June
Hawk was a titan. From my earliest memories, she was always there.
Monty and I were born 24 days apart; he was my best buddy as a kid, so
it stood to reason she would become something like my second mom. She,
like all the adults in our village of 200, took a hand in raising all of
us kids, but next to my own mom, she devoted an awful lot of time to
helping raise me. I spent my fair share of time at her kitchen table
eating snacks and drinking Kool-Aid, in front of her TV in the living
room watching cartoons, and being toted around in her station wagon on
trips to the Station to eat, to Lyons to go swimming, or to Sioux City
to shop. One time, Monty and I got a grand idea, as boys often do; we
built two ramps out of plywood and bricks and planned to do Evel
Knievel-style jumps with our Huffys. Needless to say, my first attempt
ended with a crash, a torn-up knee and a lot of tears, waterworks that
gradually abated when June came from the house and administered some
mom-style first aid, complete with a couple Little Debbie Swiss Cakes.
June Hawk was my teacher, though I could never bring myself to call her “Mrs. Hawk” as high school decorum demanded. During our teenage years she was a watchful eye in the school halls, in the library and in her home economics room. She didn’t laugh when I butchered my seventh-grade sewing project – it was supposed to be a pillow in the shape of a royal-blue football helmet but it turned out to resemble an asphyxiated Pac-Man – but she couldn’t help but chuckle when my attempt at Peanut Brittle later in the semester ended up more like Peanut Chew. To her credit, she never played favorites. Heck, she even gave me a detention on my 18th birthday for fooling with and eventually breaking the projector in Career Ed class. I tried to talk her out of it, but only half-heartedly. I knew I had earned it.
June Hawk was my friend. After I left for college, grew to adulthood, moved away from Rosalie and eventually tried my hand at writing, she was one of my biggest supporters, even organizing a book reading event at Barnes & Noble in Sioux City that helped raise money for the B-R school library. In my 20s and 30s I stomped around Iowa, California and Nevada, then eventually made it back to Lincoln; no matter my zip code, June kept my mailbox filled with messages from home: News clippings about the Panthers, birthday cards, and, of course, her annual Christmas greeting. That card was always – always – the first to arrive and it signaled the official beginning of the Christmas season. With humility, she always signed the card “Just us, the Hawks,” then, after Don’s death in 2009, “Just me, June.” I’ll confess that always seemed strange, because to me there was nothing “just” about June.
This morning when I saw the e-mail, the one that carried the awful and inevitable news, I cried again, like that little boy with the wrecked bike and the scraped knee. She was a titan, a teacher, and a friend who left an indelible mark on me that I will carry for all of my days. And she meant more to me than I can possibly say.
June Hawk was my teacher, though I could never bring myself to call her “Mrs. Hawk” as high school decorum demanded. During our teenage years she was a watchful eye in the school halls, in the library and in her home economics room. She didn’t laugh when I butchered my seventh-grade sewing project – it was supposed to be a pillow in the shape of a royal-blue football helmet but it turned out to resemble an asphyxiated Pac-Man – but she couldn’t help but chuckle when my attempt at Peanut Brittle later in the semester ended up more like Peanut Chew. To her credit, she never played favorites. Heck, she even gave me a detention on my 18th birthday for fooling with and eventually breaking the projector in Career Ed class. I tried to talk her out of it, but only half-heartedly. I knew I had earned it.
June Hawk was my friend. After I left for college, grew to adulthood, moved away from Rosalie and eventually tried my hand at writing, she was one of my biggest supporters, even organizing a book reading event at Barnes & Noble in Sioux City that helped raise money for the B-R school library. In my 20s and 30s I stomped around Iowa, California and Nevada, then eventually made it back to Lincoln; no matter my zip code, June kept my mailbox filled with messages from home: News clippings about the Panthers, birthday cards, and, of course, her annual Christmas greeting. That card was always – always – the first to arrive and it signaled the official beginning of the Christmas season. With humility, she always signed the card “Just us, the Hawks,” then, after Don’s death in 2009, “Just me, June.” I’ll confess that always seemed strange, because to me there was nothing “just” about June.
This morning when I saw the e-mail, the one that carried the awful and inevitable news, I cried again, like that little boy with the wrecked bike and the scraped knee. She was a titan, a teacher, and a friend who left an indelible mark on me that I will carry for all of my days. And she meant more to me than I can possibly say.
