Too Young to Die?

I didn't hear about it on the news, at least, not at first. I was talking to some of my fellow Board members after our monthly meeting at the San Antonio A&M Club, and I had my phone volume turned down so I hadn't noticed the 1st call in time. Quickly, a second call came in from the same person, one of my lady best friends. Her broken voice told me something was terribly wrong, and that's when she relayed the news. One of our high school classmates, and a friend that we'd both hung out with just a couple weeks before, had been killed on Loop 1604 on the NW side of San Antonio. Apparently it happened in the early morning hours, and within 7-8 minutes driving distance of my home. I drive that same stretch of road late at night fairly often. How far am I from death? Two nights ago it was 1.8 miles.

When I was in kindergarten I went straight to the back of the bus with my buddy Waylon. Our cheeks would hurt by the time we got home, partly because of all the smiling and laughter, and partly because of the force of the air escaping between our mouthes and the palms of our hands. The rest of the kids admired our fart-noise talents, but the bus driver not so much. A few years ago, as I understand it, he'd picked up some Taco Cabana and was on his way home when he ran off Bandera Road trying to get to his cell phone. His truck rolled and he passed away within a hundred or so yards of my bus stop, where we'd said goodbye every Monday through Friday of the academic year. Every time I hear "This is where the cowboy rides away" by George Strait it takes me back to his funeral service at Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church, where dozens of classmates wondered how a person with a lifetime of energy could be lifeless in an instant.

In seventh grade GT classes I was stuck with this one girl. I think we both annoyed each other equally, but my girlfriend at the time was a friend of hers so we had to put up with each other. One day we were walking down the hallway and she turned bright red. Her bra had broken. She asked me to "block" for her, so she stood between me and the lockers, and I did my best to shield her mishap from all the ruthless kids swarming past during the break. I guess you could say we had a break-through, because Mikey became one of my best friends that day. The next year she wrote me a note that said "I am always watching you!" in creepy lettering, with big huge eyeballs for dramatic effect. I was playing racquetball at the REC Center at Texas A&M my freshman year when a former classmate of mine walked up. "Hey ... did you know Mikey Schmidt?" "Yeah, she's one of my best friends ever ... why?" Mikey was coming home for the weekend from Abilene Christian University in the passenger seat, when the driver fell asleep at the wheel. They went off the road, over-corrected, and went into oncoming traffic. "She died yesterday ... I'm sorry." I went back into the racquetball court a few moments later. My friend served the ball, and I returned it right between his eyes knocking him to the ground. I realized I was livid, and quit the game. A few years ago I was cleaning out my childhood desk and found the note Mikey had written over a decade before. "I am always watching you!" It made me laugh, just like it did the first time I read it. I'm thankful for the memories, and thankful for my guardian angel still today.

One of the first things that went through my head in each of these cases was, "But God, they're too young to die." I suppose they weren't, and ultimately the only thing I have from each of these friends are the bits and pieces that I cling to in the recesses of my brain.

In the StoryKeeping ad we produced last week, we said "discover how you can make sure your loved one's story lives on forever ... it's never too early to start, so start now." I didn't know that I was going to be force-fed that reality again so soon. Rest in peace, my friends!