The Grubs

In 1978, when we moved to Maryville, Mo., our older son was in the third grade. At Eugene Field Elementary School in his new hometown, our son quickly made friends with Chris, Curt and Dustin. The four boys became fast friends, a bond that has endured almost 30 years. A couple of weeks ago, all four were together for the first time since 1990.

Early on, the four boys discovered the mysteries and delights of the 102 River, a north-to-south-flowing stream that nicks the eastern edge of Maryville and, at the time, was the town's only source of water. The 102 River, however, was not an entirely reliable river. In the driest weeks of summer, it would frequently stop flowing. It wasn't until the late 1980s that a new lake east of town provided a reliable water source.

Because of the way the river flowed, there were county roads that crossed it every mile north from Maryville, which meant there were bridges and access to the river. We would take the boys to one of the bridges, let them out and agree on a time to meet at a certain bridge upstream. The boys would walk, wade and crawl along the muddy river. Their loot? Petrified wood, fossils, reptiles, good times, great memories and a keen sense of trust and reliability. Not once was an agreed-upon meeting time ignored.

It was my wife who started calling the four boys the Grubs. If you had seen them after several hours in the 102 River, you would know why. But if the silty mud of a river was the worst mess any of those boys got into, we parents could say we did a darn good job raising them.

And that's exactly how it turned out.

When our son got his driver's license, he asked to borrow the family car for an outing with the Grubs. We didn't know until they returned that they had gone to Great Bend National Park on the Texas-Mexico border.

All four of the Grubs had a common goal. They were all smart students, and by the time they had gone through Washington Middle School and into Maryville High School, they were all certain they wanted to go to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. They also were aware that MIT rarely accepted more than one student from any high school's graduating class.

We moved to Blue Springs, Mo., right before the start of their junior year in high school, and the Grubs realized the MIT odds had suddenly improved. As it turned out, the boys' ambitions were not far off the mark. Our son and Curt were accepted by MIT, and Chris and Dustin were both alternates.

When Curt graduated from MIT, he headed for China and taught school there. He came back to California and began developing a curriculum for science experiments using recycled items. He's working on his second or third book on the subject. He also married and had children.

Chris went to the University of Kansas and specialized in herpetology. He is on the faculty of John Carroll University in Cleveland. He also got married.

A couple of weeks ago, it was Dustin's wedding that brought the Grubs together in the same spot at the same time. The wedding was on a mountaintop in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Many of the guests camped out for the weekend. The weather, as it turned out, was a fright: nearly 100 degrees and 100 percent humidity. A thunderstorm the night before the wedding blew away most of the tents and washed out a road.

Our son's take of the situation: The wedding could just as easily have been held in Kansas City's high heat, humidity and storms. At least there would have been access to decent barbecue.

As our son related the mountaintop wedding story during a phone call this week, my wife were both thinking: That leaves just one unmarried Grub. Not that there's any pressure, of course. Neither of us mentioned it on the phone. We are such wise parents.

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.