The call came at about 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning in October. I was awake, but not out of bed yet. I could tell from my mother’s tone that it wasn’t a social call, and then she was off the phone and coming down the hall to my room. The next 48 hours hold some of the most painful memories of my life; and twenty-five years later the wound is just as tender, the pain is just as real.
You see, my dad had lung cancer at this time, and his health was failing rapidly. So, early morning or late night calls definitely got my attention. I knew that it was just a matter of time before “the call” would come.
My best friend at the time was also my cousin, William. Even though he was only 10 months older than me, William seemed so much wiser and knowledgeable. He was good-looking and popular. I was thrilled to call his friends my own. Our mothers were first cousins, and our fathers were best friends. My father considered William to be the son he never had; and that was fine with me, because I loved him like a brother.
We went to the same elementary school. He was a grade ahead of me, so he would help me with my homework—when he felt like it. I thought that was cool. I felt so smart at school when William had helped me with the answers. I had no doubt that they were always right.
I remember the day we were riding home on the bus and we saw a dead dog on the side of the road near our stop. At first, I thought it was a mean dog from the neighborhood, so I didn’t care; but then I realized it was my dog, Tuffy. (I know Tuffy is a stupid name, but, heck, I was in third grade; what do you expect?) I waited beside the road (actually, a busy highway) so that no one else would run over Tuffy (again) while William went home and got a shovel, and we buried him. I cried like a girl. William tried not to cry, but I think he did.
To earn money one summer, we started a “bee killing business” where we would go to neighbor’s homes and dispose of bee, hornet, or wasp nests. Our fee was $1 per nest, and our only tools included a broom and some bug spray. That was a tough summer.
In 7th grade we had our first official school dance where everyone had to dress up. The guys had to wear suits and the girls had to wear dresses. Well, I was quite the tomboy and didn’t appreciate that rule. But I went to the dance anyway--at William's urging--(with some guy whose name escapes me) and I remember William convincing me to actually “dance” at the dance, in spite of the dress. Before the night was over, I was having such a good time that I had forgotten all about that stupid dress. William did that for me.
By high school William and I had started a neighborhood band. We even wrote some of our own songs. Oh, and they were awful! I remember one night we played a few of our songs for William’s dad, and he was quite diplomatic about our “enthusiasm.” William banged on the drums, and I plucked at a guitar, and we knew we were going to be famous. It wasn’t meant to be, though, and I haven’t picked up a guitar for about 25 years.
William and I involuntarily parted ways in high school. William’s parents divorced; and shortly thereafter, so did mine. We all moved to new homes and had to endure weekend visitations. By this time, we were both working and doing our best to get out of high school and out of our one-horse town. William stayed with his dad a lot—about 50 miles away—and I just didn’t get to see him as much. But, he was the master of surprises, and he would just show up sometimes on the doorstep. He didn’t own a car, so his only means of transportation was borrowing a car (which didn’t happen much), walking, or hitch-hiking.
The last time I saw him he had hitch-hiked from his dad’s to visit his mom, who was in the hospital. The doorbell rang, and there he was on my doorstep. He had come by the house to get a ride to the hospital, and it was just so good to see him. We talked about everything from work to music to life to girlfriends and boyfriends. Later, I dropped him off at the hospital and we promised to see each other again soon.
That was three months or so before the phone rang in October. The events of this Sunday morning would prohibit us from keeping our last promise to one another. William’s dad called to tell us that William had been killed in a car accident. His dad has just returned from the hospital where he had to identify his son’s body. Now, though, he needed someone to go tell William’s mother. I don’t remember getting dressed. I don’t remember speaking a word. But, within minutes, mom and I were on our way to Aunt Sallie’s house. When we got there, she was all alone, slumped down beside her bed, with the phone still in her hand, groaning and moaning like a wounded animal. (It was the most awful sound I have ever heard.) Someone from the sheriff’s office had accidentally called--in spite of William’s dad saying he would take care of it--and told her that her son was dead.
I was 19 years old that day—two days short of my 20th birthday—and I had never thought that someone my age could die. Old people die. Sick people die. My dad would die. But not me. Not William. Not at 19 or 20.
The next 48 hours were the most painful of my life. I had to tell a mother that her only son was dead. I had to call my dad and tell him that the boy he loved like a son was dead. And I had to bury my best friend on my 20th birthday.
You know sometimes I will see him in a crowd. Sometimes I have even caught myself looking for him. I have thought I caught a glimpse of him and almost called his name. Sometimes I will hear a song on one of the oldies stations that our “band” used to play and my world just stops spinning; and, for a moment, I am 15, strumming a six-string, and my best friend is singing and keeping the beat. But, the best of times, is when he hitchhikes into one of my dreams, and we just hang out like it's a Sunday afternoon and we've got nothing but time and a full tank of gas. Those moments are short-lived though; the dream ends or the present jerks me back into reality where 25 years later feels more like 25 minutes, and my heart is crushed all over again. If time heals all wounds, perhaps I need to be a bit more patient and give this one another 25 years. Thus far, it is just as tender and painful as that Sunday morning in 1982.
So, once again, it's October, and I am missing William. Wherever you are, my dear friend, I hope you are at peace. And if at all possible, I hope you know that you are still dearly loved and truly missed. I am certain that you miss us as well; and it's almost amusing to think of you doing your best to borrow a car or hitch a ride home. What a pleasant surprise it would be to find you on my doorstep tomorrow morning. Until then, I am missing you.
My Best Friend
You see, my dad had lung cancer at this time, and his health was failing rapidly. So, early morning or late night calls definitely got my attention. I knew that it was just a matter of time before “the call” would come.
My best friend at the time was also my cousin, William. Even though he was only 10 months older than me, William seemed so much wiser and knowledgeable. He was good-looking and popular. I was thrilled to call his friends my own. Our mothers were first cousins, and our fathers were best friends. My father considered William to be the son he never had; and that was fine with me, because I loved him like a brother.
We went to the same elementary school. He was a grade ahead of me, so he would help me with my homework—when he felt like it. I thought that was cool. I felt so smart at school when William had helped me with the answers. I had no doubt that they were always right.
I remember the day we were riding home on the bus and we saw a dead dog on the side of the road near our stop. At first, I thought it was a mean dog from the neighborhood, so I didn’t care; but then I realized it was my dog, Tuffy. (I know Tuffy is a stupid name, but, heck, I was in third grade; what do you expect?) I waited beside the road (actually, a busy highway) so that no one else would run over Tuffy (again) while William went home and got a shovel, and we buried him. I cried like a girl. William tried not to cry, but I think he did.
To earn money one summer, we started a “bee killing business” where we would go to neighbor’s homes and dispose of bee, hornet, or wasp nests. Our fee was $1 per nest, and our only tools included a broom and some bug spray. That was a tough summer.
In 7th grade we had our first official school dance where everyone had to dress up. The guys had to wear suits and the girls had to wear dresses. Well, I was quite the tomboy and didn’t appreciate that rule. But I went to the dance anyway--at William's urging--(with some guy whose name escapes me) and I remember William convincing me to actually “dance” at the dance, in spite of the dress. Before the night was over, I was having such a good time that I had forgotten all about that stupid dress. William did that for me.
By high school William and I had started a neighborhood band. We even wrote some of our own songs. Oh, and they were awful! I remember one night we played a few of our songs for William’s dad, and he was quite diplomatic about our “enthusiasm.” William banged on the drums, and I plucked at a guitar, and we knew we were going to be famous. It wasn’t meant to be, though, and I haven’t picked up a guitar for about 25 years.
William and I involuntarily parted ways in high school. William’s parents divorced; and shortly thereafter, so did mine. We all moved to new homes and had to endure weekend visitations. By this time, we were both working and doing our best to get out of high school and out of our one-horse town. William stayed with his dad a lot—about 50 miles away—and I just didn’t get to see him as much. But, he was the master of surprises, and he would just show up sometimes on the doorstep. He didn’t own a car, so his only means of transportation was borrowing a car (which didn’t happen much), walking, or hitch-hiking.
The last time I saw him he had hitch-hiked from his dad’s to visit his mom, who was in the hospital. The doorbell rang, and there he was on my doorstep. He had come by the house to get a ride to the hospital, and it was just so good to see him. We talked about everything from work to music to life to girlfriends and boyfriends. Later, I dropped him off at the hospital and we promised to see each other again soon.
That was three months or so before the phone rang in October. The events of this Sunday morning would prohibit us from keeping our last promise to one another. William’s dad called to tell us that William had been killed in a car accident. His dad has just returned from the hospital where he had to identify his son’s body. Now, though, he needed someone to go tell William’s mother. I don’t remember getting dressed. I don’t remember speaking a word. But, within minutes, mom and I were on our way to Aunt Sallie’s house. When we got there, she was all alone, slumped down beside her bed, with the phone still in her hand, groaning and moaning like a wounded animal. (It was the most awful sound I have ever heard.) Someone from the sheriff’s office had accidentally called--in spite of William’s dad saying he would take care of it--and told her that her son was dead.
I was 19 years old that day—two days short of my 20th birthday—and I had never thought that someone my age could die. Old people die. Sick people die. My dad would die. But not me. Not William. Not at 19 or 20.
The next 48 hours were the most painful of my life. I had to tell a mother that her only son was dead. I had to call my dad and tell him that the boy he loved like a son was dead. And I had to bury my best friend on my 20th birthday.
You know sometimes I will see him in a crowd. Sometimes I have even caught myself looking for him. I have thought I caught a glimpse of him and almost called his name. Sometimes I will hear a song on one of the oldies stations that our “band” used to play and my world just stops spinning; and, for a moment, I am 15, strumming a six-string, and my best friend is singing and keeping the beat. But, the best of times, is when he hitchhikes into one of my dreams, and we just hang out like it's a Sunday afternoon and we've got nothing but time and a full tank of gas. Those moments are short-lived though; the dream ends or the present jerks me back into reality where 25 years later feels more like 25 minutes, and my heart is crushed all over again. If time heals all wounds, perhaps I need to be a bit more patient and give this one another 25 years. Thus far, it is just as tender and painful as that Sunday morning in 1982.
So, once again, it's October, and I am missing William. Wherever you are, my dear friend, I hope you are at peace. And if at all possible, I hope you know that you are still dearly loved and truly missed. I am certain that you miss us as well; and it's almost amusing to think of you doing your best to borrow a car or hitch a ride home. What a pleasant surprise it would be to find you on my doorstep tomorrow morning. Until then, I am missing you.
My Best Friend
William Howard Hansberry
December 5, 1961 - October 24, 1982
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1 comment:
Beautiful blog post. ~dh
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