Claim your space. Draw a circle of light around it. Push back against the dark.
Don't just survive. Celebrate. ~ Charles Frazier
This week, a high school classmate died suddenly of a stroke.Tom was 52, exactly 11 days older than me. Statistically, his death should not be a big surprise. One out of every 234 people will die between the ages of 45-54 and one in 97 of us will die between the ages of 55-64.
We graduated in 1979 from Denver High School, in Denver, Iowa. There were 97 of us and our class was nicknamed 'The Biggest and The Best'. To date, we remain the largest graduating class from Denver High.
We're a close-knit class; anybody who went to school in a small town understands this. It's not that you remained tight with your classmates, but you know everyone of them by name even 35 years later.
Thanks to Facebook, many of us have reconnected and remain in contact.
Tom and I had been friends in high school; we both lived on the blacktop outside of town and I would er bike to his house on Saturdays to hang out. We'd spoken briefly at our 20-year reunion; a warm exchange, a quick sharing of our lives after graduation, and that was it until news of his death this week.
Nothing makes one consider your own mortality more than the unexpected death of a peer. I do not feel as though I am just surviving this life, although at times, it is just that, surviving. It's what we do.
But we shouldn't forget to wonder. To consider even a gray and bruised sky beautiful. To stop and listen to the wind grab the last oak leaves. To stop for art and music and dance and poetry. To drowse in the late afternoon sun. To love our family and friends. And for heaven's sake, laugh. And often.
Godspeed, Tom. The Class of '79 is just a little smaller now.
Thoughtful. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteAttended a 40th year 8th grade reunion several years ago. Truly had not seen anyone since 8th grade, except for two people. It was such a pleasure to remeet people as adults. There was one student, Bill, who was probably the lowest student academically in the class, and he lived among a class of academic superstars. Most class members went on to impressive colleges and more impressive careers: a class of achievers from solid comfortable homes. In modern parlance, we would probably say Bill had learning disabilities, but he always whistled and had his hands in his pockets. He was, to me, a Huck Finn type of boy. As an adult, he became head of the local highway department: I can just hear Bill say to his crew, "Let's get it done, guys. I want you in by 4 AM. The storm is coming." He can see him bringing in the extra doughnuts. I can imagine him worrying about nurses getting to their jobs, kids getting on school buses, the amount of salt in his reserves. He died this January and comments on his obit from his friends proved what a stand-up guy he was. I want to tell everyone who got a D on their 7th grade Math homework last week, that life goes on. And we all have a potential to be noble people. But I am so sad that he has left his family at such an early age (57) and how happy I was to speak with him just once as an adult.
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