SMILING WHILE SAD
I intended to honor a fallen friend today --- and I will. But something turned my frown around.
(From Pages 67-68, QUADALAJARA - The Utopia That Once Was)
The news of Bobby's death left me emotionally numb. The reality took days to sink in. I was given permission to attend the wake and funeral by an empathetic medical staff. Stage three of my unusual medical procedure would have to wait, and any possible damage to what had already been reconstructed didn't matter. Everyone understood.
Subconsciously, perhaps, I wasn't ready to accept that my close friend was forever gone. Memories of competing in basketball, baseball, football, and all around horseplay that bonded Bobby and I were running through my head. I remembered leisurely walks down Prospect Street past Memorial Hospital on our way downtown on Saturday afternoons in hopes of meeting girls, hanging out on the West Side with the girls from St. Mary's Parish, and double dating with Denise and her sister Eileen. I had so many fond memories; memories that would last a lifetime for me, but were stolen from my friend at only twenty years of age....
.....I remained in my brother-in-law Alan's car for the funeral service. He was able to park close enough for us to be merely a few yards behind the crowd of mourners. Family, friends, and just about everyone from Bishop's Bend came to say goodbye to the first resident of our neighborhood to give his life in service to our country since World War II.The tragically sad and solemn funeral service was punctuated with the crackle of the twenty-one gun salute that filled the cold morning air. The finality this military tradition signaled was too much for Denise, as she collapsed and was caught by Bobby's cousin.
After composing herself, Denise walked over to Alan's car. We talked for a few minutes before Denise left and a few other friends stopped by to greet me. Ironically, Denise's sister Eileen, who once told me, “If you join the Army, I'll never speak to you again,” was not among them.
After returning to my all-too-familiar bed at the VA hospital, a few more days passed. I was watching the Saturday afternoon college basketball game—a game in which Notre Dame defeated the seemingly invincible UCLA Bruins—when tears began to flow from my eyes like water pouring uncontrollably from leaky faucets. Reality finally thawed my previously numb emotions. Bobby Taylor was dead.
ROBERT THOMAS TAYLOR
July 5, 1949 - February 27, 1970
Rest in Peace, My Friend.....
* * * * *
Upon returning from lunch earlier, I was greeted by a quite unexpected email. No further words from me are necessary:
"Jack,
Just wanted to say thanks. I've been trying to locate my father (Herbert Rhoton) for 35 years now. I purchased your wonderful book last year and it led me to finally find him. He is 81 now and still lives in Chapala. If it weren't for the clues that you provided me with, I'd still be looking. BTW, I loved the book and the insight it gave me about my Dad's life.
Bless you,
M. Rhoton"
(From Pages 67-68, QUADALAJARA - The Utopia That Once Was)
The news of Bobby's death left me emotionally numb. The reality took days to sink in. I was given permission to attend the wake and funeral by an empathetic medical staff. Stage three of my unusual medical procedure would have to wait, and any possible damage to what had already been reconstructed didn't matter. Everyone understood.
Subconsciously, perhaps, I wasn't ready to accept that my close friend was forever gone. Memories of competing in basketball, baseball, football, and all around horseplay that bonded Bobby and I were running through my head. I remembered leisurely walks down Prospect Street past Memorial Hospital on our way downtown on Saturday afternoons in hopes of meeting girls, hanging out on the West Side with the girls from St. Mary's Parish, and double dating with Denise and her sister Eileen. I had so many fond memories; memories that would last a lifetime for me, but were stolen from my friend at only twenty years of age....
.....I remained in my brother-in-law Alan's car for the funeral service. He was able to park close enough for us to be merely a few yards behind the crowd of mourners. Family, friends, and just about everyone from Bishop's Bend came to say goodbye to the first resident of our neighborhood to give his life in service to our country since World War II.The tragically sad and solemn funeral service was punctuated with the crackle of the twenty-one gun salute that filled the cold morning air. The finality this military tradition signaled was too much for Denise, as she collapsed and was caught by Bobby's cousin.
After composing herself, Denise walked over to Alan's car. We talked for a few minutes before Denise left and a few other friends stopped by to greet me. Ironically, Denise's sister Eileen, who once told me, “If you join the Army, I'll never speak to you again,” was not among them.
After returning to my all-too-familiar bed at the VA hospital, a few more days passed. I was watching the Saturday afternoon college basketball game—a game in which Notre Dame defeated the seemingly invincible UCLA Bruins—when tears began to flow from my eyes like water pouring uncontrollably from leaky faucets. Reality finally thawed my previously numb emotions. Bobby Taylor was dead.
ROBERT THOMAS TAYLOR
July 5, 1949 - February 27, 1970
Rest in Peace, My Friend.....
* * * * *
Upon returning from lunch earlier, I was greeted by a quite unexpected email. No further words from me are necessary:
"Jack,
Just wanted to say thanks. I've been trying to locate my father (Herbert Rhoton) for 35 years now. I purchased your wonderful book last year and it led me to finally find him. He is 81 now and still lives in Chapala. If it weren't for the clues that you provided me with, I'd still be looking. BTW, I loved the book and the insight it gave me about my Dad's life.
Bless you,
M. Rhoton"
posted by Jack at 5:26 PM
1 Comments:
Jack. Wow. That is amazing!
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