Gone, but Not Forgotten

As I may have mentioned before, I help manage a Facebook group dedicated to high school classmates who've died.  Today, I put out a plea for three obituaries--Allyson Brown's, John Woodard's, and John Russell's.  All three from my class.

Allyson and I hadn't gotten along since Mrs. Jordan's second grade, when, while giving a book report, she sneezed and wound up with an amazing bungee-booger that flew from her face, then snapped back and splattered her cheek.  Being SEVEN YEARS OLD, I laughed.  We had been friends.  We were no longer.  In fact, she went on a scorched earth campaign that wound up with me nearly suspended from school (thank goodness my Dad was away and never learned of this!) for cheating on my homework assignments.  What can I say?  At seven, I didn't know much about self-consciousness or being embarrassed before an audience.  Had I been nine when it happened, I'd never have laughed, and I'd have helped her stare down anyone who did.  It was just plain ol' bad timing, and it ruined what might have been a long and wonderful friendship.  Allyson went on to pursue an education, had settled in Pennsylvania, and had met a man she loved.  Strangely, she settled just miles from where my family almost wound up when we moved east, and was poised to marry a man who is almost certainly related to my Mom's family.  Allyson was only 40.

John Woodard?  John and his then-friend Dwayne paid me five bucks to beat up a boy named Brent Butler.  That I did grab Brent by the coat and swing him around at their behest?  Not my proudest moment.  By then we were in fifth grade, and I was the target of relentless ridicule for my weight, my name, my religion, and pretty much anything else.  I was foolish enough to believe that these popular boys would count me among their friends if I did their bidding.  Hey, I was ten.  John later came quite close to killing the daughter of a doctor my Mom worked with in a car accident.  I remember John's obit a few years later.  No, I can't remember how he died--another car accident?  I'm not sure.  As a kid he was handsome, talented, funny, and just a bit smug.  Who and how he was as an adult, I don't know.  He was a smart guy, I know that much.  Try as I might, I can't pin down when I saw John Woodard's obituary.  Late 80s?  Early 90s?  Later than that?

And John Russell?

Wow.

I'd known John, like the others, from first grade on.  He was always nice, always kind, which was funny because he looked--well, he looked a bit snotty.  I remember a friend saying, "How can you like him, he's such a snob!"  I said, "A snob?  John?  No he's not!"  She said, "Look at that look he always has on his face!"  I said, "That's not HIM, that's just his face."

Thank you, Ringo Starr.

It was a nice face, but he did have a bit of a "down his nose" look.  It wasn't at all reflective of his heart.  He was a kind, friendly, truly nice kid.

John and I weren't close until the very end of our shared school career.  What happened between us and the deep connection it created will never be sprayed on a blog page or a Facebook group or anything else like that.  In fact, I have never shared it with ANYONE we went to school with, ANYONE who knew him.  My husband knows.  Another person who was there when it happened knows.

Immediately after the end of 12th grade, I married and moved 50 miles away.  John moved a few hundred miles away for college (John was a terrifically good student).  I had no access to our old local newspaper, I had no TELEPHONE, in fact.  I was in the throes of a gawdawful marriage to a gawdawful guy, and my life was incredibly lousy.  I'd been isolated from my friends, my family, and had to walk three blocks just to use a payphone.  So there I was, standing in the entryway at Harmon's grocery store, calling my Mom collect.  We got to our goodbyes, and she said, rather testily (we'd been arguing), "Oh, yeah--that John Russell boy you know?  The one who used to come over?  He's dead."

I dissolved.  Literally.  It was the first time in my post-toddler existence I had ever just utterly lost cohesion.  Sitting on the floor beside the phone, sobbing.  A very nice woman drove me home, but I don't really remember anything about her.  John's funeral had already come and gone, so even if I had been able to swing (or hitch) a ride, it was too late.

I found a Genweb-type text version of Allyson's obituary today, and an old classmate who was, in some way that escapes me, related to Allyson (sister-in-law to Allyson's brother-in-law?), is kindly looking for a picture to go with it.  No one has said anything about John Woodard's obituary.

And John Russell's?

A former teacher from our high school posted it today, in response to my request.  And I cried.  Can you believe that?  It's been . . . 29 years?  Is that right?  He died in 1983, so yeah.  Thirty years this fall.  And I cried, reading his obituary which, while lovely, did not begin to communicate all he was or a fraction of what I know he would have become.

I'm reminded of another friend who died young--Tammy Linford.  She died when we were fifteen in a car accident.  She was my very best friend in early elementary school, and the sweetest, funniest girl.  I think about them both, John Russell and Tammy.  They never had PCs.  Apples were something you ate.  Cell phones?  Star Trek communicators were the closest they came.  No Challenger disaster, no 9/11, no growing into the amazing adults they were going to be.  I imagine Tammy, perhaps in Utah, perhaps in some sunny place like California or New Mexico, surrounded by grandkids, a heart big enough for a whole village of babies, grandbabies, nieces, nephews.  I always picture her with an amazing garden, an explosion of color and fragrance.  I see John in the Pacific Northwest, politically aware and joyfully himself, adored by and adoring kids and pets, hiking, sailing, swimming in the ocean, and perhaps trying his hand at painting or photography.  Why painting?   I don't know, it just pleases me to imagine him with a paintbrush in his hand.  Painting crashing waves and dazzling sunsets.

Not much more to say.  I thought of posting John's obit.  Tammy's, too.  Because . . . because part of me wants YOU to know them, too.  I want you to see them, miss them, mourn them, even.

I want you to remember them.  Because they're gone.  They're gone, and if they aren't remembered, they end.

I don't want them to end.

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

Every Kid Deserves a Frank

When I was six years old, I found myself lost in Ogden, Utah. Not lost like hey, where’s my house? But rather lost in that whoa, this isn’t my home, I’m all alone sort of way. I did a lot of sad meandering about, a lot of hanging out in my room with my toys, and a lot of dreading school because so many of the kids were less than friendly. All of this was made much, much worse by a father who hit and ridiculed, a mother who had a tough time getting out of herself long enough to care about her kids, and an older sibling who had no time for her clumsy, desperately sad little sister.

It was a rough time. Until Frank.

There I was, one long, miserable fall day, moping about the back yard. I heard a familiar noise from near the fence dividing our space from the neighboring yard to the south. A noise that made my heart leap and my eyes widen.

I heard a horse.

I crept closer to the fence and, sure enough, there was a horse. There were TWO horses, in fact. Two horses, and no humans to be seen. Being the timid, fearful child I was, I scaled the fence in seconds. I approached one of the horses (a blue-eyed vision named Zen, as it turned out), took him by the halter, and led him over to the horse trailer parked in the driveway. I climbed onto the fender of the trailer, then scrambled onto Zen’s back. No, I didn’t actually know how to ride. In fact, I’d only ever been on pony rides at Susquehanna’s Harford Fair before.

And Zen KNEW it.

He turned, blinked scornfully at me astride him, then wheeled about and merrily dragged me through the clothes line. I was scraped neatly from his back and thumped rather impressively to the grass, flat on my back. He considered me for a moment, snickered (I swear), then returned to his task of mowing the lawn with his teeth. I lay, sprawled in the warm grass, and gazed adoringly at him. It was love.

Imagine my surprise when, in the middle of this little one-way love-fest, two big, strong hands slid under my arms and yanked me to my feet. I closed my eyes and waited for the blow I knew had to come. My Dad had caught me. My Dad had found me screwing up and now he was going to slam me around until I cried . . . and then slam me around some more for crying.

But it wasn’t my Dad. It was my neighbor, Frank. Frank of the horses. My relief was only temporary, as Frank kept his grip on one arm and began marching me home. Oh, please no! The only thing worse than being caught by my father was being ratted out by someone who’d WITNESSED my stupidity. With my father, anger + embarrassment meant a whopper of an ass-kicking. I was dead. I was dead and I didn’t even have the strength to plead. I stumbled along beside Frank, knowing that this was it. This was the end of me. Frank pulled me up the steps onto our front stoop, reached out, and banged on the door.

Oh, please. Please.

My Dad answered, his eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of Frank beside me. He knew. He could SMELL my screw-up. And his eyes lit up with that manic glow—like they always did when there was an ass-kicking in the offing. Frank smiled, exchanged polite greetings with my Dad, and then it came . . .

“Would you mind if I taught your daughter how to ride horses? She seems quite enamored, and I think she’s got a knack.”

Wha?

I goggled. My Dad goggled. We both looked at Frank, sure we’d misheard. My Dad, ever hopeful, asked, “Has she done something she shouldn’t have? Has she caused you any problems?”

Frank smiled and shook his wonderful head. No problems. No trouble. Would it be okay, then?

My Dad agreed, reluctantly. What he really wanted was to clout me in the ear, but since that wasn’t going to happen, at least he could get me out of the house for a while.

And boy, did it ever get me out of the house! Every afternoon after Frank got off work, we were at the pasture, caring for the horses. Every weekend, every holiday, we spent entire days doing the things that must be done for horses. And no, this wasn’t some easy thing. I wasn’t even allowed out of the paddock until I could catch my own horse, do a good job grooming, mount up by myself, and pick my mount’s hooves. I didn’t get to use a saddle and bridle until I could care for my own tack, saddle the horse myself, get that bit in there on my own, AND correctly identify, on command, equine anatomy.

Yeah, I still know my hocks from my polls, my croups from my pasterns.

For seven years, it was heaven. For seven years, Frank kept me alive with trail rides in the Uintas, overnighters on Monte, and the occasional rounding up of the chickens just for fun. Even baling hay and souping out chicken coops was bliss. Because with Frank, I was competent. I was valued. I was possessed of expertise that was acknowledged and appreciated. I trained horses, I filled in muskrat holes, I even drained wounds, de-wormed, gave injections, trimmed hooves, and, as a crowning glory, I stitched up wounds. I wasn’t ridiculed, belittled, or ever, ever hit. When I mounted a horse, I was someone worth admiring. When I say that Frank “kept me alive,” I mean that in the most literal sense. Frank, Janith, Susan, Brian, Nola, plus Zen, SiSi, Fairy, Red Cloud, Tony, Musti, and Shahla. My life preservers.

I let myself be jerked away from Frank in 8th grade. I’d say, “Blame my bad-ass Camaro-driving friend,” but that’s not fair. It was me. My Dad was finally gone, and I was angry. Angry, and looking to show the world that I didn’t have to buckle to authority any more. No, Frank never told me, “I don’t want some drunken stoner hanging out with me.” I told myself that the two were utterly incompatible, and then I made my choice. I chose poorly. I remember watching with regret and longing as he would back the horse trailer out of the driveway in preparation for a fishing trip or trail ride without me. I never dared walk over and ask if I could come along. He might have said yes. I’ll never know.

Decades later, I sat down for a few hours and talked to Frank. About what he’d done for me, about the compass he’d provided that, even through my darkest druggie days, never failed me. About the scared, self-hating little girl I’d been, and how his heart had saved me. I told him that my greatest hope for every lost, lonely child is that they, too, find their Frank. Every kid in trouble deserves a Frank.

A year after that, Frank told me that he was done. He was tired, and he’d done everything he’d ever wanted to do. It was years since he’d had horses—a bad heart and arthritis had spoiled that for him. He smiled and said he was all tuckered out. It was time to hang up his spurs. Three months after that, Frank fell in his kitchen, fracturing his pelvis. He lingered a few months in a nursing home, seemed poised to come home when he gave it up and—well, he went home. He was almost 85 years old. Born in the long-gone town of Devil’s Slide, he was a Navy man, he was a lineman for the power company, he was a horseman extraordinaire, he was a conservationist before anyone knew what that was, and he was the best neighbor anyone in this town ever had. But more than that, he was my hero. He was my proof that men didn’t have to be abusive, sarcastic, or mean. He was everything I loved about this place, and he saved my life. He was my Frank, and I will miss him forever and ever.

That's me on SiSi (Cecil).  Ignore the awful 70s attire.