To My Warrior Friends and Mates: Gone from Here, Not Forgotten Part I

To My Warrior Friends and Mates: Gone from Here, Not Forgotten (Pt. 1)

A) Kelly C.  0) Scott C. 1) Robert P. 2) Jeremy H. 3) Scott H. 4) Ben S. 5) LT M. 6) Rob N. 7) Amarea W. 8) Paul F. 9) Max T.10)  Nicholas B.  11) Dave P.

    I count them on both hands. I think I still have come up short on a few more. I may kick myself when I remember another person that has died, that I knew, maybe battled a little with or around. People that I rubbed shoulders with, admired, sometimes envied, or looked upon with various degrees of respect, and at times even disdain, but in the end I give up my honor and tributes of affections to them.

    Throughout my life there are friends that become my co-warrior buddies. Those that I fought with in sometimes realms and times of imagination, imaginary wars and other causes, real or made up. As boys of ten, teens of 17, young men in our twenties, thirties, and on. Dave made it to his fifties, and even he was gone, has left us, too soon. A warrior that has gone on to the other side, as the ones that I shall now recount. 

    

    Scotty C. He was about four years younger than me, a Boy Scout and deacon and then teacher, younger than me in the priesthood that we hold in my faith, as teens. While I was doing my mission in South America, in 1990 turning twenty that fall, Scotty C. was a16 year-old driving too fast in and around our home Monroe County. His peers remarked and tried to warn him. But to no avail. His young Scout comrades and school buddies were his pallbearers. We may have overlapped a few Scout Camps, striving for merit badges and Scouting accolades. I knew his parents, and younger brother; perhaps there was a little sister, too. 

    Did Scotty C. teach us all lessons? Do not drive recklessly. Practice more patience, control your speed, watch your surroundings. Perhaps at one point some folks told me where he crashed and perished; I cannot recall now. 

    As far as age, I likely blessed and administered bread and water, communion, to Scotty and his fellow Sunday passers to go to the rest of the congregation, which in those days we would open up the back curtains to contain the overflow of attendees in our modest chapel. He flashed by us way too fast, too soon, too precipitously. Too young! Drivers: we all must respect the roads, the laws, our tenuous grip on the speeds and immense powers that we possess behind the wheel. Road warrior: stay patient and in control. I have now lived three times his age. Plus, six years more. Whew. Stay safe, my fellow travelers. 

    Before Scotty C, there was Kelly C. 

    I got to know Kelly C. in eighth grade. Back then she struck me as a bit on the vain side, getting fake baked and sporting crazy long painted fingernails, to me being overly extravagant and impractical. We had a science class together. She was a new eighth grader, as half the class was to me, along with two others, or three others on this list. Ay, may they rest in peace! And may their memories bring us some respite, wisdom, pause, some nostalgic love and some remorse of loss.

    By our sophomore years at high school, we became buddies, and I liked her fully. She was real, not fake, as I had thought before. She was funny and nice. Two years later, maybe on a cold day or night in December or so, on Route 37 on the west side of town, a drunk driver collided with her and her mother, killing them both. He lived, from what I recall. Locked up, and back in 1989, how many years would he be sentenced for drinking and driving and killing two souls? Alas, not enough really.

    Kelly was a soul warrior, a cheer leader, my biology class buddy, a cheerful friend. We miss her, and I know family and friends closer to her much more than me.

    Robert P.

    I have written about him before, in multiple sites. At the time of his funeral, I wrote a tribute with memories when living in southern California, close to where he died. Was it a sickness, like bulimia? (I meant to write anorexia, thinking about this a few days later).  Maybe, according to some sources. He was alone. He had left his wife and child a couple of states away. He was intent on writing, getting involved in movies. 

    A ten year or more time period before, during his high school days, he was very invested as a drummer, very talented, and loved the Christian rock group Stryper. It was one of the few Christian groups that I knew or had heard of. Not my style or taste, but I respected his love for them, perhaps their biggest fan. Robert, or Bobby as I knew him, was a soul warrior of sorts. We did some camp outs together as smaller kids, some Scout adventures. Our moms were friends all our lives. Still would be, if my mom were still alive. Robert's mom is still hanging in there, from what I know.

    So, by the year 2000, spring or so, we had the teeny bopper road warrior, the high school graduate cheer warrior, I will call her, and Robert, perhaps the art warrior. They each have their causes, their hopes, dreams, trajectories. Dashed by things like vehicles and some chemicals. Accidental, purposeful, I do not know. May not matter much at this point.

    Jeremy H. died around 2003. And Scott H.gh died around that time, too. Not sure how Jeremy died, and it could have been chemicals, but I have no idea. I do not know which of our mutual friends, from the neighborhood growing up, or others later by high school and early college, know how he dies. Perhaps like Robert, it was accident. Intentional or not, it may not matter, as we are talking about this over twenty years later.

    Jeremy and were childhood friends. We had our ups and downs as chums, because like my other friends and him, we could get upset with each other. Safe to say he had issues. All of us do, in perfect honesty, but Jeremy has more than most. I hope I am not making myself too arrogant sounding or judgmental when I say, Jeremy had a common denominator with many of us neighborhood friends as being the one who do or say something to get us riled up and leave him to himself. I do not know what his condition was upon his death. From his obituary that I have read and re-read over the years, he sounded like a successful and kind guy, which makes me feel good for him and all that knew him. He was in the D.C. area, which I would move to later.

    Jeremy had a good imagination and was fun and creative a lot. I think I was, too. We would play games of war and creative takes on fantasy. We would play Dungeons and Dragons at his place, with other friends like Jacob or Peter, or Thomas, and maybe Evan. I will call Jeremy the imagination warrior. He later, after some distance from being his direct friend, got into drugs. I think I could tell this on the high school years. Perhaps he felt worse towards me than me him, but we did not communicate much our last few years. I have written this a few times before, but as a church missionary I had the distinct wish to apologize to him for past offenses. I wanted to state my sorrow for anything that I said or did that was hurtful to him. Hard to do now, except in such entries as this.

    My childhood imagination warrior. I remember you. We had some good times, I do recall and cherish. Wish we could chat; I am sure it would be fascinating and fantastic.

    I shall leave it at that.

    Good enough for now. We shall get to the other warriors later. I will not forget them.

    Good night, and good wishes.