Those of us who grew up in small rural communities like Gainesville, Bakersfield, Dora, Theodosia – and even smaller places like Thornfield, Romance and Rockbridge – may be teased sometimes as small-town hicks. But we have a wealth that only a handful of big-city natives can claim. 

We have each other.  

We have neighbors, co-workers, office-holders, merchants and pals who've been our friends for years. But, frankly, big-city folks can have that too, if they're lucky. The treasure I'm talking about is the small-town friends we've known forever. And by forever I mean since our earliest days of childhood. In other words: All. Our. Lives.

Ten of us lifelong friends started kindergarten together in Gainesville in 1956 and graduated from GHS together in 1969. Several others joined us during elementary school and continued on to high school graduation with us. (As one of them who joined us in third grade said, "I wasn't born in Gainesville, but I got here as soon as I could.") Decades later, we members of the GHS Class of 69 are still good friends who cherish our rare, decades-long relationship.

If you're a small-town native who's still friends with classmates you've known all or most of your life, you know the treasure I'm talking about. 

During our early years, we laughed together, studied together, celebrated birthdays together, got our driver's licenses and got in trouble together (not me, of course, but, uh, anyway, it wasn't my fault). Then we attended each other's weddings and sometimes commiserated each other's divorces. We exclaimed over each other's children, praised each other's work and accomplishments, and then exchanged Christmas cards when jobs or marriages led some of us to establish other homes in other places far away. 

Even then, it was as though nothing had changed when we gathered regularly to mark 10th through 50th class reunions, remembering the crazy times we shared as we grew up together in our small town.

More recently, we've grieved together as heartbreaking losses have pierced our lives with sorrow: the death of a parent, a spouse, a sibling . . . a child. We've also mourned the deaths of a dozen of our 65 classmates in the Class of 69. 

The biggest smile

Now, we're bracing ourselves for another hard loss. Diane Dreckman White is at home in Gainesville under hospice care after a hard-fought battle against pancreatic cancer. Of course, we never know God's plans for our future, but it seems Diane may be a little closer to heaven right now than the rest of us who hold her so dear. And while we mourn the deaths of those other 12 classmates, Diane is extra-special to us because she's one of the 10 classmates who started kindergarten and graduated from GHS together. 

She's also extra-special simply because she's Diane. For starters, she is the smilingest one of us. Looking through photos of our many years together, she's always the one with the biggest smile. She's the classmate who can always be counted on to find something to laugh about and to bring cheer to any room. Maybe that's why her health situation makes us all so sad. 

Diane is also one of the kindest and most thoughtful members of our class, something she has demonstrated many times but never more heroically than when we were in, I think, third grade at the old Gainesville Elementary School on what is now Elm Street. The playground equipment included a tall Pole that had chains with single handles hanging from a rotating fixture at the top of the pole. It was the Giant Stride, and you "rode" it by grabbing the handle on one of the chains with both hands, then, in unison with others on the contraption, running round and round the pole until you all became airborne, swinging around the pole like the blades of a horizontal box fan. 

Taller, bigger kids had to pick up their feet in order to fly around the pole, and they could just drop their feet and hop off whenever they wanted to. Or they could drag their feet to bring all the riders to a stop. But shorter kids had to hop up or get a boost from a friend to grab the chain handle, and depending on how fast the taller kids ran around the pole, the short kids could find themselves whirling around the Giant Stride almost parallel to the ground with such speed and force that, if they let go of the chain, they might be flung halfway to Arkansas. 

That memorable day in third grade, one of our shorter, lighter classmates had what we might call a wardrobe malfunction while playing on the Giant Stride. His jeans were a little loose that day, and as he whirled around the pole, high above the ground, the centrifugal force pushed his pants clear down to his ankles. 

So there he was, flying around the pole half-naked as all the kids on the playground watched, both horrified and, I'm ashamed to admit, laughing. The little guy was too short to drag his feet to stop and too afraid to let go, knowing he might be hurled into the next century. 

It was Diane who saved him. She bravely stepped into the path of our orbiting classmate, raised her arms and caught him. They both tumbled to the ground – scraped, bruised, relieved, and, in the boy's case, humiliated. 

It wouldn't be the first time Diane saved a child who needed help. In adulthood, she has made a career of working as a para-professional, connecting heart-to-heart with special kids in multiple school districts who need a little extra love and attention. 

Adventures with Diane

The love and laughter Diane gives so readily comes from growing up amid joy that was meant to be shared. Her parents, Jean and Bob Dreckman, opened their home to us rowdy teenagers in the 60s and 70s. In a time when the school did not hold or sponsor dances, the Dreckmans hosted dances in their garage, where Diane's older brother Dale and his band played the latest rock-and-roll hits. Oh, the times we had there!

After high school, Diane tried college but decided it wasn't her thing. In 1971, she came to Columbia to live with me for a semester when I moved out of unsatisfactory housing and needed a roommate. We rented a sorry little two-bedroom mobile home on the outskirts of town and were in almost constant trouble with our landlady for haphazardly parking on her precious grass. I learned quickly to let Diane, the diplomat, negotiate forgiveness with the angry landlady, who sometimes sent her home with a plate of cookies.

We both had mothers who were well known for their expertise in the kitchen. But Diane and I had never had much interest in cooking, only in eating. We were, however, supremely confident that it couldn't be that hard, and for our first attempt at cooking a meal, we made fried chicken. Or tried to. We dowsed the chicken in flour, poured an inch or so of Wesson oil into the skillet, put the floured chicken in the oil and then turned on the burner. Imagine us standing there, looking into the skillet, wondering why our pink and pimpled chicken looked so different from when our moms made it.

In another brilliant move, we adopted a cute little gray-and-white cat from the animal shelter. We didn't have a carrier, but Diane held the sweet feline in her lap while I drove us to a store to buy catfood, kitty litter and a litter box. We left the cat in the car, loose, and were shocked when we came back 15 minutes later and it was gone. We were dumbfounded (and also dumb), thinking the cat had somehow opened the door or rolled down the window of my old Mustang and escaped. We looked under the car and around the car and scanned the parking lot. No cat.

There was nothing to do but get back in the car and go home. Then, somewhere between Walmart and the trailer park, we heard mewing coming from up inside the Mustang's dashboard. Being as ignorant about cars as we were about cooking, we were terrified the cat would somehow electrocute itself in the wiring, but it was still mewing when we arrived back at the trailer, hurriedly parked and jumped out of the car, thinking the Mustang might explode or catch fire or something.

The cat jumped out too. Before we could grab it, it streaked off across the landlady's beloved grass and into the woods. We never saw it again.

 I'm just sorry Diane isn't writing this column. She tells the stories so much better than I do. Whenever she and her husband, Darrell White (our Class of 69 classmate since seventh grade) are at a gathering, you can usually find them in the crowd by heading toward the sound of laughter.

Community volunteer and cheerleader

Diane isn't just a spreader of cheer. She's also a devoted doer of deeds and a supporter of causes. She's been a regular and enthusiastic participant in Hootin an Hollarin since serving as a queen pageant hostess in the 70s. More recently, she's entered kids, grandkids, pets and family heirlooms in various contests and displays.

 As described in the profile the Times published about her in its Dec. 14, 2022, edition, before she served as parade marshal in the Jingle Bell Parade, she has been a familiar face to those who donate during blood drives, vote in elections, participate in outreach at Gainesville's First Christian Church and enjoy meals and activities at The Center – all places and events where Diane has been a trusted and dependable volunteer and leader for many years. I can't imagine she's ever turned down a request for help.

Diane always plays a big part in our Class of 69 reunions, helping make sure no one is left out and that those who have died are remembered. When we held our 40th reunion at Woodpecker's Ranch near Noble, several of us stayed overnight in the guesthouse accommodations. Diane is the one who stayed behind the next day to launder all the bedding, insisting it was no trouble at all.  

Her big heart kept thinking of others even when cancer knocked her flat. When I visited her in May, she walked me out to my car, her thin body wrapped in a shawl, her bald head bristling with chemo fuzz, and insisted we "need to help the OATS bus." Many Ozark Countians depend on it, she said, and she's afraid funding will be reduced and routes will be cut.

Drawn in by love

When I visited Diane again last week, the Whites' house up on the hill in Gainesville was bustling with typical Diane-and-Darrell activity. All three of the Whites' devoted daughters were there to support their parents, along with assorted grandkids, dogs and the hospice nurse who drifted in and out. Diane's brother Dale is home from overseas, and I was one of three friends who had come to share some love – and stories.

Bill Hambelton told about the time, back in the 70s, when he and Diane decided on impulse one night to drive to Mountain Home. They tore off down J Highway, circled the Mountain Home square and made it back home, all in 28 minutes. Diane was driving, he said with a smile, and they made it just fine.  

I know the family must be exhausted by all these visitors telling stories, but they tolerate all of us with Diane-style kindness. "We feel the love," oldest daughter Mandy told me. "We understand friends want to come."

And we do. Even if it's to say good-bye.