Happily walking away

LAKE PLACID - The memories flashed before Marilyn Jones, the slideshow coming to life right before her eyes, and she just stood there, arms crossed.

School's out for Jones.

Retirement. Free time. Disposable income. Aren't these supposed to be frightening times for someone who spent nearly four decades in the classroom, holed up for nine hours a day, five days a week?

Not exactly. Jones, the school's volleyball and softball coach, didn't shed a single tear Wednesday during her retirement party in the Lake Placid High School Media Center.

She was too happy.

"I've been waiting 37 ½ years for this day," Jones said, moments after walking in to see 40 of her colleagues gathered by the entrance, "so let's eat."

This was Jones' parting shot: selfless, self-deprecating, wonderfully sharp. She became emotional at times Wednesday, her official retirement now only a week away.

But those moments of vulnerability were only fleeting. She blinked back tears. Mostly, she laughed off the transition.

Winter break at Lake Placid begins after the final bell next Friday. When classes resume in January, Jones will be in Tennessee, or North Carolina, or Alabama, visiting family, touring the country.

"I was gonna get down in front of the school and wave when classes start again," Jones said, breaking into her 1,000-watt smile, "but I decided not to do that."

The next calendar year will indeed mark a fresh start. But reminders of her past were everywhere in this library - on the projector screen, on the walls, in the hand-written notes - and even Jones couldn't ignore them for long.

"I haven't cried," Jones said, "because I didn't read the cards all the way through yet."

Team photos were splashed across a bulletin board, many of which captured the joyous moments following Lake Placid's fourth straight district volleyball title. They won another championship this year, you'll remember, but on this afternoon, those accomplishments seemed trivial.

Family photos were on another placard. Her son, Brody, at Disney World. Her grandson, Dylan, holding up a fish he caught on a recent trip. Her 2-year-old granddaughter, Abbey, whose face was covered in chocolate pudding with a whisk in her right hand.

"I spend a lot of time with them," Jones said. "Life is good."

A few hours before the party, she checked her voicemail and listened to a message from Curtis Slade, the former president of the Lake Placid athletic association. He thanked Jones for her contributions, for her hard work and dedication. "I had to hang up on that one," she said, "because I started to tear up."

A similar message was crafted on a two-foot-wide vanilla cake: "Coach Jones rules ... 37 years of dedicated service." It was a dessert adorned with a whistle, an apple, a ruler, and, most appropriately, a volleyball.

"I've been at the high school for 13 ½ years and it's been great," she said. "I've always enjoyed my work."

A curious present, wound tight with tape, sat on a table covered in Dragon green. Attached to the gift was a mock incident report, filed by the athletic department and signed by Principal Michael Haley.

According to the report, Jones suffered unidentified personal injuries - ailments that required medical attention.

Brief description: "37 years of teaching and coaching. WORN OUT!!!"

Cause of incident: "Lack of sense!"

There were plenty of witnesses, too: "Parents, administration, students, teachers, community."

"Mr. Haley signed it," Jones said later, "so it's gotta be official."

She then tore into the gift, needing three minutes to unravel the mess. She pulled out a Lake Placid letterman jacket, with "Coach Jones" emblazoned on the right breast. It fit just right.

More presents were shared, all of them so Marilyn.

A "license to chill" mug. A knit blanket, which she threw over her shoulders and raced to the bookshelf, pretending she was a superhero. "The Legacy," by Yvette M. Scholl. "Jeez," Jones said, flipping through the 700-page novel, "there aren't many pictures in here."

And finally, she received the traditional retirement gift - a money tree, with about $500 crumpled in its branches.

"I'm going to take it home and plant it," she cracked.

After 45 minutes, some teachers began shuffling out. They stopped and embraced Jones, wished her the best, told her to keep in touch.

"I want this bad for me," Jones said of retirement. And then, with another hearty chuckle: "Although I'll probably have to help clean up this mess when everybody goes home."

And with that, Jones gave another hug, stopped by a few more tables and walked to the projector screen in the back of the room, where a slideshow was cued up.

All the memories were there, snapshots of a lengthy career that spanned hundreds of athletes, perhaps thousands of games. Jones stood there and watched, the images illuminating her face.

Sitting on the bench at volleyball matches.

Hugging players on the softball field.

Goofing around on a road trip.

Marilyn Jones will miss all of it. She'll just never admit it.