10 seconds. That’s how long it takes me to get teary-eyed about HOME or change or seasons of life. I love new things. I love mixing new traditions with old ones. I just seem to get a little sentimental in the process.

I’d like to blame it on age, men, students, hormones or life experiences. But the truth of the matter is–I have always been this way. Questions, tears, long walks, mud puddles…those things help me process thoughts, plans and actions.

I had car trouble one day and had to walk home to get assistance in my nightgown. (I know. That’s another story.) I was crying as I traipsed up the walk to the porch–where my dad stood–waiting on me. As he watched me cry, he shook his head, indicating he hoped he lived long enough to see something happen and me not shed a tear over it.

Needless to say, he didn’t. Bless his heart.

But if he were still here, I would tell him that tears are healthy. Scientifically, they help us release stress, cope and take in bigger breaths of air–which results in a healthier brain. Blubbering, though, is not becoming at all. And, God knows, I have blubbered my way through life at times.

My tears are sporadic. It can happen when Ernest T. Bass is throwing rocks on Andy Griffith or when a friend moves away. It can happen when my husband brings me my daily coffee or when I recall a favorite dance move from my disco days and almost throw out a hip. It can happen when I drink a strong cup of coffee or see a small puppy with big eyes on Facebook.

It can happen when I smell Old Spice and think of my Grandpa Herman or see an old flannel shirt and think of my Grandpa Frank. Good men with good habits and tons of love for their grandchildren.

When did this crying jag start–you ask? Well, let’s see. How far back can I go?

Every summer when school ended in the 1960s and 1970s, I would make plans to head to Arkansas from my home in southwest Missouri to spend some time with my grandparents. I loved everything about it…the land, the horses, the stories, the food, the routines of daily chores and running barefoot in that rich Arkansas dirt. I even loved my job of picking up rocks for short periods of time. I loved hanging out at Jim’s Drive-In in Green Forest for a good burger or heading downtown in the truck to get a Coke from the fountain at the drugstore on the square.

But the truth is, I would cry as my grandparents backed out of the driveway with me perched in the middle. We’d put my suitcase in the bed of the truck. I waved goodbye to my mom, dad and brother. They would stand by the back step–grinning at me like the Beverly Hillbillies. I loved my home and I was scared to death I was going to miss something important while I was gone. I loved to travel–always. But I was equally pleased to get back home.

Little did I know until much later when my brother told me, my family would take bets as to how long it would take that first tear to fall. Usually, it was less than 10 seconds. I would cry sporadically the 70 miles there, sniffling and sobbing and wailing. Once we arrived and I unpacked my things, my grandma would get a little tired of my nonsense and tell me to stop it because “you are scaring the chickens.” She would start counting–expecting me to dry it up by the time she got to 10. I usually did.

Fast forward to May of 2023, I am sitting at graduation in the Aurora High School gymnasium last week watching kids walk across the stage to get their diplomas. About 10 seconds in, I feel the first tear. I pass it off to my seatmates as allergies. I sniffle and clear my throat. (This must stop.)

I took my love, I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
'Til the landslide brought me down
Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well, I've been afraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older too 

Well, I've been afraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older too 

Oh! I'm getting older too
Oh-oh, take my love, take it down
Oh-oh, climb a mountain and you turn around

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, the landslide bring it down
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, the landslide bring it down
Oh-ohh, the landslide bring it down

(Lyrics to Landslide by Stevie Nicks. Performed by Fleetwood Mac. 1975)

The words were sung Friday night at graduation by the Aurora High School choir. “Landslide” was the song choice for the official senior song. The lyrics and slow, up-tempo melody took me back to the 1970s…when Stevie Nicks was topping the charts with Fleetwood Mac. I loved the Bohemian way she dressed and sounded when I was in junior high. I started dressing a little bit like that, crooning at the top of my lungs and reflecting. I haven’t looked back since.

I think about that “child within my heart.” Can she really rise above? Sometimes she can–if you give her at least 10 seconds.

Nicks’ 1973 album with a boyfriend had been a bust. She was in Aspen, Colorado, when she wrote the lyrics to “Landslide,”—which would become a signature tune about life’s seasons, changes, reflections and moving on to other things. She was at a low…thinking her love life and career were both in disarray at the ripe old age of 27.

I always get melancholy at graduation. It is fun to see students transition to that next stage, but yet—adulting is forever. I can’t help but wonder what the future holds for these bright minds.

In the meantime, I found out about a college classmate’s death this weekend. James Reeves was from Greenfield. I had lost track of him through the years, but continued to meet people who knew him. We always shared stories, laughs and anecdotes about his sense of humor and his football playing abilities.

He played football for Missouri Southern. That’s where we met. I was a paid tutor for the athletic program. I would often tutor players in a variety of subjects, such as history, English, economics, business or public speaking. (Pretty much anything but math!) James didn’t need a tutor. He was smarter than any 10 of us put together—but he liked the attention, the fellowship and the camaraderie. Sometimes, we would get the giggles—much like that child probably did in the “Landslide” song. I saw him from across a room when our football program was tabbed for Hall of Fame Honors right before the Covid shutdown. Greenfield had received some honors, too.

Another friend from Republic asked for prayer for a relative on social media over the weekend. This relative once rescued me from a strange situation and made sure I was treated fairly and paid appropriately. I wondered aloud to myself what might be wrong as I sent up a few flares for someone who has always supported me and my family. About 10 seconds into that prayer, a small tear trickled down my cheek.

I glance through my notes from a visit from a pair of local guest speakers last week. Brad Blankenship, the sexton at Maple Park Cemetery, and Jay Lee, his assistant, visited my afternoon classes last week at Aurora High School.

We addressed work ethic, manners, educational backgrounds and priorities during the course of the afternoon dialogue. As the rain fell outside, these two Aurorans had students sitting on the edge of their seats.

Blankenship and Lee both take pride in being Houn’ Dawgs, graduates of Aurora High School and working for the City of Aurora. Both talked about having a servant’s heart, the importance of being honest and how you can never go wrong by choosing to be kind.

When working at Aurora’s Maple Park Cemetery, both men take pride in taking care of the cemetery, which is about 113 years old. They get the opportunity to see people at their best and worst, but they take pride in caring about their jobs, caring about the roles they play during tough times and caring even more about the people they serve. Ironically, there are 9,800 people buried at Maple Park—which is a couple thousand more than the Aurora population sign boasts on the way in and out of town.

Blankenship, who has been with the City of Aurora just over seven years, is a 2002 graduate of AHS, while Lee is a 2020 grad. Their families are local and have a legacy of caring about others and working hard at whatever task they are given. Both men agreed that it is important not to “chase the money.” Both agreed it is important to enjoy what you do and the people you work with on a day to day basis.

Blankenship and Lee both have backgrounds in construction and the lumber business. Lee worked for Singer Construction out of high school and has worked for the city for well over a year.

When students asked them about the importance of being Houn’ Dawgs and what they liked best about Aurora, both managed to work my adage of “All Roads Lead Home” into their dialogue. Ironically, one of our two graduation speakers worked it into her speech, as well, indicating a “wise teacher once told me” that All Roads Lead Home. Oops, here comes the sniffles—again.

I pondered their words Sunday, while I wound my way to Hermann, Missouri, for a little Mother’s Day dinner. I veered off the interstate at Cuba and headed up North 19. I was over 150 miles from home, yet the backroads felt so familiar. I have made this trek two or three times in recent years.

Is home a place or is it the people? Is it a mindset? Or maybe it is a place we romanticize. I had some older folks talk about Heaven as Home. I have always thought Aurora was just Heaven on Earth to me. Then, I think about our hearts. We are so innocent as children. Life, experiences, hurt, shame, blame and heartache sometimes settle in our bones to tame us and season us a little bit. But all it takes is 10 seconds for us to recall a memory or respond to its charm.

We used to sing an old gospel song called “This World Is Not My Home.” The lyrics include a line in the chorus that “We’re just a passin’ through.” I am thinking of those lines today as I ponder the loss of that old friend James. I was so homesick those first few months of college back in 1979. Just like those days from childhood, I would cry leaving the driveway and heading west to my room in Webster Hall. We’d go on walks before and after our tutoring sessions. About 10 seconds into the walk, I would shed my first tear. He always made me laugh because he thought I was “way too serious” for a Houn’ Dawg. “Dry those tears,” he’d say, adding—”You are supposed to be tough.”

Then, this past weekend, I found out about the loss of a friend’s mom from northwest Arkansas. Gladys Dickens Widner was a rural farmer’s wife who raised five kids on the banks of Lick Branch—near Alpena, Arkansas. Gladys made a home for her family and friends–no matter where she was. She could cook, clean and sew like nobody’s business. I made the trek to her farm while working on a project a few years back. She fed me supper and took me outside to look at a big tree. She spoke fondly of her home and even more fondly of Heaven–her ultimate HOME. As I backed out of her driveway–I waved that day and took a breath–counting to 10 before the first tear fell.

So, school is winding to a close. I have a big to-do list for the summer. It will include a few trips away from home, some plans, some actions and some decisions.

But, that’s okay, it’s nothing that 10 seconds, me and Stevie Nicks can’t handle.

Wait a minute. I think there’s something in my eye. It must be allergies, again.

Change.
Seasons.
Tradition.

I am still loving the journey as All Roads Lead Home.