Jonathan Meyer.

When I started college as a music education major, I knew there would be field experiences in schools around a 45 to 50-mile radius of Wartburg. Secretly, I had one dream assignment in mind: Oelwein High School.

So when the email came through assigning me to Oelwein, I’ll admit I cracked a smile big enough to scare the guy sitting next to me in class. My grandparents are from there. My parents grew up there. My roots are dug into that town’s dirt. It’s not quite a second home–but it’s close enough that the drive there always feels like a return to something familiar.

Now, I’ll be honest: the drive from Waverly to Oelwein isn’t exactly breathtaking. It’s a straight shot, a right turn, and then a left turn, and that’s it. But there’s comfort in its simplicity. I stopped for gas, grabbed some breakfast, and set off on this new chapter of my college journey.

When I arrived, I walked into the office and was immediately greeted by the secretary asking, “Are you the substitute for health class?”

Part of me–my slightly mischievous part–wanted to say, “Why yes, yes I am,” and proceed to teach a day full of nonsense about carbohydrates and cardiovascular health. But the rational part of my brain reminded me that I’d like to actually become a teacher someday, so I politely declined and explained I was there for my music field experience.

Once I found the band room, it was surreal. Marching band trophies lined the shelves. Old photos hung proudly on the walls. I introduced myself to my cooperating teacher, explaining that my parents had once walked these same halls. Naturally, I had to go find them in those old marching band photos–and sure enough, there they were.

The 1995 Oelwein Marching Huskies, featuring a young Jeremy with his tuba and Kristi with her trumpet. Seeing them side by side on that wall stirred a feeling that’s hard to describe. It wasn’t nostalgia for my own past–it was nostalgia for theirs. For the music they made, the field they marched, and the memories that shaped them into the parents who eventually passed that same love of music on to me.

And then came the full-circle moment: I was able to play with the jazz band. At first, I said I’d just listen. But after a few students insisted, I picked up a trumpet and joined in. I wasn’t just walking the same hallways my parents once did–I was playing in the same band they once called their own.

Later that morning, a fire drill sent everyone outside into the chilly air. As we stood there, I heard someone call out, “You must be Jonathan!” I turned and instantly recognized Darci, my parents’ classmate–now the choir director at Oelwein. We chatted about college, teaching, and even my writing. It was a surreal conversation straight out of another era, someone who knew me because they know my parents.

By the end of the day, I helped print music, staple a sight-reading activity, and even gave some pointers to a student. The students gave me the usual curious glances that come when a stranger with long hair and a beard suddenly appears in their classroom, but once I explained how excited and honored I was to share this experience with them, they seemed to get it.

And then came the moment that truly sealed the day. As I looked around before leaving, I spotted my mom’s name on one of the old band award plaques–the very same award I received when I was a senior in high school. That’s when it really hit me.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Something very special happened that morning in Oelwein. It wasn’t just a field experience–it was a homecoming of sorts, a glimpse into the legacy that shaped who I am and who I’m becoming.

Until my next bit of stolen nostalgia, I’m just Jonathan.