At an invitation-only reception before my speaking engagement, Tink and I were surrounded by lovely people who came one at a time for introductions and then to talk about our work, either individually or separately.
In a room of strangers yet friends, because they know us through our publicized words, we made conversation and tried to focus on the person—not us. I took words of praise and quickly tossed them aside for more interesting discussions about them or their hometown.
Tink is more adept. Any conversation that focuses on him is disdainful to him. It’s the New England Yankee in him. We Southerners are happy to tell you what we had for breakfast and how we make our biscuits.
A precious woman had been waiting. When she arrived, she spoke sweetly about our work and mentioned, specifically, a television show that Tink had executive produced.
He quickly answered her question and then said, “We want to know more about you. Did you grow up here?”
That question answered, he discovered she was a teacher, and she smilingly told him how much she had loved her years in the classroom.
“Where did you go to college?” he asked.
Immediately, tears glistened in her eyes. Softly, she said, “That’s a tough conversation these days. I’ve cried so much.”
Birmingham Southern College had provided the stage for her four happy years of college. Those, as we all can recall, are the last carefree days before life comes calling with triumphs, tribulations, and, sometimes, tragedies. Those laughing days, without warning, turned into times when we search for a job, a place to live, the right person to date,e and the wisdom to get away from the wrong one before it becomes a trip down the aisle.
A tear dropped from her eye, and she wiped it away quickly with a cocktail napkin. “I’m so sorry to bore y’all with my tears.”
We encouraged her and asked more questions.
“It had been in trouble for many years. I and many of the alums had stepped up our contributions. It was such a large, happy piece of my life that I believe I will be sad for the rest of my life.”
Two weeks later, I came across an article in the Wall Street Journal highlighting the troubling trend of higher education institutions closing their doors. Over the past decade, more than 500 private colleges have shut down. This wasn’t new information, as I had heard it once before.
A couple of years ago, a college in Vermont had closed. I saw the story and read it aloud to Tink.
“Seriously? That was a well-respected school.”
Tink’s stepfather had sat on the board of directors for many years. The photo accompanying the story showed grand buildings sweetened by age and ivy spilling over walls.
It was a big blow to a small town that relied on the school's economic impact on local businesses.
But her tears, salty with heartbreak, were the first I had personally encountered.
“Now, when I think of all the joy I had on that campus, the pain of knowing that it’s no longer there will be almost too much hurt to stand. It feels like losing a family member to death.”
In the WSJ, the reporter reported that Birmingham Southern College, which is over 167 years old (it survived the Civil War) and is built on 197 acres, had a baseball team that was impressively advancing in the Intercollegiate World Series when word arrived that the school had closed.
Two days later, in a small Ohio town, the team was eliminated, not because of a lack of playing but because of the lack of a school.
Nine hundred and seventy-five students were displaced without warning. Nothing is sadder than the scenery lost where beautiful memories were created.
The bad memories, though? Tear all those walls down.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of the Stella Bankwell Mysteries. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.