JUNE 19, 2020 – “This is where they died,” said Tom. I knew immediately his reference . .
* * *
Between classes one morning barely a month into my freshman year of college nearly four years before, I checked my mailbox in the basement of the Moulton Union. There I found a letter from my mother half a world away. I opened the envelope as I elbowed my way around other students and pulled the letter out as I headed back up the crowded stairwell. With the start of my next class just minutes away, I’d need to read while on the move. Upon reaching the fresh, sunny air outside, I greeted a couple of friends rushing the opposite way, then turned my eyes to the top of the letter as I skipped purposefully down the wide steps.
“I hope this finds you safe and sound,” Mother started. Then . . . “I have tragic news.” I stopped mid-staircase.
“Yesterday, [my friends and classmates from junior high school] Tom M. and Bob B., were killed on a motorcycle Bob was driving on the county road just north of the golf course. We were told that on a sharp curve, they strayed over the centerline and ran straight into a dump truck. They were killed instantly. Their families are devastated. Keep them in your prayers.”
* * *
Tom (S.), my junior high school acquaintance and newfound buddy—now my unlikely passenger aboard an old, municipal dump truck—had gone all the way through high school with Tom M. and Bob B. and thus knew them even better than I had. And there we were—on that very same curve; my turn at the wheel of a vehicle like the one that had killed our friends. Neither of us spoke a word for the rest of the trip back to the maintenance shed. If I’d been nervous about downshifting off the highway, I was no longer so. Our first trip in the dump truck would be our last. For the rest of the day, Tom didn’t crack any jokes or say anything funny.
* * *
Tuesday on the drive home past the convoy of dump trucks I thought about that horrific motorcycle accident. Two promising lives cut off instantly—forever. And ever. That was nearly 48 years ago. Not quite an eternity but nearly so—time enough for a lifetime. I contemplated the infinite moments that are accumulated by people my age, and how precious every single moment is—every breath, every thought, every word, every deed, every encounter.
I also thought about the bottom line of Dale’s “driver’s ed course”: Stay Alert to Stay Alive.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
