a sleeping porch in a poor Southern Illinois town.

So there I was, Robert Lee’s below average student, far removed from Pearl Casler’s satisfactory-plus student, just hanging on to the precipice created by life’s circumstances.

And, then, along came Owosso High School.

I really liked that old high school in Owosso tucked away there on the banks of the Shiawassee River, full of tradition and character; kind of hated to give it up for that huge modern glitzy new high school built in a corn field north of town. But, that was ok too.

I can see clearly now the events and the people that influenced my life, many of them in high school, some on the job in the Argus-Press newsroom where I went to work in my junior year, some at church, some in the community where we all grew up.

It does seem much nearer than 55-years ago when 300 of us walked out of that cap and gown line on Wilman Field into the real world where mostly we had absolutely no idea how life would play out.

Fortunately, for me, life proved more promising than what Robert Lee could foresee. But, now, here we are tonight in what feels increasingly like the winding down stage of life.

Sixty eight fellow students have passed away, 22 since our reunion five years ago. And I have to say that every time I watch this memorial video with those graduation photos I am struck by the randomness of it all; who has left us, who remains.

Our worlds are getting smaller. We are required to make changes so that we can adapt, live with hopefulness, and attend to whatever matters the most to us in life.

What matters most to you? Health? Family? Faith? How about friends?

Whenever you thought about growing old did you ever think that health issues would be such a big part of our retirement years? We battle heart conditions, cancer, back pain, and other ailments. Some of our body parts have been repaired or replaced — mostly knees and hips. Some of what ails us can be cured; some of it we just have to live with the discomfort and the pain.

And, family matters — our spouses, partners, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. I am long done with work, but I am still a husband, a dad, a grandpa.

Sandra lost a daughter to cancer 18 months ago and we saw her and her family through the final days; I have a daughter fighting cancer at the age of 47 and we are members of Team Jo Jo doing whatever is required in behalf of her and her family. Ten years ago Sandra was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment and that has been no easy journey with the fading of her memory. Family matters and our enduring love for them defines much of our lives today.

Something else that matters in this time of life is friends.

I am not talking about Facebook friends. I am speaking of men and women whose knowledge and feelings for each other run far deeper. Some of us are engineered to go it alone. We are self-sufficient; resilient; independent. But, there are times when we need each other.

Albert Schweitzer said,“In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”

A reunion is an opportunity to re-new friendships and even make new friends. But don’t just make friends. Be a friend. Call up a friend spontaneously. Laugh with them. Tell stories. Empathize with them. Care about them. Be a friend.

Our worlds are getting smaller. We can adapt to the changes and be hopeful while attending to what matters most to us. Personally, I just hope that Pearl Casler is looking down on my life and still thinks that I merit that satisfactory-plus she gave me 68 years ago.

2014 50th Class Reunion

The Way We Are
By Chas Lyons, co-chair 50th Reunion

At our last reunion in 2010 we reflected on “The Way We Were” — that wonderful, safe time and place we knew in those growing-up years in Owosso. Tonight, a few thoughts on “The Way We Are” as we connect who we are today with those years, plus what this 50th reunion means to the days that lie ahead.

Dr. Wayne Dyer, a psychologist who has written 40 books mostly about self improvement, just released his memoir with a title that I think captures this time of life. It is, “I Can See Clearly Now.”

Dyer tries to look back at events and people and seemingly chance encounters of the past that are woven into the fabric of who he is today. He believes there are no accidents in life. Even the negatives lead to positives.

Working with Lynda on two reunions, we have become good friends along with her husband and our able assistant, Pat. Lynda and I are not daff — at least not that we know of. We have asked ourselves why we put so much personal resource into this effort. I think we agree on one reason: we did not want to let go of the people who were there when we were there 50 years ago. As we slow down our lives we did not want to miss the opportunity to re-kindle friendships, to make new friendships, to keep memories alive, to follow the continuing stories of our classmates as we write the final chapters of this book entitled, The Class of 64”.

Along the way we have come to appreciate that indeed each of us has a story. We have losses — family, friends, jobs, financial, health. We have much to celebrate. And, whether our stories were played out on a big stage, a small stage, or no stage, they are all of equal importance. And when I watch the pictures of those 46 classmates who are no longer with us I cannot help but see our mortality and the value of old and new friendships from the Class of ’64.

I was back in Owosso last year and asked Jim Noonon if he wanted to meet me at the Comstock Inn for breakfast. He said sure and showed up in the lobby where he sized up the continental breakfast and said, “Grab your coat, let’s go get a real breakfast.” Moments later I jealously watched him down a plate full of chipped beef and other goodies from the Elias Big Boy buffet. We shared a few laughs from high school days, but also stories about our families and growing up — surprising stories that you just don’t talk about in your teens, stories that enlighten, that help us see more clearly who we are today.

We then drove over to his house and I saw his do-it-yourself craftsmanship and his fascinating hobby, the pictures of family on the walls, and got a tour from his wife, Kathryn. It was great and even though Maryland is a long ways from Michigan and neither one of us are Facebook people I hope we nurture that friendship.

We never stop learning about how best to live our lives, and there are lessons that we can see clearly now as we look back on those high school years. For some, the lessons came from a teacher, for others a counselor, parents, a friend, the band, the choir, a sports team, the 4-H or an event. Not all experiences were positive, but regardless they contributed to who we are today.

When Fred Bishop went out for track, no matter how much heart he put into it one thing became obvious to Fred and his coach, Hank Griffin. He had a big heart, but slow feet. Rather than give up on track, however, Coach Griffin encouraged Fred to try the shot put event. He did and took away a life lesson on when something does not work out, don’t give up; look for another way.

Of course, when I think of Fred, who had a long career as a state trooper, his smile and positive demeanor come immediately to mind. You have probably experienced that here tonight. I can’t imagine what it would be like being pulled over by Fred. And whether that friendly smile would result in me driving away with a warning or a ticket. My guess is a ticket, but it would feel all right.

Jeanne Beebe Martin remembers lots of teachers who challenged her as she excelled in academics. But, no one challenged her more or had higher expectations than her parents.

Jeanne loved that old high school in our freshman and sophomore years where once a week she would break away at noon to get a burger and real cherry coke at Capitan’s. The band was a big part of her life — the early morning starts to class, the evening rehearsals, trips, football games.

Jeanne views herself lucky to have had great parents both of whom worked outside the home. In junior high along came a little brother. Since her older sisters had left the house Jeanne was responsible for taking care of her brother after school and making dinner every night. The expectations were that she would work hard, be involved in extra-curricular activities, and do well in school. She did not disappoint them as co-salutatorian with Karen Wing Buck.

Rebecca Cook Fischer wanted to be a veterinarian even before kindergarten. But, in high school she hit an obstacle when her counselor tried to persuade her that she should not study to become a veterinarian at Michigan State University because it was a man’s profession. That did not stop her as she earned her doctorate of veterinarian medicine and has her own business today in the Grand Rapids area.

What Rebecca or Becky or Cookie as some knew her did have in high school was a great friend, Cheryl Mowen Dann. Cheryl and Becky have known each other since grade school and, in fact, lived only one block apart. Cheryl remembers laboring away in Mr. Bronson’s algebra class while Becky, a math whiz, had finished her assignment and was cracking and eating pistachio nuts hidden away at her desk.

Even after high school, in the mid-seventies, Becky asked Cheryl to make farm rounds as she gathered mandated samples for testing as a result of chemical contamination of cattle grain. It was a time when herds were being destroyed to protect the food chain. Cheryl, who worked for 26 years as a clinical social worker, joined Becky on this adventure and remembers going home more than once covered head to toe in cow manure. Becky never laughed out loud but Cheryl thinks she was probably bursting inside.

So what is your story and can you see clearly now the friends, the teachers, the counselors, the coaches, the parents, the band, the choir, the community institutions that connect today to The Way We Are.

And, what about what lies ahead?

Some years ago I went fly fishing in a drift boat in Maine.

I was making small talk with the guide as he rowed against the powerful current and dropped anchor in the middle of rapids where we would cast away for salmon and trout. He was a learned man — educated, well read — who held down four different jobs during the year, typical of the average Mainer. He was also a story-teller and full of one-line quips.

I asked, “Have you lived in Maine your whole life?” He had to be rolling his eyes with a question he had answered a hundred times.

He smiled, “Well, actually, I have not lived my whole life.”

So. Here we are. The Class of 1964. Fifty years removed from our high school graduation. But, we have not yet lived our whole lives. In fact, according to actuarial tables on average we have about 15 more years of life ahead, 17 if you are a woman, time for three more reunions and a whole lot more.

Joe Morris was class president in our freshman year. He worked full time his senior year and made it to graduation in part thanks to the compassion of a biology teacher, Holgar Andersen, Pat’s father, who said you make it to class, do your best, and I will see that you graduate.

Joe moved to Saginaw immediately after graduation and went to work for GM where he thrived. They got him some schooling, trained him and flew him around the world as an expert in his field. He lost his first wife in an automobile accident but is happily married today.

Joe retired from GM but he never stopped working. Today, he is a silent partner with his son, Tadd, in a unique business called Second Chance Wood. Joe, who lives in St. Charles, takes down old barns and his son has a 37,000 square foot showroom and manufacturing plant in Vernon Township. Joe is the guy who tears down the barns and salvages the reclaimed wood that is used primarily for furniture. He has taken down dozens of barns, has 80 more on the waiting list, and has no plans to slow down. Clearly, Joe has not lived his whole life yet.

And, neither have we. A reunion is an opportunity to re-unite with the past, to see more clearly what was at work in shaping The Way We Are, and to connect with classmates who can be a positive part of our experience as we live out the rest of our lives. We have much left to give, to discover, to experience. You don’t have to take down a barn, but you do have to keep building your life one day at a time. So, consider taking a classmate or two along on the journey and in the words of Garrison Keillor: Be well. Do good works. And, keep in touch.

2010 Class Reunion

The Way We Were
By Chas Lyons, co-chair 46th Reunion.

There is a word that resonates for the Owosso High School Class of 1964 when reflecting on those first four years of the Sixties. The word is safe.

We experienced our high school years in a safe place, in a safe time.

There were wars behind us: Korea and World War II. There was a divisive war ahead of us, but no war with us.

There was a mild, 10-month recession that ended in our freshman year. And, America began the second longest period of economic growth in its history.

We were optimistic. Our president, John F. Kennedy, said we were going to land a man on the moon. His wife, Jacquelyn, labeled our era the American Camelot, likening it to the legendary King Arthur’s Court, defined as a place or time of idyllic happiness.

We lived in a classic Midwestern town with a vibrant downtown and our very own Macy’s-like department store with an elevator. We had street after street of beautiful over-hanging trees and houses with front porches and neatly mowed lawns. We were a mix of Christian and Catholic and Jewish faiths with clubs that ranged from Free Masons to Knights of Columbus to Rotarians. We had quiet poverty, pockets of wealth and little encounter with race with a population that looked more like Iowa than Flint or Lansing.

The local economy was at its zenith. You could find a job at Mid-West Abrasive, Universal Electric, Midland-Ross, Redmond’s or Mitchell-Bentley or drive 40 minutes to one of the auto plants in nearby cities where the wages were good and the benefits even better.

Our class tasted the tradition of the old high school constructed in the 1920s on the banks of the Shiawassee River across from Curwood Castle. The school looked monumental to a lonely freshman with its grand staircases reaching up three floors.

Rumors abounded that you could buy an elevator pass to make it from the bottom to the top floor in time for your next class and to watch out for the rough crowd that had been known to hold a freshman by his feet over the top of the third floor banister.

The nice break in the day was gym class, except when the boys were forced to join the girls and learn square dancing and you did not get to choose your partner. And then there was swim class where the boys jumped into the pool buck naked. That is one photo that never made the yearbook.

In our junior year we moved to a brand new high school located on the north side of town in a big farm field. It was huge – especially the gymnasium with three basketball courts and sliding bleachers—and all on one floor. No more need for the elevator pass.

Looking back on it today, yes, moving to a new school was exciting. But, what classmates seem to remember the most were the teachers and friends.

We all had our favorite teachers. Mrs. Sweet, Mrs. Kaufman, Mr. Moore, Mr. Floro, Mr. Bronson, Mrs. Conger and the student teacher with the short skirt from Michigan State University teaching biology, of course.

Some of the teachers were good, but odd. Like Mrs. Lee who drilled into us that root of all languages, Latin, with those memorable words of Caesar: vini, vidi, vici. I came. I saw. I conquered. And, even more important, “Turn your homework in PDQ.” The P stood for Pretty. The Q stood for quick. And the D did not stand for darn.

The real highlight of Latin was the Latin Club and its annual Toga Party when we all showed up wrapped in white sheets, I mean, togas. Believe me. You have not lived until you have seen your classmates in togas.

It seems like all of us who got involved in vocal music or the band remember those as among our best experiences. The music programs of OHS were exceptional from concerts to halftime shows to high jinx to state competitions to the big finish at the Christmas concert when the band played its traditional capstone piece, Sleigh Ride.

Interestingly, the directors of the programs, Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Bremer, were known affectionately as Mr. G and Mr. B. and seemed to have this mixture of passion for music, drive for excellence, and the ability (which we forgave) to cop a mood.

I recall one time Mr. G, a former marine who once demonstrated push-ups on one arm, got so upset with the sound of the A Capella Choir that he wadded the music up, threw it at the choir and walked into his office. We sat there until the bell rang and tip-toed out.

The next day at rehearsal he walked to the lectern, flattened out the wad of music, and said with a smile, “I think we have a few things to iron out.” All was forgiven.

Many of us in this room got involved in athletics. For some of us finding our way in life it was where we learned the value of team and to never, never give up.

The speeches by the coaches could be corny. This was Coach Conklin’s forte: The difference between a Champ and a Chump is U. Give the team everything you have and if at the end of the game you have nothing left I will carry you off the field.

Sometimes we were inspired. Sometimes we sort of just went along like when Coach Conklin had us sit in our pads in the locker room before the game with the lights turned out. And then Coach Tavenner had us storm into the locker room before the kickoff and just pound the heck out of the lockers and yell and scream like we were real fired up – which I guess we were.

The best moment was running out from underneath the cement bleachers of Willman Stadium onto the field and jumping into a circle of blue and gold while the band played, Go You Owosso, on a frosty Friday night in November. That was Americana.

We would all come back to that stadium at the end of our senior year, dressed in graduation gowns, walking in that step, pause, step, pause cadence to “Pomp and Circumstance.”

The records are a little sketchy. Near as we can tell there was somewhere between 296 and 311 classmates who graduated and went out into the world.

Many of us became teachers, some went into the military, and some became skilled workers in the auto industry or machinists or tool and die makers. Others worked as a speech therapist, nurse, surgeon, interior and garden designer, artist, winemaker, plumber and pipe fitter, choir director, bomb technician, journalist, attorney, Realtor, song writer, author, Hospice staffer, business executive, assistant director of a foundation, Social Security staffer, sales director, entrepreneur, chef, veterinarian, state trooper, packaging manager, and more.

The world we knew, the Camelot we knew, was changing. It started in our senior year when the announcement came over the public address speaker that the president of the United States, John F. Kennedy, had been assassinated.

You remember where you were that day. You remember that some of your classmates wept. Some looked at their teachers, like the wise, old history buff Clarence Hood, who folded his arms, pressed his lips tightly together and looked down in silence. The man who had spent a lifetime trying to explain history had suddenly been caught in history.

Some of the changes were welcomed. We did land that man on the moon in 1969, the Cold War ended, the Civil Rights movement opened our eyes to the worth of all people, the USA beat Russia in hockey and we can now all have a Facebook page.

Yes, we still have wars – the longest war in our history, difficult economic times – the worst since the Great Depression, and politicians who could use a good dose of Midwestern common sense. Hopefully, we still have our optimism, our individualism, our sense of fairness, and our value for faith, family, and country.

We are at an interesting point of life. Some of us are still working either because we still enjoy the challenges in our jobs or because our 401K’s got torpedoed during the recession of the past two and a half years. Many of our classmates are in retirement, hopefully making it a grand time of life.

A smile came to my face when I read on our class web site the profile from Ron Miller. After high school graduation Ron joined the marines. He then went on to become a homicide detective for 25 years at the LAPD and then another 12 years at the Burbank Police Department. He re-married and he and his wife have a blended family of four children and three grandchildren. Ron has now retired to a 20-acre ranch in the mountains east of Bakersfield, California, with 10 horses. He sports a big, thick mustache and I really wish he would add a photo to our web site of himself on a horse with a cowboy hat. I bet it would look stunning.

Ron also notes that he is a cancer survivor which is a reminder that even though the financial planners project us to live to 92 we are now in a time of life when longevity and health are seen through a different lens.

The questions become: How shall we enjoy, even re-discover times with our friends? This one night with our classmates? How many memories can we create for our children and grandchildren? What good can we add to the world that surrounds us? Where else shall we venture in this bright, wondrous world?

For the Class of 64, we wish for these to be the best of times. We were blessed by living and being grounded in a time of Camelot. And the way we were has much to do with the way we are. And the way we shall live out these years of our lives. Happy 46^th Anniversary.

2010 Class Reunion

Life after Death
By Rich Hultin

As a carpenter I often wondered how I was

helping spread God’s word

with rusty, steel, resin-coated, plastic dipped,

painted aluminum, hardened black, cut masonry nails

to stitch lifeless boards, from once thriving trees.

Who would know that an artist, photographer, painter, musician,

father, son of a banker, world adventurer, salesman, soldier, student,

assembler of cars, supervisor, estimator, chauffer

had bent over for 35yrs to erect those

cabinets, closets, shelves, windows, doors, roofs, basements, ceilings,

walls, floors, attics, crawlspaces, porches, driveways, hotel

rooms, showrooms, office buildings, apartments, condos, captain’s

lofts, covered decks, bedrooms, stairways, balconies, fire escapes,

curbs, fences, hearths, tub enclosures, parapets, garages, laundry and

chutes, for unsuspecting families, business men, lady entrepreneurs,

missionaries, doctors, bankers, lawyers, farmers, nurses, teachers,

parents, children, widows, single mothers, pastors, sisters, single

women and men moving about their own affairs.

Would anyone notice the sacrifice being made for them to play

their part in my life? The little deaths we give each day to make life for

someone else:

one day we are the audience, another the performer.

I serve you my counterpart, today. Tomorrow you serve me. And

Neither of us suspect the change.

We accept wages for our sacrifices when we can compute the bill.

But is anyone keeping track of those times we are not sure,

was I serving you or were you serving me?

Who’s the older here?

I could swear I’ve been here a long time.

Yet today is more real to some than yesterday or tomorrow.

Here I am in the middle of what?

I am just alive today as I was 64 years ago.

And by someone’s books I haven’t begun to live,

since by their record there is no account of a filmmaker with my name.

I’ve worn many hats, as have you, and no one is still very sure, do I owe

you, or do you owe me?

Has anyone come closer to knowing God because of me.

I think someone else must have paid the bill, because I’m still free.

And I’m still me.

Isn’t this all very strange?

Isn’t God a blast!