30th anniversary

Today is the 30th anniversary of the worst day of my childhood, when two boys I knew died in a terrible freak accident near my home. (I happened to be at another friend’s house that day, on the other side of town.) The date is burned into my mind forever. One of them, named Brian but usually known as Rocky, was an especially close friend exactly my age. The other, Mark, was a couple of years younger, and very likable. A third boy survived the accident uninjured and is now a 44-year-old man alive and well in Iowa. The incident was tragic and threatening enough that everyone who lived in Iowa around that time seems to know about it; it was statewide front-page news.

I can never forget even the minor things associated with that period– the exact degree of October chill in the air, the vague, mosquito-like droning sound everywhere at the time (corn dryers working non-stop after harvest), even the atmospheric smell peculiar to post-harvest Iowa.

It happened on a Sunday in late afternoon. School was held as scheduled on Monday and Tuesday, and then all grades of school were cancelled on Wednesday for the funeral, a very large event held in the spacious Methodist Church. It’s still a terrible thing to remember and feels fresh and raw, but with time I’ve learned to remember it less and less– though I never forget the anniversary.