Hugh Brandon

Hugh Brandon

Three days after Christmas our doorbell rings, and there stands Hugh Brandon. 

I'm so glad to see him I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Laughter wins.

"Come in!" I hug him, delighted. Then I stand back to survey my old boss. We haven't seen Hugh for more than a year. Nearly 80 years old, he's lean and fit and still smiles with the impish grin that reminds me exactly of his 13-year old grandson Luke. I've coaxed him all the way from Omaha to have lunch with John and me. Hugh Brandon is one of my very favorite people in the world, and I miss him. 

We stand there grinning foolishly until it occurs to me he hasn't even said hello. Instead, right out of the gate, he stammers like a little boy. "I, I, I..."

For a terrible moment I fear he will tell me he's sick.

"I've met a gal," he finally says.

Astonished, I stare at him. Then I grip his shoulders hard. "Tell me every thing."

Hugh has been my friend for nearly 45 years. It's because of Hugh Brandon, Central Catholic's former long time principal/superintendent, and his wife Fran that I have the life I do.  Many years ago, when we are all young people at Central Catholic, the two of them conspire to bring John Howard to GICC. Well. Fran conspires. Hugh only follows orders.

"You need to hire that young guy," Fran tells him about the applicant for the new social studies job. "He's 6 foot 8. He's perfect." He's perfect for me, she means. I'm the single 6 foot 1 inch English teacher, and Fran has decided something has to be done.

Her instincts are correct. A year later, just before the following school year begins, John Howard and I are married at Blessed Sacrament Church with the entire school in attendance. John asks Hugh to be his best man.

"After all, you hired me to marry the spinster school marm," he jokes.

Hugh and Fran with Mike, Kelly, Sean
and Erin

These are my favorite days at Central Catholic. When Hugh arrives in 1978, the school needs him badly. Only 35-years-old, he and Fran and four little Brandons roll into Grand Island from Hay Springs, a small community in western Nebraska, and immediately endear themselves to all of us. Hugh is wise and kind with a funny self-deprecating humor, and Fran is charming and lovely. Her beautiful smile embraces you on sight.

"Well, hello there," she greets you warmly in her low, wonderful voice. She and Hugh are a package deal at Central Catholic. Fran and the kids are every bit as invested in the school as Hugh is. We love all of them very much. In fact, Pat and Julie Kayl, Father Don O'Brien, and John and I spend many evenings in the Brandon home playing Trivial Pursuit, laughing at Hugh's quips, and enjoying the Brandon kids. Mike, Kelly, Erin and tiny Sean are adorable and ornery. Hugh eventually ends up flat on his back on the living floor wrestling with four kids who shriek and laugh and topple all over him. Fran, on the other hand, can hardly wait to show Julie and me her organizational triumphs.

She spends hours sorting dozens and dozens of photo albums and filing away every tax form, utility bill, report card and funeral program. Hugh never understands the need for saving every single document. 

"Is it really necessary, Frannie?" he attempts to reason with her.

Yes, it is, replies Fran who holds firm ideas about all things and all subjects. As far as Fran's concerned, danger lurks from every corner. Fireplaces are death traps, stiff winds can - at any second - whip into tornados, and reciting five decades of the Rosary is the only way to survive a family road trip without becoming a bloody statistic. Organizing her possessions helps her to feel in control of the chaotic world that relentlessly threatens her family. It is useless, her family understands, to argue. In the end, mild-mannered Hugh throws up his hands. 

"Fine, Fran. Have it your way." After all, he acknowledges, she's usually right.

Fran is deeply Catholic, a Jihad Catholic, we like to tease her. Before she meets Hugh, she even enters the convent. Hugh doesn't exactly talk her out of becoming a nun, but all thoughts of a vocation are affectively banished after she meets him. Fran is beguiled by Hugh's naughty irreverence, his under-stated humor, and even his bad smoking habit. 

"My mission in life," she tells him early in their marriage, "is to get you into Heaven." 

But Hugh's misspent youth is the reason he's such a savvy administrator. There is not a deceitful teenager alive who can pull anything over Mr. Brandon. At Central Catholic, he cultivates easy but meaningful relationships with the kids. Responsible for the school's financial health, school policy, discipline and building maintenance, Hugh's favorite part of the job is, nevertheless, visiting with kids in the hall. He jokes with them in the cafeteria and the senior lounge and nourishes the warm, family environment that GICC is famous for. But Mr. Brandon is no pushover.

At a school dance in the early 80's, Hugh's informed that substantial numbers of kids have been drinking. The following day he calls a school assembly and expresses his deep disappointment. The students involved have disrespected their school, he says quietly, and all that Central Catholic stands for. Now he expects them to earn that respect back by coming clean and confessing.

It's remarkable - something I've not witnessed before or since. Students hang their heads in shame. Hugh Brandon's good opinion means something. Thirty-two kids, one by one, march into his office and admit their guilt. The consequences are significant. According to school policy, those 32 students - many of them athletes - are suspended for the rest of the winter sports' season. The boys' and girls' basketball teams are decimated, and Fred Northup almost wins the district boys' basketball tourney that year with a team of sophomores. None of us can help but think what Fred could have accomplished with an entire team of talented players.

"Not one coach said a word," Hugh says now. "They supported me. Right was right."

At the end of that painful year, the kids gift Hugh with the "Velvet Hammer Award" - a big hammer wrapped in blue velvet - to express their love and gratitude for the principal who loves them enough to make them do the right thing.

There are other painful times - the death of Dave Rombach, our much loved science teacher - who drowns in the lake behind his home attempting to save his dog. Hugh sobs like a baby at his funeral. Difficult economic stress seems to threaten the school's very existence at times. Hugh depends on Beata Moore, Central's long time business manager residing in her little office upstairs, to guide him through those lean days. 

"Beata was a financial miracle," Hugh says now. "She kept every ledger in long hand and always knew how to squeeze another penny out of the budget."

For several years, Hugh can't afford to give teachers a raise. When we don't get a raise, however, Hugh doesn't get one either. "I couldn't reward myself and not the staff," he recalls. "We operated on faith. Even when there was no tangible evidence, we had to believe God would provide."

But there are good times, too. Sisters Mary Leo and Sue rule the main office. Sister Sue shushes students at the office counter so that she can sip her coke and listen to Big Bucks Bingo every noon on KRGI, and Sister Mary Leo fishes every piece of paper out of the garbage to use for scraps. Howard Schumann reigns over all activities, Fred Northup daily forgets his false tooth in the faculty lounge, Pam Krall creates a space for talented orators, Carl Tesmer is building a football dynasty, and Sharon Zavala is on her way to becoming the winningest volleyball coach in the country.

"The first time the volleyball team won State," Hugh remembers, "I sat in the bleachers and wept."

Eventually, after 12 years, the rigors of being superintendent, principal and spending 80 hours a week at school exhaust Hugh. When he announces he's leaving, we feel as though our best friend is abandoning us.

Hugh and grandson Rory

For the next 16 years, he takes on the role of administrator at St. Libory Public Elementary, another small community of tightly knit kids, staff and parents. Fran, in the meantime, retires from her teaching job at Westlawn Elementary and opens her own very successful home day care. But after those 16 years, both are ready to retire to the Gretna and Omaha area to spend more time with their kids and grandkids. The four little Brandons are all grown up and raising a generation of their own.

Mike marries his lovely bride Kelly, a trial lawyer, and raises three beautiful daughters: Hannah, Maya and Roan. He's taught at Gretna High School for the last 20 years and has built a phenomental career as Gretna's volleyball coach tallying up 400 wins and three state runners-up in both Class A and B.

Kelly resides in Belleview and has three smart-as-whip kids: Emily, Sophie and Max. 

Erin, after living in Seattle for many years, returns to Nebraska with her husband Travis and son Rory. Erin works for International Corporation, Travis is employed by a subsidiary of Bausch, and Rory is in kindergarten.

Sean works for Pitney Bowes and is engaged to marry his Trisha. Sean's 13-year-old son Luke is his grandfather's clone.

Hugh with Mike and Sean

Hugh and Fran delight in being close to their kids and being able to follow the activities of their talented grandchildren. It's the perfect life. 

Until Fran is diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma.

Hugh's devastated, but Fran remains stoically calm.

"She had such faith," Hugh recalls, "and was never worried about it. God was on her side, she believed, however it turned out."

Slowly, Fran's health deteriorates. She endures a stem cell transplant for her disease which leaves her with a nearly fatal infection. As she lies almost comatose, her family huddles close to her preparing for the end, but Fran, with her legendary determination, recovers. During the months and years that follow, she suffers several mini-strokes, is resusitated after cardiac arrest, falls and breaks her arm, and finally receives dialylsis for kidney failure.

During those four years, Hugh refuses to leave her side. 

"I can't leave Fran," he tells well-meaning visitors who offer to stay with her to give Hugh a breather. Hugh, in fact, even installs a camera on the refrigerator so that he can keep an eye on her if he has to make a quick trip to the store.

Hugh and Fran's grandchildren

One particularly difficult day when Fran is terribly sick, Hugh bathes her, helps her to the bathroom, and gently guides her to the recliner. She looks up at him with gratitude.

"You know," she says, "you're going straight to Heaven." 

On a mild September night in the middle of a terrible Pandemic, Fran breathes her last surrounded by Hugh and her children. 

Even now, Hugh says it would have been impossible to survive those dark days without his kids.

From left: Sean, Erin, Hugh, Kelly, Mike

"I'm so thankful," he becomes emotional now,  "for my kids and my grandkids. They were so involved and helplful and supportive."

Only a few of us will attend Fran's funeral. It seems cruel that a virus will prevent what should have been one of the biggest funerals of the year. Oh, the stories we could share about our Frannie!

Her ashes rest in a beautiful urn that Fran would love, and Hugh keeps them close.

But life without Fran gives Hugh too much time, he says. When he wakes up in the early morning, there is no Fran to talk to over coffee. "That's when I really struggled," Hugh says. "I stopped taking care of my diabetes. Frankly," he sighs, "I didn't give a damn whether I lived or died."

Then a number of things occur. First, Hugh gets a tattoo. It's on his bucket list. Why not? he reasons. His son Sean accompanies him and is sure the pain will be too much for his old man.

"I refused to flinch in his presence," Hugh laughs.

The second item on his bucket list is a Corvette. Fran would never approve, and Hugh knows it. It proves to be, however, the purchase that sparks new life. Whenever he gets the chance on a flat stretch of highway, he drives his low, black, sleek toy much too fast.

"Because I can, and I have to," he explains.

Finally, his youngest daughter Erin, whom Hugh calls "my little mother", worries about her father's struggle with loneliness and insists he join a senior citizen dating site.

"You need companionship!" she nags in her forthright fashion.

Hugh finally relents and joins Silver Singles. To his surprise, he receives dozens of hits. Hesitantly, he arranges an outing with one woman. Then he takes out another. Finally, he meets Mary. A former educator like himself and a long time widow, Mary is the companion Hugh needs.

"I have found happiness again," my sweet old boss says simply. 

Hugh and Fran

He smiles and then shakes his head thoughtfully. The idea that he's met somebody so well-suited to himself seems, he acknowledges, "more than coincidental".

Of course it's no coincidence, I snort.

It's Fran.

I picture her in Heaven organizing throngs of angels, charming the Saints, and making helpful suggestions to the Big Guy.

"I have ideas," she tells God in her determined way: ideas about climate change, the economy, world hunger, and especially about the good husband who tenderly nursed her through the final years of her life. 

"I know of a nice woman," she whispers conspiratorially.

God throws his hands up in the air. "Fine, Frannie," he gives up. 

Because after all, even the Almighty knows it's useless. 

Fran is always right anyway.

Mike Rohweder

 Mike Rohweder presents me with a gift, a 65-year-old piece of pock-marked wood.

Mike Rohweder

Last summer, the GICC original office counter is removed and replaced by a sleeker, attractive and far more functional space. From the depths of the original counter, however, construction workers pry out a 2 x 12 rough piece of wood board. Scrawled across the top of it are hand-written words in ordinary blue ink: 

Erwin Mich. and Chas Lempha. Sept - 17 - 56

At least that's what we think it says.

Mike and I handle the splintery block as reverently as if it's the Hope Diamond.

"You keep it here in your classroom," he says with feeling.

I protest. "Oh no, Mike, you should keep it in your office."

But he shakes his head. "You keep it. I have plenty of mementos," he assures me.

It's true. Nobody on God's green earth is as nostalgic as Mike Rohweder, Central Catholic's business manager for the last 18 years. As the school is periodically renovated, Mike snatches objects deemed too ancient to be useful. In the corner of his office is the old office intercom system complete with the original microphone Sisters Sue and Mary Leo used to make daily announcements or to nag Mr. Northup.

"Fred!" Sister Sue called frequently. "You left your false tooth in the faculty lounge! Again!"

The old GICC sound system
along with other relics of the 
past

Mike's office is a mini-museum, and as past alumni visit and revel in the old trophies, book covers, and team pictures, they also contribute to Mike's collection. The Fagan family gifts Mike with Bob Fagan's (class of '41) letter sweater from the old St. Mary's High School. Carol Kittridge and Chris Jarecke donate their cheerleading megaphones. Mike even has Pat Kayl's old Booster Club neck tie.

"It's the one he wore every night he popped corn in the lobby," Mike says.

Every object is a treasure to Mike and to the hundreds of alumni who traipse in and out of his office year after year.

"I'm the Ghost of Central Catholic Past", Mike laughs. In fact, his real mission - besides keeping the school financially afloat - is to remind people of Central Catholic's roots. 

"The past is where I'm at," he says. 

It's such a poetic statement from my former Central Catholic English student that I decide to ignore the preposition at the end.

Mike's 7th grade P.E shirt

I've watched Mike grow up, have taught his siblings and cousins and children, and have loved his parents - Norm and Sue - for nearly 45 years. After Norm died, I even named our feisty black kitten after him. The Rohweders were and continue to be one of Central's most beloved families. Stories about them are legion. Everybody knows how Mike's mom, when she was just a young woman barely in her 20's, lost her parents in a terrible car crash. At the time, Sue Rock had three younger sisters all in school. Aunts and uncles and even teachers offered to take in one or two of the girls. But Norm Rohweder, Sue's wonderful boyfriend, stepped in to keep the family together.

"We'll get married right away," he assured Sue. "We'll buy a house and raise your little sisters like our own."

They raised not only Sue's sisters Sharon, Rosie and Jean but also their own four children: Todd, Laurie, Mike and Monica.

It was in this loving and extended family environment, which would eventually include another generation of cousins, that Mike grew up. In his parents' white clapboard home on First Street, Mike was a St. Mary's altar boy like his father before him, made life-long friends with his Wasmer and Central Catholic classmates, and walked many evenings all the way from his house to the old GICC gym to watch a basketball game. His fervent wish was to claim a seat on the bench behind Coach Fred Northup and to hope for a spectacular technical. 

When he was old enough to enroll in Central Catholic in the seventh grade, however, he remembers being terrified to enter the building. His older brother Todd told him stories about the wild class of 1978 and how small students were held over the second floor stairwell.

"I'm not going in," Mike declared the first day standing outside the GICC doors in his new Tough Skin jeans. Todd literally dragged Mike into the school. But Mike's fears were allayed. Hugh Brandon, the new principal, restored law and order.

1984 basketball team. Front row from left: Darren Miller,
Robbie White, Paul Stokman. Second row: Steve Was-
singer, Tony Wray, Jim Liske, Jon Bartek, Pat
Carey, Scott Micek. Back row: Asst. Coach Tom
Wetzel, Mike Vetick, Bob Kittridge, Gary Staab,
Mike Staab, Mike Knust, Paul Lewandowski,
Stuart Zastrow, Mike Rohweder, E.J. Gowlovech
and Head Coach Fred Northup - Fred's first team to
the state tourney since the 1967-68 team.

"I remember him in the cafeteria standing by the Dr. Pepper machine in his green suit jacket," Mike says. "He made me feel safe and changed my whole world."

Mike courageously overcame many of his fears. He was terrified of Sister Sue and Sister Mary Leo, who sometimes growled at students in the office as they purchased lunch tickets. They were actually, Mike eventually discovered, sweet old ladies determined to maintain law and order in the often chaotic main office. 

More than anything else in high school, Mike looked forward to playing basketball for Coach Fred Northup. In fact, Mike and fellow freshman Paul Stokman decided to forego football altogether and put all their efforts into basketball. Coach Northup himself wouldn't have it. If the two of them planned to have a career in basketball, he told them shortly, they'd better plan on running for his cross country team during the fall.

"Get your butts out theh!" Northup ordered in his famous Rhode Island accent.

Fun at the 1983 state volleyball tournament: Front row from
left: Kim Roggenkamp, Katie Hemmett, Jean Golka.
Second row: Greg Manley (from another school), Jimmy
Spanel. Third row: Shari Lewandowski, Paul Lew-
andowski, Robbie White, Mike Rohweder.
Fourth row: Joan Brayton, James Cannon, Dana Luton,
Tony Wray. Back: Pat Kayl, cheerleader Jodi Gilroy.
Very back: Barb Clark, GICC's most
well-known fan.

At least, Mike noted, he was pleased on his first day of practice to ride out to the country in the school's famous Weenie Wagon - the ancient Columbia blue, many-doored limo and the school's only mode of transportation. The Weenie Wagon was reputed to have dropped on a mechanic and killed him in a previous life which made it all the more alluring to the students it transported.

Also, Mike was in awe of veteran senior and famous state champ Steve Doran. Steve and talented runner Mark Jones were living legends as far as Mike was concerned. But on that first day of practice when Coach Northup left the intrepid runners off in the country and instructed them to run five miles back to the Weenie Wagon, Mike was stupefied. 

"Everybody went ahead of me," Mike remembers, "and there I was running inside tractor ruts in the same shoes I mowed the lawn in." Alone out in the sand hills with the sun sinking fast, Mike was sure he'd been entirely forgotten and would die alone out on the prairie.

"Then I saw this dark afro over the hill," Mike remembers. Underneath all that distinctive hair was Steve Doran's tall, skinny frame coming to the rescue. Mark Jones was just behind Steve. Together they kindly encouraged Mike to finish his run back to the Weenie Wagon.

"When I got back, everybody clapped like I was a hero in a movie," Mike laughs. Still, he would never forget how kind Steve and Mark were to a lowly freshman on his first day of cross country. 

Rohweder family from left: John, Sheila
Kathryn and Mike

After Mike graduated in 1984, he attended Hastings College but eventually landed at Creighton University with his good buddy Jon Bartek. Although he earned a degree in business finance and made a good living in Omaha, he realized selling investments wasn't in his DNA. After he married the love of his life, Sheila Heithoff, and welcomed son John and daughter Kathryn into the world, Mike knew all he wanted for his children was the freedom to ride their five speed Schwinn bikes any where they wanted back in Grand Island. He was delighted to accept the role of business manager at Central Catholic and to know his kids would go to school at GICC.

Mike's son John graduated from Central Catholic in 2015 followed by daughter Kathryn in 2019. John was a talented tennis and basketball player while Kathryn was part of a GICC multi-state championship dance team. Both Rohweder children continued their educations at Hastings College like their parents before them. But their Central Catholic education was at the root of his children's success, Mike insists now, and it was a dream come true to watch John and Kathryn grow up at GICC.

Mike and son John

"I loved watching my kids go to school here, and I've loved working with parents who send their own kids here - the single moms, the hardworking folks who come in with hundred dollar bills they've saved to pay tuition." He shakes his head. "I've cried some tears with people when times were tough."

It reminds him, he says. of the days long ago when Central Catholic parents with ten kids would do anything to make sure their children could attend GICC. His own parents, like mine and so many others, made significant sacrifices to have their kids educated at Central Catholic, and Mike doesn't view his job lightly. He frets over school finances like a dog over a bone. If it occurs to him he could be making scads more money working with potential investors in a quiet, carpeted upscale institution, he never says so. Even the worry of keeping GICC in the red is worth it all. He recalls the times the school faced lean times, and he didn't know if they could even make payroll. 

"But every time we needed 20,000 dollars," he says, "it would somehow come." He's sure those miraculous donations continue to be the work of the Holy Spirit and that God intends for Central Catholic to be around for future generations. Still, he never takes his job for granted.

Mike and daughter
Kathryn at the End of 
the Road World Tour 
KISS concert

"I like this role of caretaker. I'm trying to protect Central's humble beginnings and to remind people how lucky we are to have this school."

Mike Rohweder is a happy man. He credits his beautiful wife Sheila for that. 

"If devotion to one's faith had a face, it would be the face of Sheila Heithoff," he says. He and Sheila, the sister of Father Jim Heithoff, met at Hastings College. Raised in a strong Catholic family, Sheila still trusts her family to God and prays for them always. 

"What she's asked God to do for me has kept me balanced in all aspects," Mike says. The best part of his day is going home for lunch. "As soon as I enter the door, I hear her loving greeting before I even lay eyes on her."

He's a sentimental sap all right. But if ever a man was exactly where he's supposed to be, it's Mike Rohweder. Living only a block from where he grew up, Mike loves the tree-lined streets of his joyful youth. He helps out his widowed mother Sue, enjoys his wonderful family, and works every day at a job he loves and thoroughly believes in.

He's still our boy, and nobody bleeds bluer.

 

Jonathan Novinski

All Novinskis are swimmers. It's in the birth contract. Every baby Novinski pops out of the birth canal ready to sign an agreement knowing exactly what's required of him or her.

Dan and Carole Novinski were collegiate swimmers for Nebraska, and all five of their children are swimmers. Not just paddle-around-in-the-deep-end swimmers. No sirree. These people are contenders-for-the-Olympics kind of swimmers.

Jon Novinski

"Are you a swimmer like all the rest?" my husband bellows at little Jane Novinski, the youngest of the tribe, in the Central Catholic gym.

She smiles wickedly with 11-year-old confidence and bellows right back. "I'm the best one of all!"

Her sister Kate, only a freshman at Central Catholic, is already winning her varsity swim events. Oldest brother Daniel, in med school at UNMC, swam for Wesleyan University and was an eight time state medalist in high school. Matthew, the second oldest Novinski, was a four time state champ while he was at Central Catholic and the number one college prospect out of Nebraska. He's currently at the University of Wisconsin and a Big Ten A-finalist in six events.

And planted smack dab in the middle of the Novinski clan - number three out of five siblings - is Jonathan. Funny, bright and friendly, Jon is pure joy in the classroom. Like his siblings, he's never once bragged about his swimming titles. THOU SHALL NOT BRAG, in capital letters, is a Novinski family commandment. It's what makes everybody love these wonderful kids.

"How'd you do at your swim meet?" I've asked various Novinski brothers as they've traipsed into my classroom year after year. 

"All right," is the typical response. This is Novinski code for, "I set two state records and fielded five scholarship offers. And that was in one afternoon."

Jonathan Novinski has never been cocky - not a day in his life. But as the middle kid in the family who's spent his entire life competing with his two oldest brothers, he was finally feeling every bit as gifted as the siblings he idolized. Last year, as a state record holder in the 500 freestyle and a three time defending state champ, he relished the idea of going out in a blaze of glory his senior year. His final goal was to earn a state title in the 200 freestyle before he graduated.

Young Jonathan in the pool

However, the real crowning achievement of his high school career was a scholarship offer from Harvard University. At Central Catholic, Jonathan Novinski would be the first student in the history of the school to attend Harvard. His swimming days, Jonathan thought last year with great satisfaction, could only get better.

Nobody, least of all young Jonathan Novinski, could have imagined what the year 2020 held in store for the world. Initially, Covid was just a nuisance. Jon was frustrated not to be training, especially because he was disappointed in his state times the winter before.

"I tried to take that in stride, though," Jon says, "and focused all my efforts into having a kick-ass senior year. Everything was going great until August when I had a wake-boarding accident and folded in half backward."

His back injury was debilitating. Neither treatments nor physical therapy improved his condition. Just when Jon thought it couldn't get worse, the bottom fell out. In October he caught the Covid virus. Even during the relentless self-quarantine, Jonathan forced himself to believe his back would eventually heal and that he would recover from the virus.

The Novinski brothers: Matt, Jon and Daniel

"Boy, was I wrong," Jon shakes his head. Just before Christmas break, Covid began to wreak havoc with his system. In one week he lost 20 pounds due to intestinal issues. That was just the beginning. Try as he might after Christmas, Jon suffered bizarre shoulder pain and enormous fatigue. "I'd never dealt with anything like this before," he says, "and I felt like I was in a different body than the one before. I was a Covid-19 long hauler, and I'd never felt so pathetic or useless."

There were many days, Jon admits, that he would leave the pool exhausted after a simple warm-up and drag himself to the locker room to cry. It hardly helped that interested reporters and fans constantly queried or posed the question, "Will Jon Novinski be able to defend his state title and finally claim the 200 yard freestyle title?" In just a few short months, everything about Jon's future - his senior year and his Harvard scholarship - seemed uncertain.

Jon admits now that his life long obsession to beat his older brothers in swimming and even in the classroom was perhaps a little unhealthy. Covid humbled him. Unable to swim a lap or even make it to school without spending hours in the bathroom knocked him off his feet.

Jon and girlfriend Morgan

"I was not okay - either mentally or physically," he said. During those brutal few months, his good parents helped him to cope and to put his struggles into proper perspective. Things would improve, they promised. But in his room, Jon cried night after night and credits his best feline friend Catboy for providing comfort in those dark hours.

In the meantime, even if he couldn't perform, Jon tried to be at every practice and meet to cheer on his teammates. He recalls his futile determination to defend his state, pool and conference record at the conference championship this last winter only to scratch before his prelim swim.

"I sat in the swimmer crash area wishing I could disappear after that," he says. 

However, State was only weeks away. Slowly, Jon's strength was returning, and he hoped for a miracle at State. "Really," Jon said, "it was a miracle I was even swimming at that point."

In spite of his brave hopes to win his fourth 500 freestyle state championship, Covid fatigue reared its ugly head during the prelim race. Jon and his coach made the difficult decision to scratch his attempt in the finals. It was over, Jon thought.

Jon and Catboy

Instead of feeling devastated after the state meet, however, Jon felt heartened. In spite of his 500 freestyle scratch, he still managed to join his teammates in the 200 and 400 yard relays and to lead off with his fastest times yet. Strangely, he felt at peace about the awful year behind him.

"I understood the ridiculous pressure I'd always put on myself the last four years to keep up with my brothers. And I realized that because of Covid, I was a better person. I can't believe I could always be so cold-hearted about people who struggled with mental health and physical injuries," he sighs. "I only feel empathy now and am so thankful for my family, my girlfriend Morgan, my teammates, my friends, and," he grins, "for Catboy."

At the very lowest point of his struggles a few months ago, Jon remembers attending a Reconciliation service to confess his sins to Bishop Joseph Hanefeldt. With vulnerable honesty, he put it all squarely on the line and admitted to the Bishop that he was mad at God for taking swimming from him during his last year of high school.

"It's hard to ask God why terrible things happen," his understanding Bishop spoke gently to Jon. "Instead, maybe it would be better to ask God, 'This thing has happened to me, Lord. What do I do with it?' "  Those words provided the first glimmer of hope and helped Jon to find his way out of the darkness.

"There was no choice, really, but to accept it all and ask God to help me learn from it," Jon reflects. "Eventually, I realized it was important to enjoy the relationships in my life and to be grateful for them."

The one good thing about Covid, Jon says, is that it reconnected him with those relationships. His entire family was all under one roof for four months during the pandemic. "Even my two big brothers were home. It was so much fun."

The Novinskis. From left: Jon, mother Carole, Matt,
Kate, Jane, Daniel and father Dan

Next year, Jon will resume his life. At Harvard University he'll study pre-med and biology. He'll swim, of course. And he'll do it all with new perspective. 

"We can't control everything that life throws at us, but there's a reason for all of it. My mother told me that," Jon grins his sweet smile, "and I truly believe it."

His mother is right. Of course she is. She's a wonderful Novinski, after all.

John Partington

Johnny Partington is the most infuriatingly stubborn kid. 

GICC senior John Partington

Ever since his eighth grade year at Central Catholic, I've begged to write about him. 

"Nope," he says.

End of conversation.

The next year, I try a more subtle approach. "You've got a great story, John. It would be a disservice not to share it."

He pretends to consider. "Not now. Maybe next year."

Finally, just as I am ready to admit defeat, he relents. Beyond excited, I begin to make plans. We can use his senior picture for the story, I say, as well as a family photo and one of all his buddies.

"No pictures, Mrs. Howard," he says abruptly. "You've got the story. Compromise."

But I'm tired of taking no for an answer. Instead, I do what older, experienced and utterly professional teachers do.

I blackmail the heck out of him.

"That's fine, John," I say easily. "But I think it's time your little video went viral."

John with siblings Joe and Jamie

Just recently, Johnny and his friends Charles Armstrong, Kobi Bales and Will Goering have made a carefully researched video for their beloved religion teacher George Ayoub. All four boys rap as they chronicle the life of St. Francis and, in one startling scene, John appears for a second in a blue strapless prom dress and wig. He really goes all out. I've come into possession of this video - never mind how - and am supremely aware of its value.

John stares hard at me. "You wouldn't."

If only I had a mustache to twirl. "Oh, wouldn't I?"

The difficulty with John Partington is that he shuns any kind of limelight and would prefer to blend into the woodwork. Part of this is inbred modesty. The rest of it, however, is because of his Escobar Syndrome. A genetic condition which tragically took the life of John's infant sister, Escobar Syndrome affects the joints and muscles. John is unable to fully extend his arms and legs and is much shorter than his classmates. He also stutters, which for someone as bright and creative as John, is a relentless frustration.

John with parents Mary Jane and Jim

Friends and teachers know John Partington as the smart, thoughtful, funny kid who makes his classmates laugh out loud and feel good. 

"John Partington," writes one of his classmates for an English paper last year, "is the coolest kid in our class." He judges no one and possesses infinite wisdom beyond his years.

In grade school, however, when kids laugh and call him "Penguin", John's immediate impulse is to beat them up.

"This five foot whatever kid knows how to throw a punch," he laughs. Eventually, he becomes the mob boss of elementary school. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em - that was my grade school mentality," he recalls.

However, middle school angst catches up with him. It isn't his nature to bully, but he can't play sports like other kids. The reality of his life slams John in the face, and by the time he's a freshman, he stops caring altogether - about grades or people or himself.

Fortunately for John, he belongs to a tribe of beautiful, determined warriors. Jim and Mary Jane Partington, John's parents, raise him to be brave. His older siblings Joe and Jamie adore him, and it doesn't hurt that he's surrounded by a gazillion extended family members of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who love, tease and support him.

Johnny with big brother Joe

Slowly John releases his "self-loathing", as he refers to it, and begins to enjoy his teenage life.

"It was hard enough being a kid, but add in being short, looking different than the typical human being, and a stutter - it's a lot for a little kid," he says. "But I think I just ultimately gave myself a break."

Interestingly, John never stutters when he sings. Last year when students were learning at home because of Covid, my husband John Howard assigned his students the task of filming one of their talents. John Partington, a crazy good musician and composer, sent a clip of his singing and guitar playing.

Not once did he stutter. It was so good that when we all return to school this fall, I show it to my classes on the big classroom screen.

"Good God," John groans in agony from his desk.

"Get over it," I snap, "and learn to gloat a little."

The kids love John's video and clap enthusiastically. They're wild about the way John whales on the drums in High School Band, too, and brings a gym full of fans fervently to their feet. Sometimes he composes and sings in rap. His friends consider this a thing of beauty and marvel at the complicated lyrics John delivers without so much as a glimmer of his stutter.

John, bottom left, with grandparents, aunts,
uncles and cousins

John never stutters if he doesn't have to think about his words either. In English class this year, we somehow enter into a discussion about what constitutes a perfect mate.

"She should be smart and funny and not taller than me," John says. It takes a while to say it, and he pauses several times to regroup between his stuttering.

"And curvaceous," he adds suddenly as an afterthought.

I notice he has no trouble spitting that out.

John is no longer the quiet little bespectacled boy reluctant to speak because of a stutter. Those middle school years are eons ago. Now he's a confident senior laughing and bantering with his friends and thoroughly enjoying this last year of high school. And music is always what John enjoys most.

John with best friend, GICC
senior Charles Armstrong

Charles Armstrong, John's best friend since grade school, loves making rap music with John. 

"We've added our friends Will Goering and Koby Bales to the mix and formed our own group," Charles says. Charles and John also have an obsession for two on two basketball games with Will and Zach Cloud, another good friend. "That's how we occupied ourselves during quarantine," Charles says.

The two friends share many memories. "In grade school," Charles remembers, "John's mom would pick us up after school and take us to the Sonic drive-through." Then the two spent hours playing Call of Duty, Halo and mini-hoop basketball. They created their own rock and roll band called "Adrenaline", and even started a Black Friday tradition. On that day every year, Charles still picks John up to shop for great Christmas deals at 5 in the morning.

"Except one year he overslept and kept me waiting until 6," Charles laughs. "I seriously thought about laying into him for being late, but I was just so happy to finally see him."

Sometimes they go for long drives to discuss their college plans. They wonder about life after Covid, and occasionally they even talk about the big stuff - God and the meaning of life.

John, middle, with friends (from bottom right
going clockwise) Russ Martinez, Reed Martinez, Zach
Cloud, Daniel Rey-Martinez, Kobi Bales, and
Charles Armstrong

John's good friends come from all over the school and from every community. He feels close to his band mates, especially some who have graduated. Joe Mueller, Nettie Van Heufeln and Faith Koralewski are still good friends and band allies. He loves everything about band and band instructor Monika Peters. "We're a bigger band than we've ever been - which is a pretty big accomplishment because we're typically a jock school," John says proudly.

With music, John has discovered articulation and expression for his life. His favorite songwriter ever, he says, is Jeff Tweedy from the band Wilco. "His lyrics tend to be pretty abstract and nonsensical. But I think it's cool to have lyrics that ultimately mean nothing. People can make their own interpretations. That's a tool I try to use in my own song writing."

Next year John plans to study computer programming and eventually hopes to major in Computer Science. But he'd like to study music, too. His ultimate goal is to become a musician.

"I guess the financially safe side of me tells me to get a more financially safe job first," he grins ruefully.

Those of us who who know and love him, however, believe he'll venture into the musical world someday.

"That's John Partington!" we'll tell a future generation when he hits it big. We will remember the small stuttering boy with the big mind and heart who made us all smile, and we'll puff out our chests and be very proud.

But who are we kidding, Johnny. We're very proud now.

Our Nini

You'd be proud of your classmates, Nini. Your teachers, too. This first week without you was a kick in the gut. Even now, we stumble in the middle of speaking, walking, breathing. How can this be? Our minds will not comprehend your passing.

Nini Pham

Only days before, I have scolded you in my English class.

"You didn't follow the assignment," I explain, "which was to write about a grandparent."

"But I want to write about my mom," you say with that quiet stubbornness I know so well. "She's had an interesting life, and I want to share her story."

You are never a demanding child, but you are a determined one, and I suddenly lose the will to argue.

"Fine, Nini," I sigh. "Do it your way."

Even though you're pale and unwell, I am irritated and hardly bother to ask you about your ailing asthma. But the essay you read to all of us about your brave mother - a young woman who left VietNam with your father to come to America - touches and inspires us all. Was that only a week ago Monday, Nina?

When your principal Jordan Engle summons us with the news that you've collapsed, your teachers gather together at school. Some weep, others sit dazed in the school library. There is nothing much to say, but we find comfort in the nearness of each other.

Your religion teacher Mrs.Dee Hanssen springs into action rocking Mrs. Amy May's baby daughter, handing out bottled water, leading a Rosary. With Father Sid Bruggeman, she quickly prepares the chapel for a hastily arranged Mass.

Her small but kind ministrations soothe us and strangely bring helpless tears to my eyes. Praying fervently together in the newly renovated chapel, still smelling of new paint and fresh pine, your teachers give you to Jesus.

Nini, center, with her little sister Tina
and Tina's best friend Lillie Encinger.

After Mass in the school hallway, small Lillie Encinger runs straight to teacher Jennifer Koralewski. The best friend of your little sister, Lillie sobs in Mrs. Koralewski's arms. I will never forget how Sheridan Puncochar, a sweet eighth grade girl filled with concern for her distressed friend, pats Lillie awkwardly on her shoulder.

All week long your classmates and teachers reach out to each other.

Your own best friend Lizzie Calderon drives to Omaha to be with your family in your hospital room. She is with you until the very end when your family must make the terrible decision to remove you from life support.

Your cheerleader sponsors Kate Schendt and Makenzie Mudloff lovingly paste scrapbook photos together for your grieving family. Mr. Engle, in only his second year as principal, rises to the task at hand and works hard to make all our kids feel safe.

That first day back at school, comfort dogs receive GICC students in the library. Father Jim Golka who patiently ministered to you and your family in the hospital now counsels your friends through the terrible first day without you. Emilie Ziller, a fellow cheerleader, silently leaves class to pull herself together and prop up others. I am dreading the thought of your empty desk in English class, but Ashlyn Kucera wordlessly slips into your seat to fill in the gaping space.

Nini and best friend Lizzie Calderon

Hardly able to speak, your classmate Raegan Gellatly asks me finally if she might have the poem she wrote about you in English. I make sure also to give Miss Lucy Long, our student teacher, the beautiful poem you penned.

"Miss Long is like a cup of tea - " you wrote. "Calm, relaxed, nice. Making me feel warm inside."

We long for these small momentoes of your life. They make you seem very close.

At the end of the week when we know you are safely in Heaven and funeral arrangements have been made, we all relax a little and begin to conduct business as usual.

Miss Long poses a question to our 6th mod senior English class: Would you rather possess more intelligence than good looks or more good looks than intelligence?

Nini with classmate and
homecoming date
Russ Martinez.

Without hesitation class clown Sam Herbek replies, "I'm fortunately lucky enough to possess both."

We laugh. We laugh hard. Maybe too hard. It's a great release and the beginning of healing.

Your classmates will graduate without you next year. They will attend college and work and marry and raise families. Eager to gather at good ol' GICC for a class reunion in the far distant future, they'll return as gray-haired grandparents. But you, Nini, will always be16.

Someone will say, "Remember the day Colby Setlick accidentally set off the fire alarm in weight lifting class?"

Others will remember with great laughter the dead goose seniors buried behind the track memorializing its grave with cast off corsages and boutonnieres.

They will recall Mrs. Peter's glorious lunches, Tanner Turek's undying passion for the losing Cleveland Browns, and Johnny Partington's stellar dance performance at Homecoming.

Finally, someone will say, bringing a hushed silence, "That was the year we lost Nini."

Nini Pham
2002-2019

Today we say our last goodbyes. At Blessed Sacrament Church, Father Marty Egging reminds us during your funeral of your courageous decision to leave the devout faith of your good Vietnamese family and to embark on your own journey to Catholicism. Last year you are confirmed and even teach CCD classes with your best buddy Lizzie.

"Nini longed for Christ," Father Marty says simply.

Your 16-year-old faith is our biggest comfort, dear Nini. Thank you for that last gift. Thank you for the smile that crinkled your nose, your swinging pony tail, and your infectious laugh.

Somewhere you're laughing and dancing and leaping with Jesus in a lovely place of light.

We will see you there, sweet Nini.

KoriAnne Moslander

KoriAnne Moslander brims with excitement - even more so than usual. She and her Central Catholic dance team have just been named Class C state champs for the tenth year in a row.

“It was all so worth the work - the 6 a.m. practices and breaking down every move,” she beams. “We were all crying, but we know we have to work hard next year to make it happen again.”

KoriAnne, a GICC junior, is a vivacious, smiling teenage girl. Good grades, state championships and making new friends all come easily to her. She seems, for all the world, to have the privileged life every kid dreams of.  People are amazed to hear otherwise.

KoriAnne Moslander and grandmother Donetta Nye

“My grandma saved my life,” KoriAnne says simply. “She’s the only parent I have, and she’s my best friend.”

Before she arrived at Central Catholic as a sophomore, KoriAnne was unwilling to share much of her life with her new friends and classmates. Growing up, she felt relentlessly bullied in her old town and high school. Kids refused to include her because of her family history, and finally her grandmother convinced her to move to Grand Island and attend Grand Island Central Catholic.

“I tell her now it was the best decision ever,” KoriAnne grins. “My friends are like family, and I feel connected to everybody. Classes can be hard, but they’re really good.”

KoriAnne didn’t immediately share her story with her new friends in Grand Island, but as she began to build relationships and trust her classmates, she confided to them little by little her traumatic start in life.

“My parents were divorced before I was born,” she says quietly, “and they both suffered with addiction.”

Although her father was able to conquer his own addiction, her mother could not. KoriAnne was two months old when her mother left her alone at home with her three-year-old brother and forgot about them both. KoriAnne’s grandparents - her dad’s parents - stepped in to remove the children from their mother’s home. Although KoriAnne’s father was able to conquer his addiction, several years later he died.

Grand Island Central Catholic State Championship Dance Team: First row
from left- Taryn Dimmitt, Ellie Alberts, Aubrey Moritz, KoriAnne
Moslander. Second row from left - Stephanie Huntwork, Kathryn
Rohweder, Tatum Hedman, Kennedi Henke, Coach Erin Neuhaus.
Last row - Coach Nicole Hicken

Donetta Nye is actually KoriAnne’s great-grandmother and just celebrated her 80th birthday. When she and her husband took in their two small great-grandchildren, Donetta had to learn how to diaper a baby all over again

“She told me she’d never used disposable diapers!” KoriAnne laughs. “When she took care of her own kids and grandkids, it was with cloth diapers and safety pins.”

Nevertheless, KoriAnne’s great grandparents provided the stability their two little great-grandchildren had never experienced. Tyler, KoriAnne’s brother, is on his own now. He’s very protective of his little sister, KoriAnne says.

“But my grandma and I are pretty much everything to each other,” she says.

A few years ago when KoriAnne’s great-grandfather died, she helped her grieving great-grandmother.

 “When my dad died, Grandma did everything she could to help me. So when Grandpa died, I knew I had to help my grandma through that.”

Even at 80, Donetta Nye is a busy, active woman. The long time director of the St. Paul Senior Center, she often brought a small KoriAnne to work with her. The little girl enchanted the senior citizens, and every Thursday KoriAnne danced for the residents. She loved accompanying her grandmother to work and hanging out with her elderly clients.

“My grandma is so extraordinary,” KoriAnne shakes her head. “She’s the most caring, super-wise, most educated person in the world. She’s overly generous and has the hugest heart.”

Though KoriAnne has many good friends, she prefers to be with her grandmother more than anybody else. They spend time together every night and giggle uproariously together.

“We love The Bachelor,” KoriAnne laughs, “and making fun of those stupid girls. I also got Grandma into taking funny selfies, and she poses with me all the time. She tells me all her crazy stories, and I can tell her anything.”

KoriAnne plans to study respiratory therapy at UNO after she graduates next year. She’d also like to specialize in Alzheimer’s care since her grandfather suffered from the disease.

“I’m pretty sure Grandma will move to Omaha with me when it’s time,” KoriAnne says, “and I couldn’t be happier about that.”

She smiles her radiant smile.

“Grandma’s my rock. I love her so much.”

Beverly Yax

Beverly Yax is a breath of fresh air.

Beverly Yax, GICC senior

Bursting into class, she greets friends with her laughing brown eyes and mega-watt smile. On this bleak afternoon in January, Bev floods my classroom with her own particular sunlight.

"Here's my best friend - the queen of the ball!" she congratulates her friend Ciara, another lively student in Senior English just crowned Winter Ball queen at our Central Catholic school dance last weekend. "I was so mad at you when you danced with my date," Bev teases Ciara before giggling like the sweet school girl she is.

It is always like this. Bev radiates smiles and warmth and cheer. I never suspect life is anything but untroubled for this adorable girl. She works hard for her nearly flawless grades, competes joyfully with her friends on the cross country team, and is universally adored by all who know her.

Two years ago as a sophomore, however, Beverly's world turns upside down. The girl who comes to school every day with a gleeful smile leads a far from untroubled life. Only days before Christmas, Beverly's mother is arrested at her work place by immigration officials for possessing a false identity. She immediately phones Bev at home and calmly instructs her to call her big brother Abidan who lives and works in Lincoln.

"Mom!" Bev sobs over the phone. "How can you be so calm?"

"Leave it in the hands of God," her mother soothes.

It is almost, Bev believes, as if her mother has known for 18 years that this moment will come.

Long ago when Bev's mother is 16-years-old living in Guatemala with her own widowed mom and 12 siblings, she flees with her 17-year-old boyfriend Benjamin to Los Angeles. Benjamin Yax speaks English and quickly finds a job as an electrician. Juana, however, speaks no English. Nevertheless, she finds work as a maid and diligently saves money to support her large family back in Guatemala.

When she and Benjamin marry, they decide to move to Grand Island to raise their family. Because Juana is an illegal immigrant, she purchases a fake social security number from a woman in California. It's the only way she will be able to find work, and her Guatemalan family is depending on her. The woman, however, tells Juana it will cost 10,000 dollars. For five years, Juana and Benjamin work hard to pay off their debt. Juana never uses the fake social security number for anything except a job application, but the worry of discovery hangs constantly over her.

In Grand Island, Benjamin and Juana raise their three children Abidan, Bev and Bambi. Juana finds a good job at JBS, and Benjamin works for Ziller Tile. The Zillers, all Central Catholic graduates, convince the Yaxes to send their hard working children to GICC. Benjamin and Juana have dreams for their children. Although Ben is a high school graduate, Juana has only a fifth grade education. Their children, the couple is determined, will go to college.

With exceptional sacrifice on their part, they manage to send both Abidan and Beverly to Central Catholic. Abidan is athletic, and Bev is smart. While the kids thrive, Benjamin and Juana's marriage falters. Benjamin begins drinking. Not long after, he is unfaithful to Juana. Then one day as Juana works hard at her job, immigration officials raid the office to arrest her. In a fell swoop, life has fallen apart for the Yax family.

Juana is released on bond, but there is every reason to believe she will be deported. Because her mother is forbidden to work, Bev finds a full time job to help support her family. She pushes away from her good friends and refuses to go to school. Never has she felt more alone.

When she doesn't appear at GICC for two weeks, GICC comes to her. Principal Kristen Klein and Spanish teacher Amy May show up at the door of the Yax family home.

"I'll never forget that day," Bev recalls. "Mrs. Klein talked me into coming back to school. She told me Central Catholic would be there for me and would find a way to help with tuition."

Her friends and teachers, especially religion teachers Deb Houdek and Mary Wiles, support her through the next 14 months.

Bev with friends Ciara Hernandez, left, and Kenna
Culler, right.

"They were so good to me," Bev smiles tremulously. "I couldn't have gotten through that time without them." Mrs. Houdek is always there to listen, she says, and it's Miss Wiles who helps Bev with her faith.

"Our family is not Catholic," Bev says, "but in 7th grade, Miss Wiles taught our class the Rosary. It's become my very favorite prayer and makes me feel so close to God." She sighs raggedly. "Once I thought God was against me, but now I know he's always been with me."

In spite of her 40 hour work week at the Field House, Bev manages to stay on top of her nearly 4.0 grade average and even participates in softball and basketball. Her school and friends are the lifeline she needs. Just before her junior year, though, as she and her family wait anxiously for her mother's court date, Bev injures her knee and must have surgery. Because of her mother's illegal status, the family has no Medicaid insurance, and Bev and her father must pay for her surgery.

"St. Francis helped us, but the rest was up to us," she explains. "We have six thousand dollars still to go," she flashes a hopeful smile, "but we're getting there!"

In the meantime, her mother and father have worked on their marriage.

"Find God, and go to AA!" Juana insists of her husband. He does, and only recently is baptized at Centro Vida Christian Church. It's a great day for the Yax family.

In February, Juana's court date is finally scheduled. Bev is terrified, and so am I. She will miss school, she explains, but promises to let me know the results of the hearing. All that day at school I stare at the clock waiting for a text from Bev. During 8th period, at the end of the day, she all at once appears in the doorway of my classroom. We stare at each other, and I wait.

"It's okay!" she sobs. Running to me, she flings her arms around my neck, and the two of us grip each other, oblivious to the stares of my startled 11th grade American Lit students.

It's scary going to the courthouse, Bev tearfully explains. For the first time in her life, she sees hardened criminals all around her. When it's time for her mother to appear before the judge, Bev says, Juana apologizes. She describes to the judge her dilemma of trying to find work in the United States to care for her mother and younger siblings. Then it's Bev's turn to speak to the judge.

"If you take away my mother," Bev pleads, "you take away my family. My little sister would have to go to Guatemala with our mother. We would all be split up."

The judge decides in their favor, and even the prosecutors apologize to the Yax family. "You're a good family," one attorney pumps all their hands. "I'm sorry for all you've endured."

Never has Bev been so happy.

"I don't have a family like everybody else at Central Catholic," she admits. In awe, she sees the way her classmates' parents anticipate their children's every need and smooth their way. Bev, in the meantime, is still working 40 hours a week. Her mother will not be able to work until her immigration status is resolved, and Bev must help pay the family bills and her surgery balance. Nevertheless, she's as happy as she's ever been.

"My family is together," she smiles, her face alight, "and I have the support of this school and my friends. It's all I need."