A tribute to Priscilla Vanderhagen

Earlier this week I had started an exciting thread dealing with action figures. Many members submitted photos of action figures, but Boomer made the most valuable contribution, in my mind, when she submitted this one...



It was valuable for several reasons, the first being it was the coolest damn action figure I have ever encountered and also because it effectively stirred up memories from my past that had been in a state of slumber for quite some time.

It brought to mind Priscilla Vanderhagen, the lunch lady from my youth.

I attended a Catholic school in a small farming community. The school had grades 1 through 8 and upon graduation the students would go to one of four high schools in the surrounding area. Most of the students continued on to the Catholic High School over in Brandenburg, while the remainder went to the three public schools available. The Catholic school was in option for the parents, while the public schools depended upon the location of your home. That is why my cousin and myself were the only ones to go to Proster High.

But all that is meaningless -- let us return to the lunch lady.

She was an enormous lady, always wearing simple flowered dresses.

And she was always there. Never one time during the duration of my stay at St. Bart's did the lunch lady not show. Priests came and went, and the nuns, like so many penguins, waddled in and out at an alarming rate. Sister Donald Marie was the only one who had any respectable career, lengthwise, and she was only there for four years.

But Priscilla Vanderhagen was like the rising sun, always there, always punctual.

She wore these enormous glasses with lenses so thick they gave her eyes the appearance of one of those deep sea creatures, the eyes ever-vigilant, darting to and fro, and always appearing to be on the verge of explosion.

She was a taciturn individual, only speaking when admonishment was required, such as the times I would try to procure an extra peanut butter cookie through clandestine measures and as I was about to slip the cookie into my pocket one of those eyes would dart around and her hand would lash out faster than a cobra's strike, snare the cookie, and before I could even blink that cookie was back on the platter and she would say, "Only one cookie, Gustav." Then the eyes would continue their never-ending search for childhood misbehavior.

Another thing about Priscilla Vanderhagen was that you never saw her out of her element. Never saw her in church, never saw her at the store, never saw her at the feedmill.

We knew where she lived, a small brown rambler about a mile outside of town. Her house sat on a small rise on county rd. 11, and many times my friends and I would pass her house on the way to our favorite fishing lake.

Her yard was always neatly mowed and her flower gardens were free of weeds, but, to the best of my knowledge, not one single student at St.Bart's ever saw her outside that damn cafeteria. How did she mow that lawn? Who weeded that garden? Those questions gnawed at me during my youth and caused me many sleepless nights. Randy Schmidt and myself even went so far as to drive over there one night to see if we could see her in the window, just to put our minds at ease. We were convinced that Priscilla Vanderhagen was some sort of rotund robot that was stored in the janitor closet at school and only activated during the lunchtime hour. Our thoughts were that the house was a ruse by the parents to keep the students from discovering the truth behind the robot.

We arrived at her house, Randy and I, and selected a hiding spot in the rhubarb patch. Then we scanned the windows with our binoculars. Alas, the shades were drawn and only once or twice during the course of our stay did we see movement. Both times an enormous shadow would pass by a particular window, darkening the window momentarily and causing chills to run down our spines. Then the shadow would pass and the house would return to its state of innocent inactivity.

I'm sure Priscilla Vanderhagen is dead by now. Dead and buried. If she were still alive she would be somewhere around 158.

I went by her house a few years back and it was gone, replaced by an enormous sign that said "Whispering Pines Estates." In the background a plethora of McMansions has sprung up and the driveways were lined with SUVs and portable black plastic basketball hoops. People sat on their decks and admired their yards while the children, tucked away in the basement, I presume, played their video games with a determined passion.

I wondered as I rolled by in my truck if these people had any idea that there was once a house where there entrance sign now stood. And that that was the residence of Priscilla Vanderhagen. "Probably not, Gus", I muttered to myself as I flicked my cigar stub out the window and rolled on toward the lake.

But as long as I am alive Priscilla Vanderhagen shall live on. She shall reside in my mind. She shall be a treasured memory. But once I am gone I have a deep fear that Priscilla Vanderhagen shall cease to exist.

The lunch lady will be no more.