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R. McCrea
Submitted for public review
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There was a boy named Stevie. He was a Williams of the Youngsville Williams. His uncle was mayor, and his father owned a lumber yard. This good-looking kid with straight brown hair was very inquisitive and energetic. He always wrote his R’s backwards, making the curve face left. Often he was racing about to clean up whatever mess I helped make before his parents came home. That was back in the 70’s when leaving children home alone for a couple or few hours was normal. As my next-door neighbor, he was my only real friend outside of school. He died in 1980.
I didn’t mourn, except for moments of sorrow lasting 30 seconds. Perhaps the manner in which the news was delivered softened the blow. My mother tried to hide the fact from me. Every two hours I would ask if I could go see Stevie. Once my mother thought she was prepared, my parents called me to the kitchen table and told me the news rather straightforwardly.
“Stevie went to the hospital today.”
I knew about the hospital. Two years earlier I had been incarcerated for two weeks with mononucleosis. “Can we go see him?”
”He died,” Mommy choked.
I assume my mother started crying, but I don’t recall that. My naïve curiosity probably drove me. What happened? How? Why? Was it anything I did? So I can’t go to Stevie’s anymore? How are his parents?
It probably took me no more than a couple days to simply remove “seeing Stevie” from my list of possible things to do. Other students asked me why my older sister was crying in school; I believe she even took a day or two off. My fifth-grade classmates commented they were surprised I wasn’t more broken up; everyone knew he and I were tight. His mother was hysterical at the funeral. She was crying full-force and howled like a banshee as she ran up and gave me the tightest hug of my life. She probably would have frightened me if I hadn’t understood what was going on. I still can’t reason why I view death the way that I do, but for me, it’s plain and simple. Death is one of the most matter-of-fact issues. If something dies, there is nothing you can do about it. Death reminds me I might as well be happy-go-lucky, and so I usually am.
As a shy child, I was afraid of encountering his parents after that. I just didn’t know how to act. Apparently the feeling was mutual, as I don’t recall ever speaking to them again, except once. During my senior year in high school I had his father as a substitute physics teacher. (My physics teacher would die within the year.) I was surprised, as I didn’t know he was a teacher. We only briefly spoke then, although I wanted to say more. My first issue at hand was that I couldn’t call him "Mr. Williams"; I had only known them as "Bruce" and "Krista".
Stevie is buried in my hometown but I’ve never seen the grave. After recalling all the trouble we had been in together for many of the first years of our lives, I wanted to stop by. I wanted to let his parents know that they had a great child, but I also expect they know that. When I got out of the Marine Corps, I thought I would give Stevie my Good Conduct medal. I was quite a trouble-maker as a teen-ager. Stevie never was.
Submitted for public review
_____
There was a boy named Stevie. He was a Williams of the Youngsville Williams. His uncle was mayor, and his father owned a lumber yard. This good-looking kid with straight brown hair was very inquisitive and energetic. He always wrote his R’s backwards, making the curve face left. Often he was racing about to clean up whatever mess I helped make before his parents came home. That was back in the 70’s when leaving children home alone for a couple or few hours was normal. As my next-door neighbor, he was my only real friend outside of school. He died in 1980.
I didn’t mourn, except for moments of sorrow lasting 30 seconds. Perhaps the manner in which the news was delivered softened the blow. My mother tried to hide the fact from me. Every two hours I would ask if I could go see Stevie. Once my mother thought she was prepared, my parents called me to the kitchen table and told me the news rather straightforwardly.
“Stevie went to the hospital today.”
I knew about the hospital. Two years earlier I had been incarcerated for two weeks with mononucleosis. “Can we go see him?”
”He died,” Mommy choked.
I assume my mother started crying, but I don’t recall that. My naïve curiosity probably drove me. What happened? How? Why? Was it anything I did? So I can’t go to Stevie’s anymore? How are his parents?
It probably took me no more than a couple days to simply remove “seeing Stevie” from my list of possible things to do. Other students asked me why my older sister was crying in school; I believe she even took a day or two off. My fifth-grade classmates commented they were surprised I wasn’t more broken up; everyone knew he and I were tight. His mother was hysterical at the funeral. She was crying full-force and howled like a banshee as she ran up and gave me the tightest hug of my life. She probably would have frightened me if I hadn’t understood what was going on. I still can’t reason why I view death the way that I do, but for me, it’s plain and simple. Death is one of the most matter-of-fact issues. If something dies, there is nothing you can do about it. Death reminds me I might as well be happy-go-lucky, and so I usually am.
As a shy child, I was afraid of encountering his parents after that. I just didn’t know how to act. Apparently the feeling was mutual, as I don’t recall ever speaking to them again, except once. During my senior year in high school I had his father as a substitute physics teacher. (My physics teacher would die within the year.) I was surprised, as I didn’t know he was a teacher. We only briefly spoke then, although I wanted to say more. My first issue at hand was that I couldn’t call him "Mr. Williams"; I had only known them as "Bruce" and "Krista".
Stevie is buried in my hometown but I’ve never seen the grave. After recalling all the trouble we had been in together for many of the first years of our lives, I wanted to stop by. I wanted to let his parents know that they had a great child, but I also expect they know that. When I got out of the Marine Corps, I thought I would give Stevie my Good Conduct medal. I was quite a trouble-maker as a teen-ager. Stevie never was.
(Hey, I think I might have been thinking "institutionalized", that surprises me). Hmm. "involuntarily separated from home" is intended. And it may be shocking. "I'll be damned if *I'm* going to the hospital. Once you go in, you never come out." was common at one time.
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