The sun in the sky
Today, it seems like a set-up for a particularly sordid after school special, but in the 1970s of my youth, it was one of the defining moments of my boyhood. In fact, the story has sprung forth from my memory so often over the years, it borders on the apocryphal at this point, and even if, does that really matter when the story means so much to the person remembering?
The story...
It had to be 1977, maybe 78, in the halls of Garfield Elementary. I think it was the 4th grade, but to best honest, it could have been the 5th? That's where the memory is a bit murky. What I do know is that although Hurst and I were great friends at that point in time, we were not in the same class.
In fact, by the time we hit 3rd grade most of the powers that be in Sand Springs knew not to put Hurst and myself in the same classroom. We were an amazingly disruptive force when joined together. Quintessential ham and egging it mischief wise. Which is funny considering we hated each other when we first met in what had to be 1st grade.
By Garfield though, we were great friends, who spent a lot of time together. We even went on vacations in the summer together together.
Which is why on that day a teacher I can no longer remember pulled me out of my classroom line and asked if they could have a word.
At first I thought I was in trouble. As much shit as I pulled at that age, I'm sure I deserved to be in trouble for something, or so I thought at the time. Which made me guarded as I stood there looking up at this older woman who was clearly waiting for the hallway to clear before she started talking to me.
After a few moment she realized that the hallway was too busy of a place for the level of privacy she felt she needed, thus she opened a door at the base of a bank of stairs that turned out to be a custodial closet and asked me to step inside.
I thought nothing of stepping into that closet with this teacher. I was a boy of my time. Three networks, some spare UHF channels, and the standard media of the day long before they went down the fear mongering road of today's media. The only thing weird to me was that she wanted to talk to me about something private enough to warrant a custodial closet.
It was in that weird little closet as I was staring at that weird mop sink in the floor that she said, "I want to talk about Hurst."
"Ok..." I said.
After shocked, my first thought was that he had done something and they were wanting me to rat him out, which being a kid, and his best friend, was the last thing I'd ever do.
So, I did what I do best, I just stood there and didn't say anything. A trick I might add, that I employ to this day. If you are unsure of what is happening and want to get the other person talking, the trick is to not say anything. The silence makes most people uncomfortable and they'll fill it with words and often tell you more than they would have told you if you talked more.
"Is he ok?" She continued.
I studied the janitors supplies in the corner. Shifting from foot to foot.
"Has he said anything to you?" Still fishing.
"I'm worried about him, he's not himself." She tried.
"I know his parents are going through a divorce so I thought maybe..."
"Yeah," I said. "They are."
She studied me closely for a few moments before giving up.
"If you can think of anything to tell me to help me help him, will you come talk to me?"
"Yes," I said.
Looking back I get that the lady was only trying to help. That she cared enough about Hurst to even seek me out says a lot about her character. At the time though, well i was a boy. And I had that boy vs. them mentality. I think I told Hurst at some point and we both laughed about it.
Was his parent's going through a divorce. Yes. Was he fucked up about it. How could you not be at some level when you were a 10 or 11 year old kid. Could this lady help? The adult me thinks she probably could have, but the 10 or 11 year old kid me didn't trust her enough to give her a chance.
I told you that for this.
Forty years into the Buck Rogers future I still remember that experience, when I remember little else about my years at Garfield. The only other vivid memory I have is having my gym shorts literally ripped off of my body disembarking off a trampoline in gym class (that's a story for another day.)
I think why the story resonates with me is because it was the first time an adult authority figure came to me for advice. The first time I was pulled aside and to a degree, treated as an equal, as a person that could help solve a problem because of my personal insight and connection. Looking back I'm unclear if the experience shaped who I became, or if I was already the kind of person someone would come to for advice. I still play that role often in my current life. Not because I'm smart or wise. I think it is because I'm extremely non-judgmental in personal matters. Along with being pretty even and judicious in my thinking.
Today I'm no longer in daily contact with Hurst. In fact, we've only seen each other a handful of times over the past few decades. Our friendship, though, is that singular type forged from boyhood that can't really be tarnished by time or distance. It is like a brotherhood, only brothers who chose each other versus being born to their place in life. Hell, the movie Stand by Me sums it up best: "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?" And I'm a man who is blessed to have many great friends today. But with Hurst there's something that is different and deeper and one of the reasons why that teacher pulled me out of line all those years ago.
Today Hurst is trying his best to live a meaningful life after the loss of his first born son, Stuart. Not even two years have passed since Stuart died, but Hurst has went through nearly a handful of jobs and is having trouble faking it until he makes which only a person who has lost a child can probably truly understand. The loss is gut wrenching. And my friend hurts daily as he tries to navigate his way through a world sans Stuart while trying to be a good father and husband to all those in his life.
Today I sit 250 miles from that custodial closet. I'm assuming that teacher has long since passed from this life. Even so, all that distance and even more so the time, I think back to that moment when I was asked for insight into what I could do to help Hurst.
Alas, the answer is the same today as it was then. I can't do anything more than be his friend. Unconditionally. I couldn't take away the pain of his parent's divorce at 10 the same way I can't take away the pain of the loss of his son at 47. Life simply doesn't work that way.
So I sit here, looking through space and time, and remember that story from so long ago. Writing it down, I guess, in a self admittedly, vain attempt to understand that which is not understandable.
Until I BLOG again...Makes a shadow of you and I.
The story...
It had to be 1977, maybe 78, in the halls of Garfield Elementary. I think it was the 4th grade, but to best honest, it could have been the 5th? That's where the memory is a bit murky. What I do know is that although Hurst and I were great friends at that point in time, we were not in the same class.
In fact, by the time we hit 3rd grade most of the powers that be in Sand Springs knew not to put Hurst and myself in the same classroom. We were an amazingly disruptive force when joined together. Quintessential ham and egging it mischief wise. Which is funny considering we hated each other when we first met in what had to be 1st grade.
By Garfield though, we were great friends, who spent a lot of time together. We even went on vacations in the summer together together.
Which is why on that day a teacher I can no longer remember pulled me out of my classroom line and asked if they could have a word.
At first I thought I was in trouble. As much shit as I pulled at that age, I'm sure I deserved to be in trouble for something, or so I thought at the time. Which made me guarded as I stood there looking up at this older woman who was clearly waiting for the hallway to clear before she started talking to me.
After a few moment she realized that the hallway was too busy of a place for the level of privacy she felt she needed, thus she opened a door at the base of a bank of stairs that turned out to be a custodial closet and asked me to step inside.
I thought nothing of stepping into that closet with this teacher. I was a boy of my time. Three networks, some spare UHF channels, and the standard media of the day long before they went down the fear mongering road of today's media. The only thing weird to me was that she wanted to talk to me about something private enough to warrant a custodial closet.
It was in that weird little closet as I was staring at that weird mop sink in the floor that she said, "I want to talk about Hurst."
"Ok..." I said.
After shocked, my first thought was that he had done something and they were wanting me to rat him out, which being a kid, and his best friend, was the last thing I'd ever do.
So, I did what I do best, I just stood there and didn't say anything. A trick I might add, that I employ to this day. If you are unsure of what is happening and want to get the other person talking, the trick is to not say anything. The silence makes most people uncomfortable and they'll fill it with words and often tell you more than they would have told you if you talked more.
"Is he ok?" She continued.
I studied the janitors supplies in the corner. Shifting from foot to foot.
"Has he said anything to you?" Still fishing.
"I'm worried about him, he's not himself." She tried.
"I know his parents are going through a divorce so I thought maybe..."
"Yeah," I said. "They are."
She studied me closely for a few moments before giving up.
"If you can think of anything to tell me to help me help him, will you come talk to me?"
"Yes," I said.
Looking back I get that the lady was only trying to help. That she cared enough about Hurst to even seek me out says a lot about her character. At the time though, well i was a boy. And I had that boy vs. them mentality. I think I told Hurst at some point and we both laughed about it.
Was his parent's going through a divorce. Yes. Was he fucked up about it. How could you not be at some level when you were a 10 or 11 year old kid. Could this lady help? The adult me thinks she probably could have, but the 10 or 11 year old kid me didn't trust her enough to give her a chance.
I told you that for this.
Forty years into the Buck Rogers future I still remember that experience, when I remember little else about my years at Garfield. The only other vivid memory I have is having my gym shorts literally ripped off of my body disembarking off a trampoline in gym class (that's a story for another day.)
I think why the story resonates with me is because it was the first time an adult authority figure came to me for advice. The first time I was pulled aside and to a degree, treated as an equal, as a person that could help solve a problem because of my personal insight and connection. Looking back I'm unclear if the experience shaped who I became, or if I was already the kind of person someone would come to for advice. I still play that role often in my current life. Not because I'm smart or wise. I think it is because I'm extremely non-judgmental in personal matters. Along with being pretty even and judicious in my thinking.
Today I'm no longer in daily contact with Hurst. In fact, we've only seen each other a handful of times over the past few decades. Our friendship, though, is that singular type forged from boyhood that can't really be tarnished by time or distance. It is like a brotherhood, only brothers who chose each other versus being born to their place in life. Hell, the movie Stand by Me sums it up best: "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?" And I'm a man who is blessed to have many great friends today. But with Hurst there's something that is different and deeper and one of the reasons why that teacher pulled me out of line all those years ago.
Today Hurst is trying his best to live a meaningful life after the loss of his first born son, Stuart. Not even two years have passed since Stuart died, but Hurst has went through nearly a handful of jobs and is having trouble faking it until he makes which only a person who has lost a child can probably truly understand. The loss is gut wrenching. And my friend hurts daily as he tries to navigate his way through a world sans Stuart while trying to be a good father and husband to all those in his life.
Today I sit 250 miles from that custodial closet. I'm assuming that teacher has long since passed from this life. Even so, all that distance and even more so the time, I think back to that moment when I was asked for insight into what I could do to help Hurst.
Alas, the answer is the same today as it was then. I can't do anything more than be his friend. Unconditionally. I couldn't take away the pain of his parent's divorce at 10 the same way I can't take away the pain of the loss of his son at 47. Life simply doesn't work that way.
So I sit here, looking through space and time, and remember that story from so long ago. Writing it down, I guess, in a self admittedly, vain attempt to understand that which is not understandable.
Until I BLOG again...Makes a shadow of you and I.
Your story reminded me of an article I recently read:
ReplyDeletehttp://www.popsugar.com/moms/Motherhood-Strongest-Bond-36728831
I get that it is not the same thing nor am I trying to compare the two or lessen your or Hurst's experience. It is just your story and the article touched me emotionally - with feelings of heartache, gratefulness, and poignant confusion. As always Stu I appreciate your genuine storytelling and thought provoking perspective.