I'll never forget you. People say this all the time, especially at graduations when people are moving in different directions to different locations far away. Granted, it's something girls say more than guys, but it's said by both nonetheless. At the time it's said, I have no doubt it's meant in earnest. But then life gets in the way and more important priorities intrude. Not until later in life is thought given, usually in passing, to people that have moved on and exited our lives, either permanently or just in terms of location.
I have a decent memory. It's imperfect, to be sure; just ask Karen. But every once in awhile, I think of people that I used to know, people with whom I went to school, people I knew at work or relatives who died and wonder about their lives, what they might have been and whether they are even remembered by anyone other than their families. I don't know why I do this, I just do.
Without revealing any identities, I thought I'd take the time to remember a few of these people, how I knew them and what I remember about them.
Chuck R. Chuck was a year behind us in grade school. He was best friends with the manager of our eighth grade basketball team and the younger brother of our May Queen. In high school, he was riding in the back of a friend's pick-up truck when it hit a bump in the road. Probably because he was seated on the edge of the bed, he was thrown from the vehicle into the other lane, where an oncoming car hit him after he hit the road. I never heard what killed him, the fall or the impact with the car. But every time I look at our team picture, I look at that bright-faced Irish kid whose life was cut short but a silly mistake.
Steve E. A classmate in our grade school class and one of the team managers of that team, Steve later caught the flu while I was in college and died, probably of pneumonia, leaving a wife and a daughter behind. His daughter is probably a young woman now, never having had the chance to know her father. Steve had some slight physical disability but was a joy to be around. He never played him his challenge and was always pleasant and well-liked.
John R. John was a classmate with Steve and me. He was a bit of a wildhair, being neither athletic or very bright. He wasn't a bad kid, but he was always on the fringe, being the most likely to engage in pranks or get someone else in trouble if he could. During high school, he lost control of his motorcycle and slid under a parked car, killing himself in the process.
The K Brothers: These guys moved into the district only a couple of years before they died. They were hockey players when hockey wasn't yet as popular as it became after Lake Placid. They were also hard partiers who had spent the day at a reservoir with Pat C., the driver who was either drunk or high or both. Pat C. drove the car they were in into a big oak tree at the second bend of a slight S curve, killing the K brothers and the other occupant in the car. Because Pat C. wasn't wearing his seatbelt, he was ejected from the car, suffering only minor injuries. To add insult to injury, Pat C. later married one of the prettiest cheerleaders and moved away, leaving the K brothers' family behind with their memories and sadness.
Mrs. C: The mother of my best friend Greg in grade school and high school, she was killed when a brick truck took a turn too fast at an intersection and overturned on her car. I can remember crying like a child in the locker room when we learned of her death. I'd only met her a couple of times before her death, but that incident affected my friend tremendously. It probably pushed us to be closer, because Greg's older brothers used to beat the hell out of him with tough love and his father was harder on him still. I often wonder what Greg would have been like had this not happened.
Denise P: I worked with Denise for only a short time. She seemed to have problems in her private life, although I never guessed what they were. We shared a love of all things Irish, so when she visited Ireland, she thoughtfully and generously brought back a government-approved bottle of poitín, or Irish moonshine, which still sits, unopened, on my office bookshelf to this day. Shortly after I left the firm I learned that Denise died of complications from alcoholism.
John G. A fellow albeit senior attorney, we shared a love of books. John was a smoker with the raspy, deep voice to prove it. I leant him a copy of James Dickey's last novel, To The White Sea, which he read and actually returned. He was a literate man with an understated, dry sense of humor. Shortly after he died, almost poetically, James Dickey died. I attended his wake with a fellow attorney just to pay our respects.
My grandfather and grandmother: I loved my grandmother. She was the sweetest, calmest person I ever knew. I didn't know my grandfather as well because he died when I was eight. I would have liked to have had the opportunity to talk more with grandpa and spend more time with grandma. I miss grandma a lot.
Henry Lilienheim: Violating my intention not to reveal identities, this is one person about whom everyone should know. Mr. Lilienheim was a survivor of Dachau. After the war ended, he turned down a request from David Ben Gurion to be in the first-ever Israeli cabinet to search postwar Europe for his wife instead. It proved to be a wise decision. Mr. Lilienheim spoke about seven languages, was licensed as an attorney on two continents and practiced as a patent attorney. Despite having been to hell, he was as jovial a person as I ever knew, having a deep love for flamenco dancing. One day, however, when I visited him he asked me if I believed in God. Not wanting to offend him but unwilling to disavow my faith, I trod cautiously through that minefield and we remained friends. Mr. Lilienheim later wrote a book called The Aftermath, which should be required reading in our schools. I can't do the man justice; here's his obituary:
http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2002-12-18/news/0212180333_1_camps-nazi-lithuania
I miss Henry.
Our Mother: Of all the people who have passed on, the one person I think of every single day of my life is our Mother. She taught me everything, made me who I am. She gave me a love of language and literature, of movies and art. She taught me how to cook -- no matter how much Karen may question that -- and how to throw a baseball. She was my confidante, my best friend, my best cheerleader. We had our moments, but by and large, we always got along. Yesterday was the eighteenth anniversary of her death, and I miss her just as much today as I did eighteen years ago.
(c) The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
No comments:
Post a Comment