Through a Child’s Eyes
When I was six, my friend Billy Myers lived up the street from me. I don’t remember much detail, but we played a lot. Long before Paw Patrol and Rescue Heroes, Billy and I each had a fireman’s helmet outfitted with a small microphone. On several occasions, we saved the neighborhood from certain conflagration, using the mic to call for help or warn the other of impending dangers. The last time I saw Billy he was in bed looking pasty and pale. It meant nothing to me at the time.
Some days or weeks later, I was standing in the kitchen next to the stove. My mom entered and stooped down to tell me Billy had died from leukemia. I didn’t understand either the disease or “died.” Her tone was gentle and soft, and I had no idea why. She asked if I wanted to go to his funeral later that day to say goodbye. My six-year-old brain could fathom none of this. When she left for the funeral a bit later, I hopped atop a stool and snaked a Ho-Ho from the cabinet above the stove.
When I was ten, my brother’s friend died in a freak football accident. I had become somewhat acquainted with the concept of death since Billy’s passing. Lots of famous people died, which I knew from conversations and newspapers. I recall Walt Disney and Nat King Cole and Judy Garland, among others. The most prominent deaths I remember were Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy.
Al these people were famous, but they were just names and pictures on a TV screen. I knew about them, but I didn’t know them personally. They never sat in my living room or called my house, never went fishing with me or offered sarcastic remarks about parents. Vinnie had done all those things. He wasn’t known to the world, but I knew him.
I sat in the leather rocker in the living room and read about Vinnie’s death in the Merced Sun Star. There was a picture of him and some details about the accident. It was weird reading about someone I knew. I learned a new word that day: “succumb.” That’s what the article said, Vinnie “succumbed” from the accident. My sister explained there were lots of words for death; this one was just a nicer way to say it. I laid the paper aside and went out to play.
To ease my pain, maybe, my mom told me I could pray to Vinnie, and he would carry my requests directly to God. Sweet deal, but I wasn’t sure what she thought a ten-year-old would do with that nugget, but here’s what I did. I was in a Saturday morning bowling league. One day, I was really struggling, the pins just not falling. I stood at the head of the lane and offered a silent prayer to Vinnie for help. I figured Vinnie was an athlete too, so I had a good shot at his help. In fact, I tried several times that day, all to no avail. I never told my mom I had debunked her theory.
The first funeral I attended was for a guy I didn’t even know. In spring of eighth grade, while the class worked silently, Sister Madeline called me forward. Normally, this would be a VERY bad situation, but not this time. “Father Bob needs an altar boy for a funeral this afternoon. Will you do it?”
I didn’t want to argue with a nun, especially this one, but there was a pretty large technicality here. I wasn’t an altar boy. Never did the training, never served a mass. Never got the Catholic seal of approval. When I offered this caveat, she smiled. “Don’t worry. Father Bob will explain what to do. You can afford to miss some class time.” Hey, if it was good with the padre and the sister, it was good with me.
At the appointed time, my buddy Mike walked me to the back room of the church. He helped me dress in the red and white altar boy garb and told me to follow him and do what he did. I’m no altar boy, but I can do that, I thought.
I have three lingering memories from that day. First, from my vantage point on the altar, I could see the sanctuary was full of very sad people, none of whom I knew. They dabbed their eyes with Kleenex and hugged a lot. I tried to stand still with my hands clasped in front of me. And I tried hard not to stare at the coffin on wheels.
Second, at one point, Father Bob handed me a small bucket of holy water, and we approached the casket sitting in the center of the aisle. I held the bucket, praying I wouldn’t drop it, while he sprinkled the coffin. I thought the instrument in Father Bob’s hand looked like a microphone, but he never spoke into it or busted into song. On the other side of the coffin, Mike held a chain, gently swinging a lantern thing emitting wafts of foul-smelling smoke.
Lastly, on our way twenty minute drive from the cemetery back to school, Father Bob listened to a ball game on the radio. He was jovial, not at all like the persona he maintained through the whole service. Back at St. Anthony’s, he handed a fiver to Mike and one to me. “Nice job, boys. Now, back to class with you.” Wait, I get paid? I missed class, hung out with my buddy, AND I get paid? I should have enrolled in this altar boy gig a long time ago. I stuffed the bill in my pocket.
These recollections, childish and immature as they may be, are mere shards of a much larger mosaic. A consolation Ho-Ho. A new word in my vocabulary. Cash in my pocket. None of these represent death or really illumine it greatly. On a gray, windy Texas afternoon, my mind wanders. Today, it settled on Billy Myers and took flight from there.
Some day (far in the future, I hope) Death’s carriage will come for me. At my service, (well attended, no doubt), you may see a kid. He’ll be dressed up and uncomfortable. Confused and not having much of a time, he’ll do his best to endure the ceremony. If you see that kid, pat him on the back and hand him a Ho-Ho. When he asks why, just say, “This one’s from Hurls.” Maybe he’ll remember it.
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as always. love your stories. My granddaughter and I talk about how I won’t live forever (she’s 10) and how when i am gone she can have all the stuff she says she wants from my house. Once in a while, she gets a little sober about it all. I try not to Joke about it with her…she told me she was going to travel after her graduation several years and maybe I’d not be there when she got back. I suggested she come back for the funeral and be with the family to celebrate. Ok…she’ll come back and then go back for the rest of her trip.
Just right, as usual. Thank you, Mike.
Thanks, Susan, as always.
This was a great read in so many ways. I remember Billy Myers, as a neighbor kid, sweet kid. His family were just up the block and were on my paper route. When he got leukemia, he ballooned up. At 12 years old I didn’t know why, only that he had leukemia and that must be what happens to people who get it.
Vinnie was my best childhood friend and died as a high school running back at a football game. We were 16. I knew he was hurt in the game, but mom told me, “He’s not going to make it.” I never experienced grief like that before. Even though I was at a public high school by then, I served his funeral mass at the base chapel.
I was the president of the alter boys in 8th grade at Saint Anthony’s (yes, there was such a thing but I don’t know how I became prez). When we had a day funeral as prez, I got tapped and would always take Vinnie with me. We even did a christening once, and that included tips and champagne.
Thks Mike for a great post. Lots of memories to experience.
JP, I knew this one would resonate with you. Vinnie was a special guy, as far as I can recall. The 2 of you took me up Tabor’s Creek to fish one day. He (like almost all your friends) was really kind to me. I understood even less than you, but I had far less grief to work through. You have better altar boy stories than I do, but I do the best I can.
I had to look up conflagration.
Somber read, but I was captivated the whole time.
Don’t want to say anymore.
Balls
I wasn’t going for somber, but it’s in the eye of the beholder. Just tapping a few memories.
Love this. Absolutely nailed it. Felt like I was hanging out with the ghost of Mike’s past. What a ride! Thank you for your writing.
You’re so kind and encouraging! Thanks, Mo. You’re the best!
Vinnie came came by the back door in 1970 looking for Jimmy. I told him he wasn’t home. I had a strange feeling I should’ve told him more. About Jesus. I loved Vinnie. When he walked away, I immediately regretted it. I let Vinnie down.
It will always hurt me.
Never heard that before. Gotta take the shot when you get it, I guess.
Really meaningful, Mike. Beautiful post. Children have a difficult time understanding death, which you captured so well.
Thank you, my sistuh! I try to be diverse in my writing.