Planting My Flag
Since my divorce, the house feels pretty empty on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and every other Sunday. Without my kids’ grunts, clutter, and the noise from their devices in the house, I needed something to fill the void, so I picked up yoga. During my first visit to the Noblesville studio, the instructor asked my name. When I told her, she lit up. “Do you know Bill Kenley?”
“I do. Bill is my ex-husband,” I told her. Her eyes darted. I jumped in to save her. “Were you a student of his?” I asked brightly.
“No. I’m a teacher at the middle school,” she said, and stopped. She must have been trying to not mention the words “Bill Kenley” again even though they were, at the moment, the only thing that connected us. Speaking the name of someone’s ex can be like summoning Voldemort in certain circles. I steered the conversation to a safe zone.
“One of our sons is a middle-schooler. Where do you teach?” There are two middle schools in Noblesville, so I expected her answer to come easily. When it didn’t, I filled the pause. “East or West?”
“Noblesville West,” she sputtered. I could hear the relief in her voice. She had survived a super-awkward moment without offending me.
This kind of thing happens to me a few times a month. While I tell myself it shouldn’t sting and know that no one means any harm, I don’t love being constantly reminded that I got divorced. My ex-husband has taught English and creative writing at Noblesville High School since 1997, and coaches track and cross-country. Bill is a local luminary among young people, but his father, Luke Kenley, is an even bigger deal to most residents. As a powerful state senator, Luke chaired the Senate Committee on Appropriations for eight years. He led efforts to eliminate the inheritance tax. In 2005, he sponsored legislation that led to the construction of Lucas Oil Stadium. On a smaller scale, his wife, Sally, is just as highly regarded as a volunteer and artist. Sally’s father served seven years as mayor of Noblesville. Starting with Bill’s great-grandfather, three generations of Kenley men operated the now-shuttered Kenley’s grocery stores in Noblesville until Luke decided to focus on his political career after 25 years in the grocery business.
I’ve had a year’s worth of practice responding when strangers ask me about my ties to the Kenley name, but it never gets easier for the person asking. While ordering a drink at a wine bar in Carmel recently, a young woman approached me and mentioned that my husband was one of her friend’s favorite high school teachers.
“Such a small world!” she gushed.
“Ex-husband, actually,” I told her as breezily as I could muster.
She slunk away to her table.
Facebook isn’t a safe place either. Earlier this summer, a friend tagged me in a post about who should pay for and create public art in Indianapolis. Before I could even read the string of opinions, a woman who must have noticed my last name added to the conversation that I was the wife of her favorite teacher.
While Bill’s roots in Noblesville are like those in some majestic old-growth forest, mine are like the ones attached to an air plant, a few skinny roots with nothing to hold on to. But for my kids, it’s home, and the last thing I wanted to do is take that away from them.
Bill and I are raising them here for practical reasons, too: a strong public school system, low cost of living, walkable neighborhoods. I plan to live in Noblesville until our youngest son graduates from high school in 2027. So for the next seven years, I’ll be grappling with, and hopefully coming to peace with, all the awkwardness of being a Kenley in name only.
The first Kenley I ever met was Bill’s little sister, Betsy, in our freshman dorm at Miami University in 1993. We became fast friends. My hometown was an eight-hour drive away, so over Easter weekend, I rode home with her to Noblesville to meet her parents and go to church. It wasn’t a Presbyterian service, but it was the next best thing, I assured my parents. I spent most of Easter morning hunting for the pale yellow shoes I was pretty sure I’d packed to wear with my pale yellow dress. But I couldn’t help noticing pictures of Betsy’s twin brothers on the wall: Bill and John.
One weekend back at Miami, Bill came to visit Betsy. He was four years older than us, with dark hair, olive skin, and a swoon-worthy knowledge of feminist writers. It was an instant crush on my end, but nothing came of it for years.
As college graduation approached and we tried to avoid the “real world,” Betsy asked if any of us wanted to spend a few months working in Alaska at a salmon cannery. Bill, who was teaching at his alma mater Noblesville High School during the school year, had worked at the cannery several summers and could get us jobs. I jumped at the chance for an adventure. At our graduation party in 1997, Betsy told my parents, “I’m going to have Casey and Bill engaged by the end of the summer.”
In early July, Betsy and I flew to Seattle, transferred to Anchorage, and then squeezed into a puddle-jumper to Kodiak Island. I remember the first time I saw Bill when we landed. He wore a beard and a frayed ball cap with the bill tightly curled, a plug of tobacco in his bottom lip. A man’s man.
How much we worked at the cannery was contingent on how well the fish were running. When the salmon boats filled up fast and needed to be unloaded frequently, we could work 18 hours straight. But we had plenty of dry stretches that summer, so the whole experience felt like an unsupervised, co-ed camp a lot of the time. It was an easy place to fall in love. One night in the bunkhouse after we’d had a few beers, Bill said, “Come over here and give me a kiss.” I was happy to oblige.
My job title at the cannery was “lid bitch.” On the line where I worked, chunks of raw salmon—bones and all—went into cans along with a marble-sized ball of salt. Breaks were called “mug-ups,” when the canning line would pause so workers could get a snack and coffee, or smoke a cigarette. During one mug-up, I was walking along the dock when Bill threw an empty paper cup at me. I picked up the cup, gave him a scolding look, and tossed it in the garbage can. That was him flirting. We started spending time together on a porch swing hung on the second floor of his bunk house. It faced the bay, and we swung for hours that summer, the black sky drizzled with stars.