Too Soon To Say Goodbye

TOO SOON TO SAY GOODBYE

         I’ll begin this remembrance with a date: Sunday morning, sometime around nine o’clock, June 14, 1959

         Three weeks shy of my thirteenth birthday, I was walking to a friend’s house for a game of chess when I saw another friend walking on the opposite side of the street. I called out to him, but upon hearing my voice, he picked-up his pace. I again called out, “Hey, Spider, wait-up. What's your hurry?”
         Spider was one of my best friend. His name was Richard, but everyone called him Spider; the kid was fascinated by the scary things.
         All of us kids had nicknames. There was Tony “Two-Tone” who had some kind of a skin problem causing it to blotch. Jimmy Figueroa was tagged “Fingers”. Ronnie was “Dragnet”—cool name, Dragnet. There was George “Muscles” Bailey, and Harry “Peanuts”. My nickname was “Highhopper”. In the neighborhood where I grew up, if a kid didn't have a nickname, he wasn’t one of “the guys”.
         By the time I caught up with Spider, he was sitting on the bus bench in front of Dopey's Donuts, crying.
         “Hey, Spider, what’s up? What happened?” I don’t know why I asked, I knew. “It’s Mac, ain’t it?”
         Mac was Spider's older brother.
         Spider’s head was hung between his knees as he sat there. He nodded and sobbed a quiet, “Yeah.”
         “When?”
         “Last night, about 11:00.”
         “Damn.”
         My eyes began to well with tears as I sat on the bus bench with my friend. Neither of us said a word. In silence we sat. Words were worthless.

         Although he was five years older than the guys, Mac was a real big brother to all of us. He taught us how to throw a spiral and how to block without busting our shoulders. He taught me how to throw a knuckleball. He helped us with important things too, like our schoolwork. Mac was the greatest.
         Thomas “Mac” McClery was a big, good-looking kid. He was the captain of Harbor High's football team. He was a great athlete and fast. No one could run faster than Mac. On a good day, Mac could outrun a bullet, but he could not outrun bad luck.
         Mac got sick and spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals. As time passed, he spent more and more time at home in bed getting sicker and weaker.
         However, Mac was not the kind of a kid who would waste his time feeling sorry for himself. Although Mac spent much of his time bedridden, he kept himself busy, writing and drawing. He would lie in bed with a notebook and doodle, draw, and write poetry. The last poem Mac wrote was a song of inspiration and spiritual freedom. He wrote it the day before he died. Mac titled it, Tomorrow.
         Mac’s was the first funeral I attended. There must have been five hundred people in attendance. Most were friends and teachers from Harbor. The organ player played some sad stuff and several people stood up in front of everyone and said some kind words relating to Mac. One of the speakers, Coach Rawlings, spoke about how Mac dreamed of one day becoming an astronaut, and going to the Moon. Maybe Mac, on his way to heaven, stopped off first at the Moon, just for a little visit. I prayed for his dream to come true, Mac deserved no less.
         Mac was just seventeen when, for whatever His reason, he left us. Just seventeen! Too soon to say goodbye. Even though he has been gone sixty-four years, I miss Mac's friendship as much today as ever. I will remember him, always.

Tomorrow
When the sun shines warm and bright,
I write.
When rain falls from a dark gray sky,
I write.
When I look at the moon,
When I eat ice cream,
When I smell cinnamon,
When I hear children sing,
I write.
But alas, the light grows dim.
It is time I rest my pen.
Please, no tears of sadness.
Remember me with gladness,
For tomorrow I’ll once again run free.

Two-Tone is head pastor of a church in Colorado.
Fingers committed suicide.
Dragnet played four years in the NFL.
Muscle joined the Marines; served two tours in Vietnam.
Peanuts is a retired orthopedic surgeon.
Spider got wrapped up with drugs. Died in Alaska in 1976
Highhopper is a retired painting contractor.

WC: 734