Yearbook’s arrival tells sobering story
Two years ago, Bill Ogle received in the mail a 1941 Gonzaga High School yearbook. An enclosed letter from Harry Paslay of Dallas read, in part:
“I recently purchased this yearbook at a garage sale. Please accept this as an attempt to return it ‘home’ to someone with memories of this year at Gonzaga. Reading through this annual, I chose a name from the student newspaper staff, as that was an activity I’d participated in in high school. I am an alcoholic entering year eight of sobriety a day at a time.”
Paslay then explained that someone had once sent his father a tattered copy of his 1941 Como (Miss.) High School yearbook. Paslay’s father smiled and laughed as he recounted memories. “Because drinks and drugs were more important to me than anything during this time, I wasn’t emotionally present for dad,” Paslay wrote.
As part of his recovery from alcoholism, Paslay wished to make amends to those he had hurt while addicted. He felt terrible about ignoring his father’s joy while reminiscing over the yearbook. But his father was dead. He couldn’t make amends directly.
“My sponsor suggested I go to a garage sale, seek out and purchase a high school yearbook and return it to a graduate,” Paslay wrote. “He explained that my dad’s spirit would be honored if a book sent by me could provide the recipient with recollection of memories.”
Paslay found Ogle’s south side address through Google.com. The day the yearbook arrived, Ogle sat down with his daughter Molly and wife, Betty, and they paged through the yearbook together. Molly saw that in 1941, her dad’s high school – which evolved into the present-day Gonzaga Prep – was located on the first floor of Gonzaga University.
Ogle wrote and thanked Paslay. Ogle, who attends Mass every weekday morning at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, told Paslay he would pray for him. He did. And still does.
Ogle, 82, never heard back from Paslay. He worried, because in his letter Paslay mentioned that he sometimes drops into despair especially “on July days with temperatures of 105 degrees.”
Last week, Ogle showed me the May 20, 2003, letter from Paslay. It included an e-mail address for Paslay. Back at work, I e-mailed Paslay, telling him of Ogle’s worry. The next day, I received a voice mail message from Paslay, assuring us he was sober, alive and well.
Paslay, a lawyer in Dallas, said in a follow-up e-mail that he has now sent 102 yearbooks to people throughout the country. He opens the yearbooks, points his finger to a person’s photo and then tries to track down that person.
“About half of the recipients have acknowledged the book’s arrival,” Paslay said. “Surprisingly, a third of those that communicated back have personally or within their immediate families been touched by alcoholism.”
Paslay returns yearbooks to people as an act of reparation for indifference to his loving father. The spirit of loving fathers adds this ending twist to the story:
After receiving the yearbook two years ago from Paslay, Ogle donated it to Gonzaga Prep, because he’d kept his own copy all these years. In anticipation of our interview a week ago, Ogle paged through this personal copy of his 1941 “Luigian” yearbook.
On the back page, Ogle discovered a handwritten graduation note – from his father – written to him 64 years ago. Somehow, Ogle had never noticed the note – until a week ago. Ogle’s father died in 1967.
His father’s words, profound and universal, lifted the spirits of Ogle – and the spirits of Paslay, too. They were words Paslay’s father might have written to encourage his son’s journey in sobriety.
On May 26, 1941, Ogle’s father wrote: “To My Only Son! Remember my boy – the only one you have to live with 24 hours of every day of every year is yourself. The only one you have to answer to eventually is your God. Live accordingly. Experience will verify these statements. Whether you know it – or not – there’s no one in the world today more proud of your accomplishments than your dad.”