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A Warm Day in Cold December
mjc5791
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A Warm Day In Cold December
By Michael J. Chase
It seems with the passage of time, the memories of my life slowly fade to various paintings in my mind. Each painting evoking specific emotions. Each memory catalogued in a specific part of my brain. Some memories stay always within reach like framed paintings displayed in a nostalgic museum. Other paintings have been stored in a box somewhere in the recesses of my brain almost forgotten. Yet, often times when the painting is dug back up I can dust it off and remember the emotions of the event.
December 4, 1986 will forever be a day that I’ll remember in much emotional detail. The emotions of that day seemed to span the whole spectrum of possibility. The emotions of that afternoon were very new to me. A new reality had been bestowed upon all of the approximately 500 students of Fergus High School in Lewistown, Montana. That day Henrietta Smith, a substitute teacher, was fatally shot in the face by 14-year old Kristofor Hans and his stepdad’s 44-caliber revolver.
Kristofor was angry at LaVonne Simonfy, the French teacher for whom Mrs. Smith was substituting, for giving him an ‘F’. Simonfy, who was also the cheerleading coach, was in the gymnasium with the girls basketball team for the State Class A Tournament. Despite Simonfy’s absence, Kristofor had made up his mind that he was going to kill someone that day. Sadly, Mrs. Smith was shot at point blank range in the doorway of the classroom while a full class of students watched. As my brother Randy, who was in the room, described it, “We all had to step over her body as blood was pumping from her head like a garden hose…. just to get out of the room.”
Kristofor then ran down the hallway heading toward the rear exit of the school. John Moffat, the vice principle, came around the corner thinking he was responding to a rebellious student lighting a firecracker. Kristofor shot Moffat in the abdomen and as he was fleeing tried to shoot him in the head but missed. This bullet ricocheted through the hallway and injured two students in a separate classroom. The students suffered only minor injuries. Fortunately, after many surgeries, Mr. Moffat also survived his injuries.
As Kristofor exited the rear entrance of the school he fired one more shot toward student onlookers but missed. He was apprehended at his home a short time later.
The next few days were much a blur as my mind kept trying to comprehend the finality of what had happened. So many lives forever changed in one short instant.
News reporters from all over the country came to cover the event. Lewistown had made national news. I remember that all reports seemed to have at least one or two false details of the actual events. And all of the reports lacked the essence and tragic detail of what had truly transpired in this picturesque town of about 6,000 in the center of Montana.
The day after the shooting, school was held as usual with extra counselors available for students. It was also to be the opening of our high school basketball season. It was my senior year and we were expected to have quite a good team. We travelled to play the Class B school of Roundup, Montana. It was expected to be a blowout as we were a Class A team. It was. Roundup routed us. Our minds were suspended in time, a little more than 24 hours earlier.
My childhood growing up in Lewistown was little short of perfect. Norman Rockwell himself couldn’t have painted a more beautiful picture. Lewistown is in the dead center of the state of Montana. The rumor had it that there was a drainpipe in a house on Main Street across from the Junior High that was the exact geological center of the state.
A crystal clear stream, Big Spring Creek, that is known for great trout fishing, runs right through town. The stream originates from a spring in the foothills of the Snowy Mountains. It is a constant temperature around 53 degrees. The water that seems so cold to swim in the summer never freezes and actually steams on a cold day in the winter. The water is so pure out of the spring that the EPA once deemed it the purest water source in the country. Being spoiled to the purity of Lewistown water, any other town’s water always tasted funny.
The summer air always had a crisp, fresh odor. Only the smoke from an occasional nearby forest fire would ever pollute the colorful summer view. When the sky was clear, you could see for what seemed forever. Abundant wildlife, especially deer, populated the surrounding forests, prairies, and farmer’s fields.
Winters were very cold and long but brought with them a whole new supply of beauty, charm and fun. Sledding, skiing, ice-skating, and hot chocolate by the fireplace were common activities for the town denizens.
Doors to houses usually remained unlocked as the only crimes reported in town were the occasional drunk driver and high school seniors getting busted for having keggars out in the surrounding woods. My mom was an exception as she was always sure that someone would rob us if we left our door unlocked.
Rarely was there a boring day in my youth. Summers were spent doing every imaginable outdoor activity. Whether fly-fishing by myself or having all night parties with my friends under the stars, most of what I can remember is bliss. But only on occasion can I remember actual dates of the past events.
On February 26, 1979 a total eclipse of the sun occurred with Lewistown being called the “Eclipse Capitol of the World”. People in town were actually selling t-shirts and baseball caps with such a motto. I remember we were told to not look directly at the sun when it occurred. Dr. Turk, the town eye doctor, came to class a few days before the eclipse to give us the warning that if we looked directly at it we would damage our eyes. He showed us a way that we could see a projection of the eclipse by making a “lens” out of a box with a hole in it. Boy am I glad that I never took that warning seriously. That will always be one of the most amazing sights that these eyes will ever see. In the middle of the day, the blue sky became black except for an omnipotent halo surrounding the outline of the moon. And then, just like that, the sun quit hiding and the halo disappeared.
A couple of weeks later I got the euphoric honor of seeing the Fergus Golden Eagles boys basketball team go on to win its first ever state championship. Grady Trogstad, center of the team, next door neighbor, and my childhood hero won the MVP honors of the tournament. My best friend, Steve Frank and I watched the whole tournament from the upper seats of the Billings Metra while our parents sat a whole section ahead of us. I remember thinking that the whole world was looking at Lewistown for such claims to notoriety. I remember thinking God was giving me these wonderful gifts because I was a good 9-year old boy.
On May 19, 1980, which was a Monday, we had a day off from school. We got an unexpected 3-day weekend. Never before had I had a day off from school outside a handful of minor illnesses. Sometimes we had feet of snow! School was never shut down. And since I lived across the street from school, I was always in attendance. But on May 18th, Mount Saint Helens erupted hundreds of miles away, sending a cloud of ash directly toward us. Although it was very warm that day, it was snowing….ash. It was supposed to be a health hazard to breath it in and so school was closed and we were supposed to stay indoors. Steve and I figured that we could play wiffle ball outside as long as we wore bandanas over our mouth and nose.
On January 22, 1984 it was blizzard conditions. A bunch of friends came over to my house to watch Super Bowl XVIII, Raiders versus the Redskins, and pig out on junk food. Eric “Cheeks” Moore and I were the only Raider fans. During halftime we put on our jackets and boots and played tackle football on the street in front of my house. It was Cheeks, Bryan McConnell and I versus Jason Eggart, Mark Qualley and Kurt Hanson. Getting tackled didn’t even hurt because of the thick blanket of powder covering the street. We won….and so did the Raiders.
On January 28, 1986, it was a very sunny day. A fresh blanket of powder snow covered the town. With the sun and snow it was a very bright day. Despite the sun, the temperature hovered somewhere near zero. Kurt Hanson, Danny Huffine and I had a free period that morning because we were on the honor roll. Danny’s grandmother lived kiddy corner from the high school. We decided we would head over there and watch TV while we raided her refrigerator for something to tide us over until lunch. We learned that the Space Shuttle Challenger had exploded seconds after liftoff. We were the first people in our school to know of the news. We told our fourth period teacher, who happened to be the substitute Mrs. Smith. She left to get a TV to bring to class to watch the developing reports. Watching the clouds of smoke as shuttle pieces descended through the air almost looked beautiful.
Memories of the events of December 4, 1986 are usually accompanied by my last memory of Mrs. Smith a few days earlier. It was a day or two after Thanksgiving break. Kurt Hanson and I were playing yet another game of “flick football” with a paper football at one of two tables near the entrance of the school during our free period. Mrs. Smith who was substituting for a different teacher came to the other table during her free period. She began making some sort of crafts at the table. I asked her what she was making. She said she was making angel ornaments to give as Christmas gifts. “This is my favorite time of year!”, she said.
Mrs. Smith was a regular substitute teacher. She was practically a permanent teacher and she knew most, if not all, of the student’s names. She was a somewhat portly person. She had quietly earned the nickname “Ms. Ballbreaker” among students as her physical appearance resembled the character of the movie “Porky’s”. But her personality couldn’t be further from that of Ms. Ballbreaker. She was always such a pleasant soul. A day with her as a substitute was usually a nice break from the real teacher. She was a country lady through and through. If memory serves me correctly, she actually lived with her family outside of Lewistown near the small community of Moore, Montana.
December 4, 1986 started out rather remarkable. Sometime during the early morning hours a rare and magical Chinook wind came through the area. A Chinook is a warm wind phenomenon that sometimes occurs during the winter. As the wind ascends the Western slopes of the Rocky Mountains the air cools. As it descends down the Eastern slopes the air rapidly warms with quite dramatic temperature changes. Blistery winter conditions are replaced with a temporary, warm, albeit gusty wind. Thick layers of snow often can disappear overnight. I drove to school with my younger brother, Randy, through puddles rather then the usual ice in my Plymouth Horizon.
There seemed to be a palpable excitement in the air. The girls basketball State Class A tournament was being held in the gymnasium. The new high school building was just opened a few months earlier and this was the first state tournament ever held in this gym. People were coming in and out of the school all day.
I remember I couldn’t wait for the start of my senior basketball season the next day. In Lewistown, prep sports, especially basketball, were a main source of weekend entertainment during the winter season. If the team made it to the state tourney, the town practically shut down as a lot of Lewistown’s citizens had left to support the team.
Christmas break was nearing, adding a sense of impending freedom for the students. This only added to the electricity of that day. I remember feeling that I was on top of the world.
Sixth period came. It was my free period. As usual, my plans to do schoolwork were replaced by the much more important competition of flick football with Kurt Hanson. We would play games for a quarter a piece. If the debt seemed to be getting too high for one of us, a double-or-nothing challenge was often requested. That day, Kurt started out up about $5.00. Toward the end of the period, I requested a double-or-nothing challenge. I won right before the school bell rang signifying the end of the day’s competition. I was sure happy to have that debt off my back! Kurt and I then headed downstairs to get to our seventh period chemistry class with Mr. Cooper. The last class of the day!
Mr. Cooper was an older teacher nearing retirement. You could tell that he was dreaming of the day when he no longer had to put up with our shit. He started out the class reminding us that there would be a test tomorrow. Just then someone in a classroom above us dropped a book on the hard linoleum floor causing the signature ‘bang’ caused by such an act. Moments later, there it was again. And then about a second later another bang was heard.
Mr. Cooper gave a funny face that seemed to say, “What are those idiots doing up there!”
But then there was a much louder bang. This one seemed to be right outside the door. Most people in the class flinched.
“Someone’s lighting off M-80’s,” I heard Kurt say.
“I think the boilers are blowing up,” said another student.
Mr. Cooper stepped outside the door and smelled the odor of gunpowder. “Some idiot is lighting off firecrackers,” he said. He then started talking about tomorrow’s test.
I remember feeling uneasy. “That was much louder than a firecracker”, I thought. Just then I looked out the window toward the back of the classroom. I saw the silhouette of a skinny kid walking with a gun.
“He’s got a gun!”, I exclaimed.
Very few people took me seriously as I was usually more of a class clown. I looked out the other window toward the front of the classroom and saw him again.
This time a few others were also watching and they echoed simultaneously, “He DOES have a gun!”
Mr. Cooper still did not believe us. He gave us the look that seemed to say, “Do you guys think I’m an idiot?”
He decided to go out into the hallways to investigate for himself. He seemed to be gone for a long time. But then he returned to the room a paler shade than when he had left. He shut and locked the door. “Apparently, there has been a shooting”, he said, “We’ll wait here until someone lets us know that it’s safe.” He then started staring blankly at the back wall.
“What did he say?”, I thought. The word “shooting” left so much for interpretation. “Was anyone hurt?”, I thought. But the answer could be read like a flashing neon sign on Mr. Cooper’s face.
Nobody said a word. Everyone just seemed to be trying to comprehend how there could have possibly been a shooting at Fergus High. Who did it? Who got shot? Is he still out there? Why would anyone want to shoot someone? I remember I had goose bumps on my arms.
After what seemed like hours, someone knocked on our door and Mr. Cooper answered. It was a police officer who told us that we would all be placed in the auditorium until the shooter was apprehended.
We got in a single file line as the officer led us out of the class. My heart was pounding very fast. You could still smell gunpowder in the air. We walked up the stairs that were right outside our classroom. Some officers were at the side of the stairwell near the rear entrance of the school with the door jammed open.
Once we got up the stairs you could hear someone gasping for breath and groaning in pain. He was surrounded by paramedics and so I couldn’t tell who it was. I looked down the adjacent hallway and a large pool of maroon blood was in the doorway of Mrs. Simonfy’s class.
It then hit me that my brother was in that class. My heart began pounding even faster. “What the hell?!”, I said out loud. I realized that this was real!
I don’t remember anything else about our walk to the auditorium. I seemed to blackout from adrenaline. Next thing I knew we were in the auditorium. Everyone was in a large group at the front of the auditorium except for a group of about 25 students. They were on the right side of the auditorium all in a group. Most were crying. Some were hugging each other as they wept. My brother was in the group. He wasn’t crying. He was just staring forward with the same stare that Mr. Cooper had when he returned to our classroom. I was so happy that he wasn’t hurt. I went over to talk to him.
“What happened?”, I asked.
“He blew her fucking head off. He just came and blew her head off.” He finally started to cry.
In the hours and days that followed, the true story was slowly pieced together. The whole community seemed in shock for months. The first half of our basketball season, we performed way below the expectations of the community. News of the shooting dominated all the local paper headlines for several weeks. Lewistown seemed to be craving for something positive and our basketball team wasn’t providing it.
I had no idea who Kristofor Hans was. He was just a freshman.
It turns out that Kristofor had a rather troubled childhood. His mom and dad were divorced. He lived in Lewistown with his mom and stepdad. His mom had given him an ultimatum. One more ‘F’ and he was going to be sent to Wyoming to live with his dad. He decided that any fate would be better than to go and live with that son-of-a-bitch. Kristofor wasn’t about to get hit by his dad’s cigarette stained fists again.
He had read a book by Stephen King called “Rage”. The story surrounds a character, Charlie Decker, who one day decides to bring a gun to school and shoot a teacher. Kristofor began to fantasize about what it would be like to carry out this form of justice.
In Kristofor’s mind, all hope was lost. He was going to speak and this time people were going to listen. The ‘F’ earned by Mrs. Simonfy was just the excuse he needed. “For a moment….I can be God”, he thought.
He had told a couple of friends what he planned on doing. No one took him seriously. It was a much different time back then. School shootings were something that only happened at gang-infested, inner city schools. There was no such thing as Columbine or Virginia Tech. The news was dominated by coverage of Ronald Reagan, Mikhail Gorbachev and the Cold War. Shooting a teacher in Lewistown was unimaginable.
That day, Kristofor came to school with a Colt .44 concealed in his jacket. Kristofor waited for class to start and then went and knocked on Mrs. Simonfy’s door. To his surprise, Mrs. Smith answered. “You’re late Kristofor. Class has already started”, she said. Everyone turned around to see who was at the door.
“Where’s Mrs. Simonfy?”, he asked.
“She’s gone for the basketball tournament”, she responded.
Kristofor just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh well”, as he reached inside his jacket, pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Mrs. Smith’s face.
Mrs. Smith only had time to pull her hands to her mouth in fright when she was shot in the mouth. The bullet exited the top of her head leaving brain and blood dripping from the ceiling. She instantly died in the doorway as the class screamed in horror and scrambled to the far corner of the room. After hearing the consecutive shots, my brother starting leading fear-paralyzed students out of the classroom.
Police were there almost instantly as a patrol car was right in front of the school when the 911 call came. They corralled the frightened students to the auditorium as they called for backup.
In the months that followed the community slowly recovered. In late February we had our final regular season basketball game. We lost. We ended up with an 8-8 record. I went up to our coach, Mr. McMillan, after the game and told him that we were going to win the divisional tournament. I guaranteed it.
We did win the tournament. There I was. I was in the Billings Metra holding up the trophy at center court just like Grady Trogstad had done eight years earlier. We went to the state tournament in Butte a week later and placed third. I always felt that those trophies should have been dedicated to Mrs. Smith. But the community was trying to forget.
On the bus ride back from Butte, one of the player’s older sisters had bought us two bottles of vodka to celebrate on the way back. It was always a tradition among seniors at the end of the season to sneak alcohol on the bus and celebrate in the back while the coach slept. I remember that I proposed a toast to Mrs. Smith.
I made the mistake of offering the only sophomore player on the team to partake in the celebration. I found out that it’s hard to hide the odor of puke on a bus. We played it like he just got car sick. But the odor of alcohol was obvious. The sophomore then told the coach that it was us seniors who made him drink. None of us lettered in basketball that year.
As decades have now passed since the shooting, the one thing I really remember is how warm it was that day in December. Every time I see an angel ornament on a Christmas tree, I smile and think of Mrs. Smith. Every time I hear a book drop on the floor, my heart skips a beat. Every school shooting I read about, I feel their pain. And I know 500 others who feel the same way.
Sometimes my thoughts wander to Kristofor Hans. In the mid-1990’s, there began an epidemic of school shootings that still exists today. Nightline NBC did a piece on school shootings in which Diane Sawyer interviewed Kristofor from prison. Now as an adult, you could see the remorse in his face as he was interviewed. At the end of the piece Diane Sawyer asked Kristofor what he would say to Mr. Moffat if he had the chance. He teared up and said that he just wished that he could say how sorry he was. Just then Mr. Moffat came to his cell and Kristofor broke down getting on his knees begging for forgiveness. Mr. Moffat hugged Kristofor and accepted his apology.
That was a very powerful moment for me. I realized that Kristofor is forever sentenced to a life in prison where he will always just be a scared little 14-year old who has no hope. I realized that all of his lifetime potential has been wasted, like shards of glass at the bottom of some landfill. I realized how sad it was. I decided that it was also time for me to forgive him.
In my 40’s, I am now a physician and have seen my share of tragedy. And God knows that I’ve made more than my share of mistakes. As a recovering alcoholic, I have been helped past some dark valleys even though I just wanted to give up. And now past those valleys, I have acquired a wisdom that I would have never attained any other way. One truth that I’ve found is that persistence and belief in something bigger than myself can get me through just about anything. No matter how cold the winter, a springtime is ahead. I just wish I could have had the chance to tell Kristofor that.
As life goes on, I realize what a vast storage of paintings that I have stashed in my mind. The painting that was created on December 4, 1986 I generally keep stored in a box, collecting dust. But recent events have made me realize that Mrs. Smith deserves better than to be forgotten as well as all of the 500 Fergus High students who witnessed that day. And so here it is in writing….my painting of that day.
If you enjoyed this story, please also check out a vid on youtube. It is a song that my childhood neighbor and fellow Fergus High student, Brad Farrar, wrote after reading my story. The recording isn't of the best audio quality but you can get the gyst:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NXy9fcOwr0I
Thanks for reading and hearing our story. Checkout 'Fergus High 500' on Facebook
A Warm Day In Cold December
By Michael J. Chase
It seems with the passage of time, the memories of my life slowly fade to various paintings in my mind. Each painting evoking specific emotions. Each memory catalogued in a specific part of my brain. Some memories stay always within reach like framed paintings displayed in a nostalgic museum. Other paintings have been stored in a box somewhere in the recesses of my brain almost forgotten. Yet, often times when the painting is dug back up I can dust it off and remember the emotions of the event.
December 4, 1986 will forever be a day that I’ll remember in much emotional detail. The emotions of that day seemed to span the whole spectrum of possibility. The emotions of that afternoon were very new to me. A new reality had been bestowed upon all of the approximately 500 students of Fergus High School in Lewistown, Montana. That day Henrietta Smith, a substitute teacher, was fatally shot in the face by 14-year old Kristofor Hans and his stepdad’s 44-caliber revolver.
Kristofor was angry at LaVonne Simonfy, the French teacher for whom Mrs. Smith was substituting, for giving him an ‘F’. Simonfy, who was also the cheerleading coach, was in the gymnasium with the girls basketball team for the State Class A Tournament. Despite Simonfy’s absence, Kristofor had made up his mind that he was going to kill someone that day. Sadly, Mrs. Smith was shot at point blank range in the doorway of the classroom while a full class of students watched. As my brother Randy, who was in the room, described it, “We all had to step over her body as blood was pumping from her head like a garden hose…. just to get out of the room.”
Kristofor then ran down the hallway heading toward the rear exit of the school. John Moffat, the vice principle, came around the corner thinking he was responding to a rebellious student lighting a firecracker. Kristofor shot Moffat in the abdomen and as he was fleeing tried to shoot him in the head but missed. This bullet ricocheted through the hallway and injured two students in a separate classroom. The students suffered only minor injuries. Fortunately, after many surgeries, Mr. Moffat also survived his injuries.
As Kristofor exited the rear entrance of the school he fired one more shot toward student onlookers but missed. He was apprehended at his home a short time later.
The next few days were much a blur as my mind kept trying to comprehend the finality of what had happened. So many lives forever changed in one short instant.
News reporters from all over the country came to cover the event. Lewistown had made national news. I remember that all reports seemed to have at least one or two false details of the actual events. And all of the reports lacked the essence and tragic detail of what had truly transpired in this picturesque town of about 6,000 in the center of Montana.
The day after the shooting, school was held as usual with extra counselors available for students. It was also to be the opening of our high school basketball season. It was my senior year and we were expected to have quite a good team. We travelled to play the Class B school of Roundup, Montana. It was expected to be a blowout as we were a Class A team. It was. Roundup routed us. Our minds were suspended in time, a little more than 24 hours earlier.
My childhood growing up in Lewistown was little short of perfect. Norman Rockwell himself couldn’t have painted a more beautiful picture. Lewistown is in the dead center of the state of Montana. The rumor had it that there was a drainpipe in a house on Main Street across from the Junior High that was the exact geological center of the state.
A crystal clear stream, Big Spring Creek, that is known for great trout fishing, runs right through town. The stream originates from a spring in the foothills of the Snowy Mountains. It is a constant temperature around 53 degrees. The water that seems so cold to swim in the summer never freezes and actually steams on a cold day in the winter. The water is so pure out of the spring that the EPA once deemed it the purest water source in the country. Being spoiled to the purity of Lewistown water, any other town’s water always tasted funny.
The summer air always had a crisp, fresh odor. Only the smoke from an occasional nearby forest fire would ever pollute the colorful summer view. When the sky was clear, you could see for what seemed forever. Abundant wildlife, especially deer, populated the surrounding forests, prairies, and farmer’s fields.
Winters were very cold and long but brought with them a whole new supply of beauty, charm and fun. Sledding, skiing, ice-skating, and hot chocolate by the fireplace were common activities for the town denizens.
Doors to houses usually remained unlocked as the only crimes reported in town were the occasional drunk driver and high school seniors getting busted for having keggars out in the surrounding woods. My mom was an exception as she was always sure that someone would rob us if we left our door unlocked.
Rarely was there a boring day in my youth. Summers were spent doing every imaginable outdoor activity. Whether fly-fishing by myself or having all night parties with my friends under the stars, most of what I can remember is bliss. But only on occasion can I remember actual dates of the past events.
On February 26, 1979 a total eclipse of the sun occurred with Lewistown being called the “Eclipse Capitol of the World”. People in town were actually selling t-shirts and baseball caps with such a motto. I remember we were told to not look directly at the sun when it occurred. Dr. Turk, the town eye doctor, came to class a few days before the eclipse to give us the warning that if we looked directly at it we would damage our eyes. He showed us a way that we could see a projection of the eclipse by making a “lens” out of a box with a hole in it. Boy am I glad that I never took that warning seriously. That will always be one of the most amazing sights that these eyes will ever see. In the middle of the day, the blue sky became black except for an omnipotent halo surrounding the outline of the moon. And then, just like that, the sun quit hiding and the halo disappeared.
A couple of weeks later I got the euphoric honor of seeing the Fergus Golden Eagles boys basketball team go on to win its first ever state championship. Grady Trogstad, center of the team, next door neighbor, and my childhood hero won the MVP honors of the tournament. My best friend, Steve Frank and I watched the whole tournament from the upper seats of the Billings Metra while our parents sat a whole section ahead of us. I remember thinking that the whole world was looking at Lewistown for such claims to notoriety. I remember thinking God was giving me these wonderful gifts because I was a good 9-year old boy.
On May 19, 1980, which was a Monday, we had a day off from school. We got an unexpected 3-day weekend. Never before had I had a day off from school outside a handful of minor illnesses. Sometimes we had feet of snow! School was never shut down. And since I lived across the street from school, I was always in attendance. But on May 18th, Mount Saint Helens erupted hundreds of miles away, sending a cloud of ash directly toward us. Although it was very warm that day, it was snowing….ash. It was supposed to be a health hazard to breath it in and so school was closed and we were supposed to stay indoors. Steve and I figured that we could play wiffle ball outside as long as we wore bandanas over our mouth and nose.
On January 22, 1984 it was blizzard conditions. A bunch of friends came over to my house to watch Super Bowl XVIII, Raiders versus the Redskins, and pig out on junk food. Eric “Cheeks” Moore and I were the only Raider fans. During halftime we put on our jackets and boots and played tackle football on the street in front of my house. It was Cheeks, Bryan McConnell and I versus Jason Eggart, Mark Qualley and Kurt Hanson. Getting tackled didn’t even hurt because of the thick blanket of powder covering the street. We won….and so did the Raiders.
On January 28, 1986, it was a very sunny day. A fresh blanket of powder snow covered the town. With the sun and snow it was a very bright day. Despite the sun, the temperature hovered somewhere near zero. Kurt Hanson, Danny Huffine and I had a free period that morning because we were on the honor roll. Danny’s grandmother lived kiddy corner from the high school. We decided we would head over there and watch TV while we raided her refrigerator for something to tide us over until lunch. We learned that the Space Shuttle Challenger had exploded seconds after liftoff. We were the first people in our school to know of the news. We told our fourth period teacher, who happened to be the substitute Mrs. Smith. She left to get a TV to bring to class to watch the developing reports. Watching the clouds of smoke as shuttle pieces descended through the air almost looked beautiful.
Memories of the events of December 4, 1986 are usually accompanied by my last memory of Mrs. Smith a few days earlier. It was a day or two after Thanksgiving break. Kurt Hanson and I were playing yet another game of “flick football” with a paper football at one of two tables near the entrance of the school during our free period. Mrs. Smith who was substituting for a different teacher came to the other table during her free period. She began making some sort of crafts at the table. I asked her what she was making. She said she was making angel ornaments to give as Christmas gifts. “This is my favorite time of year!”, she said.
Mrs. Smith was a regular substitute teacher. She was practically a permanent teacher and she knew most, if not all, of the student’s names. She was a somewhat portly person. She had quietly earned the nickname “Ms. Ballbreaker” among students as her physical appearance resembled the character of the movie “Porky’s”. But her personality couldn’t be further from that of Ms. Ballbreaker. She was always such a pleasant soul. A day with her as a substitute was usually a nice break from the real teacher. She was a country lady through and through. If memory serves me correctly, she actually lived with her family outside of Lewistown near the small community of Moore, Montana.
December 4, 1986 started out rather remarkable. Sometime during the early morning hours a rare and magical Chinook wind came through the area. A Chinook is a warm wind phenomenon that sometimes occurs during the winter. As the wind ascends the Western slopes of the Rocky Mountains the air cools. As it descends down the Eastern slopes the air rapidly warms with quite dramatic temperature changes. Blistery winter conditions are replaced with a temporary, warm, albeit gusty wind. Thick layers of snow often can disappear overnight. I drove to school with my younger brother, Randy, through puddles rather then the usual ice in my Plymouth Horizon.
There seemed to be a palpable excitement in the air. The girls basketball State Class A tournament was being held in the gymnasium. The new high school building was just opened a few months earlier and this was the first state tournament ever held in this gym. People were coming in and out of the school all day.
I remember I couldn’t wait for the start of my senior basketball season the next day. In Lewistown, prep sports, especially basketball, were a main source of weekend entertainment during the winter season. If the team made it to the state tourney, the town practically shut down as a lot of Lewistown’s citizens had left to support the team.
Christmas break was nearing, adding a sense of impending freedom for the students. This only added to the electricity of that day. I remember feeling that I was on top of the world.
Sixth period came. It was my free period. As usual, my plans to do schoolwork were replaced by the much more important competition of flick football with Kurt Hanson. We would play games for a quarter a piece. If the debt seemed to be getting too high for one of us, a double-or-nothing challenge was often requested. That day, Kurt started out up about $5.00. Toward the end of the period, I requested a double-or-nothing challenge. I won right before the school bell rang signifying the end of the day’s competition. I was sure happy to have that debt off my back! Kurt and I then headed downstairs to get to our seventh period chemistry class with Mr. Cooper. The last class of the day!
Mr. Cooper was an older teacher nearing retirement. You could tell that he was dreaming of the day when he no longer had to put up with our shit. He started out the class reminding us that there would be a test tomorrow. Just then someone in a classroom above us dropped a book on the hard linoleum floor causing the signature ‘bang’ caused by such an act. Moments later, there it was again. And then about a second later another bang was heard.
Mr. Cooper gave a funny face that seemed to say, “What are those idiots doing up there!”
But then there was a much louder bang. This one seemed to be right outside the door. Most people in the class flinched.
“Someone’s lighting off M-80’s,” I heard Kurt say.
“I think the boilers are blowing up,” said another student.
Mr. Cooper stepped outside the door and smelled the odor of gunpowder. “Some idiot is lighting off firecrackers,” he said. He then started talking about tomorrow’s test.
I remember feeling uneasy. “That was much louder than a firecracker”, I thought. Just then I looked out the window toward the back of the classroom. I saw the silhouette of a skinny kid walking with a gun.
“He’s got a gun!”, I exclaimed.
Very few people took me seriously as I was usually more of a class clown. I looked out the other window toward the front of the classroom and saw him again.
This time a few others were also watching and they echoed simultaneously, “He DOES have a gun!”
Mr. Cooper still did not believe us. He gave us the look that seemed to say, “Do you guys think I’m an idiot?”
He decided to go out into the hallways to investigate for himself. He seemed to be gone for a long time. But then he returned to the room a paler shade than when he had left. He shut and locked the door. “Apparently, there has been a shooting”, he said, “We’ll wait here until someone lets us know that it’s safe.” He then started staring blankly at the back wall.
“What did he say?”, I thought. The word “shooting” left so much for interpretation. “Was anyone hurt?”, I thought. But the answer could be read like a flashing neon sign on Mr. Cooper’s face.
Nobody said a word. Everyone just seemed to be trying to comprehend how there could have possibly been a shooting at Fergus High. Who did it? Who got shot? Is he still out there? Why would anyone want to shoot someone? I remember I had goose bumps on my arms.
After what seemed like hours, someone knocked on our door and Mr. Cooper answered. It was a police officer who told us that we would all be placed in the auditorium until the shooter was apprehended.
We got in a single file line as the officer led us out of the class. My heart was pounding very fast. You could still smell gunpowder in the air. We walked up the stairs that were right outside our classroom. Some officers were at the side of the stairwell near the rear entrance of the school with the door jammed open.
Once we got up the stairs you could hear someone gasping for breath and groaning in pain. He was surrounded by paramedics and so I couldn’t tell who it was. I looked down the adjacent hallway and a large pool of maroon blood was in the doorway of Mrs. Simonfy’s class.
It then hit me that my brother was in that class. My heart began pounding even faster. “What the hell?!”, I said out loud. I realized that this was real!
I don’t remember anything else about our walk to the auditorium. I seemed to blackout from adrenaline. Next thing I knew we were in the auditorium. Everyone was in a large group at the front of the auditorium except for a group of about 25 students. They were on the right side of the auditorium all in a group. Most were crying. Some were hugging each other as they wept. My brother was in the group. He wasn’t crying. He was just staring forward with the same stare that Mr. Cooper had when he returned to our classroom. I was so happy that he wasn’t hurt. I went over to talk to him.
“What happened?”, I asked.
“He blew her fucking head off. He just came and blew her head off.” He finally started to cry.
In the hours and days that followed, the true story was slowly pieced together. The whole community seemed in shock for months. The first half of our basketball season, we performed way below the expectations of the community. News of the shooting dominated all the local paper headlines for several weeks. Lewistown seemed to be craving for something positive and our basketball team wasn’t providing it.
I had no idea who Kristofor Hans was. He was just a freshman.
It turns out that Kristofor had a rather troubled childhood. His mom and dad were divorced. He lived in Lewistown with his mom and stepdad. His mom had given him an ultimatum. One more ‘F’ and he was going to be sent to Wyoming to live with his dad. He decided that any fate would be better than to go and live with that son-of-a-bitch. Kristofor wasn’t about to get hit by his dad’s cigarette stained fists again.
He had read a book by Stephen King called “Rage”. The story surrounds a character, Charlie Decker, who one day decides to bring a gun to school and shoot a teacher. Kristofor began to fantasize about what it would be like to carry out this form of justice.
In Kristofor’s mind, all hope was lost. He was going to speak and this time people were going to listen. The ‘F’ earned by Mrs. Simonfy was just the excuse he needed. “For a moment….I can be God”, he thought.
He had told a couple of friends what he planned on doing. No one took him seriously. It was a much different time back then. School shootings were something that only happened at gang-infested, inner city schools. There was no such thing as Columbine or Virginia Tech. The news was dominated by coverage of Ronald Reagan, Mikhail Gorbachev and the Cold War. Shooting a teacher in Lewistown was unimaginable.
That day, Kristofor came to school with a Colt .44 concealed in his jacket. Kristofor waited for class to start and then went and knocked on Mrs. Simonfy’s door. To his surprise, Mrs. Smith answered. “You’re late Kristofor. Class has already started”, she said. Everyone turned around to see who was at the door.
“Where’s Mrs. Simonfy?”, he asked.
“She’s gone for the basketball tournament”, she responded.
Kristofor just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh well”, as he reached inside his jacket, pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Mrs. Smith’s face.
Mrs. Smith only had time to pull her hands to her mouth in fright when she was shot in the mouth. The bullet exited the top of her head leaving brain and blood dripping from the ceiling. She instantly died in the doorway as the class screamed in horror and scrambled to the far corner of the room. After hearing the consecutive shots, my brother starting leading fear-paralyzed students out of the classroom.
Police were there almost instantly as a patrol car was right in front of the school when the 911 call came. They corralled the frightened students to the auditorium as they called for backup.
In the months that followed the community slowly recovered. In late February we had our final regular season basketball game. We lost. We ended up with an 8-8 record. I went up to our coach, Mr. McMillan, after the game and told him that we were going to win the divisional tournament. I guaranteed it.
We did win the tournament. There I was. I was in the Billings Metra holding up the trophy at center court just like Grady Trogstad had done eight years earlier. We went to the state tournament in Butte a week later and placed third. I always felt that those trophies should have been dedicated to Mrs. Smith. But the community was trying to forget.
On the bus ride back from Butte, one of the player’s older sisters had bought us two bottles of vodka to celebrate on the way back. It was always a tradition among seniors at the end of the season to sneak alcohol on the bus and celebrate in the back while the coach slept. I remember that I proposed a toast to Mrs. Smith.
I made the mistake of offering the only sophomore player on the team to partake in the celebration. I found out that it’s hard to hide the odor of puke on a bus. We played it like he just got car sick. But the odor of alcohol was obvious. The sophomore then told the coach that it was us seniors who made him drink. None of us lettered in basketball that year.
As decades have now passed since the shooting, the one thing I really remember is how warm it was that day in December. Every time I see an angel ornament on a Christmas tree, I smile and think of Mrs. Smith. Every time I hear a book drop on the floor, my heart skips a beat. Every school shooting I read about, I feel their pain. And I know 500 others who feel the same way.
Sometimes my thoughts wander to Kristofor Hans. In the mid-1990’s, there began an epidemic of school shootings that still exists today. Nightline NBC did a piece on school shootings in which Diane Sawyer interviewed Kristofor from prison. Now as an adult, you could see the remorse in his face as he was interviewed. At the end of the piece Diane Sawyer asked Kristofor what he would say to Mr. Moffat if he had the chance. He teared up and said that he just wished that he could say how sorry he was. Just then Mr. Moffat came to his cell and Kristofor broke down getting on his knees begging for forgiveness. Mr. Moffat hugged Kristofor and accepted his apology.
That was a very powerful moment for me. I realized that Kristofor is forever sentenced to a life in prison where he will always just be a scared little 14-year old who has no hope. I realized that all of his lifetime potential has been wasted, like shards of glass at the bottom of some landfill. I realized how sad it was. I decided that it was also time for me to forgive him.
In my 40’s, I am now a physician and have seen my share of tragedy. And God knows that I’ve made more than my share of mistakes. As a recovering alcoholic, I have been helped past some dark valleys even though I just wanted to give up. And now past those valleys, I have acquired a wisdom that I would have never attained any other way. One truth that I’ve found is that persistence and belief in something bigger than myself can get me through just about anything. No matter how cold the winter, a springtime is ahead. I just wish I could have had the chance to tell Kristofor that.
As life goes on, I realize what a vast storage of paintings that I have stashed in my mind. The painting that was created on December 4, 1986 I generally keep stored in a box, collecting dust. But recent events have made me realize that Mrs. Smith deserves better than to be forgotten as well as all of the 500 Fergus High students who witnessed that day. And so here it is in writing….my painting of that day.
If you enjoyed this story, please also check out a vid on youtube. It is a song that my childhood neighbor and fellow Fergus High student, Brad Farrar, wrote after reading my story. The recording isn't of the best audio quality but you can get the gyst:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NXy9fcOwr0I
Thanks for reading and hearing our story. Checkout 'Fergus High 500' on Facebook
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Comments
I hope a lot of others have read this. Good luck to you.
Thanks a lot for reading my story. Means a lot to me that you took the time. As the result of my writing, work is now underway to start a fund to raise money for mentorship programs and scholarships in Central Montana. It was recently published in my hometown paper and has started a lot of overdue healing (based on the massive amount of e-mails that I've received). Finally, something good is coming out of that day that changed so many lives.
Thanks Again,
Mike
Pearl Jam has rocked my world and has unknowingly helped me get through more sh** ever since I saw them for the first time at the Bozeman, MT fairgrounds in '92. Greatest band ever!!!!!
Hi I appreciate so much the story you wrote on Mrs. Smith. I can't seem to post on the forum so sent you this pm instead. I knew Mrs. Smith several years before any of the students there in Lewistown. I had her for my Spanish teacher in my freshman and sophmore years. She was fresh out of college and started her teaching career here in Bowman North Dakota. She was Miss Armstrong at that time.
Portly? She was trim at that time ,but I suppose with having a couple children and age came a little extra weight. As you mentioned she was like an angel. I have to say the nicest teacher I had in my High School days.
She was very compassionate and even though I probably deserved an F in her class she always passed me with a D -.
It is with great sadness that I am now just learning of her death so many years after the fact. I was speaking with a friend about some of the teachers we had in high school and her name was near the top of the list and she informed me of her passing.
I remember her speaking to us in spanish as we entered the class room. Always polite and patient with us when we struggled to grasp this foreign language spoken so frequently here now.
I remember her love for her little green Mustang automobile..when she traded it in she got another little green Mustang.
We all missed her when she took flight for greener pastures and miss her even more as we learn of her passing. If you can forward my reply to your post please do so...I wish the world to know what a special lady she was. I hope her children have heard many stories such as mine to help them in their loss. Thanks
JOBO1
Joined: 19 Jan 2013 00:57