R. Christopher Tait

                                                                     A Short Walk Home

 

                It was August of 1965 and the curtain came down on summer vacation without applause or fanfare. The end of summer was a tragic event to be mourned like the passing of the family dog. What else would you expect from a thirteen year old boy? No more endless hours of swimming, fishing, playing baseball, or just riding your bicycle as far as your legs could carry you. It was a time when a boy could be gone from sunrise to sunset without their parents worrying that something awful might happen.

                I was entering the eighth grade at Saint something or other and my return to school, for the first time in my life was bitter/sweet. While I truly mourned the passing of summer, this year my friends and I would be the alpha dogs. There would be no upper classmen to pick on us.

                Bullying was a part of life. After being on the receiving end of badgering and intimidation for years, I wasn’t really anxious to carry on the tradition but what I was looking forward to, was not being on the receiving end anymore. You would think that parochial school kids would be spared all that. Ok, love thy neighbor, check. Turn the other cheek, got that. Somehow we heard these words but when it came to application we were more old testament, an eye for an eye. The trouble was that there was not a lot of supervision. They tried to instill a set a values to guide you through the behavioral maze of peer interface, something for you to consider when the interconnection of incompatible elements come face to face. The thing about values was that you only understood the true substance of a value system with maturity and we were just boys. It’s not like doing the right thing had as much worth as much as a Mickey Mantle rookie card.

                The thing about bullying is that it only becomes a part of our culture when we accept it. When we acquiesce to behaviors and beliefs they become characteristic of our society, whether that society is a gang, a neighborhood, or a nation. There is great cost in this acquiescence. The price is paid in pride, self-respect, and degradation of the true essence of humanity.      

                This is a story of the things I learned outside of the classroom in my thirteenth year on the streets of a tough, lower/middle income neighborhood. It’s about the friendships that I made and the values that I came to understand and appreciate. Without any precognition, I accepted these values just because it seemed like the right thing to do. As fate would have it, they served me well for the rest of my life. The unfortunate part of this story is that it is true.

                Our bus stop was the fire barn. It was an old one room school house that they modified and converted into a place to park the town’s two fire trucks. I remember when they moved it from its old location on a flatbed truck. Everyone turned out for the big event. We rode our bicycles in front of the convoy like a police motorcade. Of course I was younger then and would not do that now because I am too cool but it seemed pretty cool at the time. Our bus came much earlier than the public school bus because we were expected to attend mass every morning before the school day began.  So there I was at the fire barn at 7:00 AM waiting for the bus in my black pants, blue shirt, and navy blue, clip on neck tie. The younger boys in similar attire accept for the bow ties that signified their lower classman status were gathered in a huddle sharing their lament over having to return to school.

                The bus rolled up at 7:20. The younger boys picked up their brand new book bags that they had carelessly thrown on the ground and rushed toward the bus like a band of wild Indians. Of course since I was the only eighth grader at this stop I got on last and walked to the back of the bus where I would act cool until some of my friends joined me from other stops around town. I had to walk slowly because the bow ties were bouncing around like pin balls looking for seats near their friends. When everyone was seated the door closed and Mrs. Shultz checked her mirror to insure a safe merge on the roadway. We were just about to roll when the kids on the right side of the bus began to scream with laughter. The object of their amusement was short, fat kid running up the inclining road toward the bus. Shultzie opened the door and let the tardy fourth grader join his classmates.

                “You need to get here on time young man,” she scolded. “I won’t be able to wait for you if you’re late.”

                “Yes ma’am,” was the boy’s curt yet courteous response. He took the first open seat hoping to step out of the spotlight he had cast upon himself by being late. The bow ties were howling with laughter, pointing and pelting the poor kid with insults. To make matters worse, the bow tie that occupied the double seat he chose threw his book bag out in the aisle and pushed him onto the floor. Maybe Mrs. Shultze didn’t see or hear the discordance. Maybe she had seen so much peer justice over the years that it seemed acceptable or maybe she just thought it was a case of boys being boys? Without muttering a sound he got to his feet, picked up his book bag and took an empty seat on the opposite side of the aisle.

                His name was Mark and he had a few issues. He was short for his age and too large for his frame. He wore coke bottle glasses with thick frames that somewhat obscured the strabismus of his left eye. His “lazy eye” had a vertical lift that orientated to about two o’clock. His nose seemed to run regardless of the season and his tongue had a habit of hanging out of the left side of his mouth. This oddity also caused him to drool excessively. If all that were not enough, he always seemed to sweat like a bow tie in the confessional. His blue shirt developed large rounded sweat stains under each arm minutes after he put it on. All things considered, Mark was the perfect target for a bully.

                The laughter and insults died out after a few stops when new arrivals diverted the short attention span of the bow ties but when the bus stopped in front of the church and the pushing and shoving began, Mark seemed to get more than his share. It only stopped when the eighth graders made their solemn march to the front of the bus. None of the knuckleheads wanted to risk bouncing off an eighth grader and suffer the wrath for violating their cool.

                The school day was boring and uneventful for me. It seemed like most of my time was occupied with daydreams of what I would be doing if I was still basking in the aura of summer vacation. On the bus ride home, my friends and I discussed after school plans. We decided to meet at Clark’s field for a pick-up baseball game. I had forgotten all about Mark and the morning’s humiliation until the bus stopped in front of the fire barn. When the door opened Mark bolted from the bus. His feet were moving pretty good for a little fat guy. I got off the bus and stood at the north end of West Shore Drive and watched the three blue shirted kids chasing Mark home.

                I don’t know why but I watched the entire pursuit. Mark carried some speed on the declining road and never broke his pace until he veered off to the left and finished the sprint to his house. For some unknown reason, I put myself in his position. While I planned my after school activities, Mark was planning too. He planned on sitting in the front of the bus as near to the door as he could get. He planned on being on his feet when the bus stopped and passing through the door as soon as it opened. The last part of his plan was to run home as fast as his legs could carry him. His plan was based on survival while mine was based on leisure and amusement. I stood there watching the event and could not help wondering what it would be like to live in constant fear. He was just an innocent, defenseless kid whose only crime was that he was different from everyone else. I don’t know why I was so absorbed in what I had seen that day. Although I had never really seen him out playing in the neighborhood, I knew Mark since he attended my school in the first grade. Then I thought that that wasn’t exactly true either, I don’t know him, I’ve seen him. It was almost like a mirage in my mind that was fuzzy and undefined but then takes shape, not just shape but life. Was it always like this for him? Did I miss something or was I just immune to it? I guess it was a part of the coming of age for my conscious but I could not help thinking about what it would be like to walk in his shoes.

                The second day at the bus stop was a little different from the first. My best friend Tim who lived on the other side of the lazy river that flowed through the middle of town had walked over to the fire barn to hang out before the bus arrived. Tim was an exceptional young man who remains my best friend to this day. In our entire life there was never an argument or disagreement between us and we had many great adventures that we both thought made us very cool. The other difference was with the bow ties. They had split into two groups and were pretending to be mounted soldiers charging each other’s line with arms raised. Once they met in the middle, their imaginary sabers were used to thrust and slash at one another. While too mature and way too cool to participate, we still thought it was amusing to watch. The bus was behind schedule and so the battle raged on. Before long Mark showed up, late as usual for his painful trip to school. I thought it odd that he would be tardy two days in a row but then I put myself in his position and came to the conclusion that he was hiding somewhere safe until the last minute. It was part of his survival plan. Well, this time it didn’t work. The bow ties began pointing and yelling when Mark arrived on the scene. Then one of them raised his arm and yelled charge. In a callous, senseless second Mark found himself faced with a charge by a dozen screaming classmates. There was no time or place to run. He stood there frozen with fear as the group descended on him and when the line of toy soldiers smashed into their defenseless enemy, the little boy went down hard. It was not enough that they smashed him into the pavement but half of the group decided it was time pile on and pummel him. What kind of animal instinct drives this behavior? What is there to gain from inflicting such punishing physical and emotional pain on another human being? Then when it is over and enough damage is done, they get on the bus and go to church. I probably couldn’t spell hypocrisy but I knew it wasn’t cool. And me, if I stand there and watch, I figure I’m guilty of the same damn thing. I didn’t really have enough historical data at this point in my life to guide me through my feelings but there would be time to sort that out later.

                Tim and I ran to the pile of bow ties squirming on the ground near the flagpole and began pulling them off and tossing them left and right. When we got to the bottom of the pile, we found Mark lying face down on the pavement. Somehow he had managed to roll over to protect his face and vital organs from the attack. Tim grabbed him under one arm and I took the other. We lifted him up until he got his feet underneath him. A quick assessment showed that his pants were torn at the knee, there was a scratch on his right cheek and his glasses were on the ground. Except for the terrified look on his face it appeared that he was all right.

 “This crap has got to stop,” Tim shouted.

                I was very proud of my best friend at that moment. As always, we seemed to share similar emotions. This time we shared outrage and indignation.

                “What the hell is the matter with you guys,” I added. “What are you trying to prove by ganging up on this little guy? You beat him up and then get on the bus and go to church? I don’t get it. Does it make you feel tough? Well, let me tell you Mark’s got more guts than the rest of you combined. Every day you guys torment him and he takes it without saying a word. He never cries and he never rats you out to teachers or his parents. What would your parents think if they knew what you guys were doing?”

                “Maybe you guys deserve some of your own medicine,” Tim said. “Maybe if experienced how it feels you wouldn’t be so anxious to bully someone.” The veiled threat of retribution caused the boys to look up in disbelief before lowering their eyes again.

                The bow ties never muttered a sound. Every one of them stared at the ground in front of them. It was obvious that they were ashamed of their actions once someone mapped it out for them. I suppose there was some fear in their hearts when they thought about their parents  reaction and I’m sure more than one of them pictured themselves in a head lock with an eighth grader grinding knuckles into their heads.

                “I know all you guys and I think you’re all good kids,” I offered in a more forgiving tone. I think maybe you just join in on this crap because you think it’s acceptable. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s not.  From now on Mark is protected and anything you do to him... you do to us.”

                “Does everybody understand?” Tim asked in the manner of a statement rather than a question. “If not, we need to clear it up right now.” No one muttered a sound. “Good, then pick up Mark’s stuff and tell him you’re sorry and that it will not happen again.”

                Larry picked up Mark’s glasses and handed them to him before saying that he was sorry. Bill got his book bag and Paul retrieved Mark’s Lone Ranger lunch box. One by one the bow ties in the group filed past their victim and offered what I thought was a sincere apology. The bus finally arrived bringing the ugly situation to a conclusion.

                I looked down at Mark and asked him if he was all right. There was a broad smile on his face that left his tongue hanging out between his teeth on the left side of his mouth. “Yeah,” Mark said with his typical slobbering speech. “Thanks for saving me.” The boy glanced back and forth from Tim to me and Tim again. Mark was obviously confused by our intervention but grateful for its arrival. I think his gratitude went beyond the relief of his immediate problem. I think he was experiencing a sensation that was very strange to him. In his ten years of life I don’t think he ever had a friend.   

                Tim put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “It’s ok Mark, it’s not going to happen again, not here anyhow.”

                We let Mark on the bus ahead of us and he sat where he wanted without a dispute. It was a very quiet and uneventful bus ride to school that day. When I looked around at the bow ties their expressions were solemn and reflective. I like to think that when they went to mass that morning they were praying for more than a new bicycle.

                I had trouble focusing on my studies that morning. I was caught up in the whole bully thing. I wondered what the trigger was and more than that I wondered about the reward. To me the cost in guilt was too great a price to pay for whatever return the bully got out of it. Two things guided my thoughts and probably explain why I struggled with the cause and effect. The first issue was very close to home. My father was an alcoholic and very free with his discipline. Second was the War in Viet Nam. Every night on the six and ten o’clock news the war came to living rooms across America. While some kids were excited by the firefights and explosions and talked about them frequently, I could not erase the images etched into my mind of those brave young men, broken and bleeding, being carried in their ponchos to a chopper for evacuation. Sometimes the graphic images were so powerful I had to look away. This was the struggle in the mind of a young man whose biggest concern should be which girl he wanted to sit by on the bus ride home.

                I was glad when lunch time arrived. I ate quickly and went outside to hang out with my friends in front of the school. On most days we played basketball or softball, that is when Sister Daniel Marie was available. As nuns go Sister D was the best. She was a truly dedicated educator and an avid sports enthusiast. When she drove to the hoop for a layup you could see her white, high top sneakers peeking out from the bottom of her habit. I really believe she wore them all the time. I don’t think wearing the brown oxford shoes was a part of her vows and if it was, that was the only piece of her strong devotion that was not in the puzzle. Sister D was occupied at lunch so we gathered by the front doors and acted cool. We were there about ten minutes before Mark came running around the corner with a half a dozen bow ties on his tail. He knew where we hung out and was betting all the marbles on us being there.  Mark’s only experience with reflex and coordination was probably the spelling and definition so he made a few potential enemies when he plowed through the crowd of eighth graders to get Tim and I. At full speed, Mark’s weight and momentum carried him further than his poor vision could calculate and he grabbed my arm spinning me around so that he could hide behind us.

                There were a few tense moments as the other neck ties in the group watched and waited for our response to the intrusion.  “Hey you little twerp, how would you like me grab you in a head lock and run your face into the wall?” Marty asked the terrified boy.

                “It’s cool,” Tim replied, “he’s our friend. Mark needs some protection from the other bow ties. They are way too rough on him.”

                The fifth and sixth graders that were chasing Mark stopped in front of our group. They had the enough courage to gang up on a challenged fourth grader but not quite enough to follow him into a pack eighth graders.

                I stepped to the front and addressed the group of immature intimidators. “You guys need to understand something. This crap has gotten way out of hand and we’re not going to allow anyone to pick on Mark any more. He has a right to be a kid and play outside without a bunch of bullies terrorizing him. We’re going to make sure that happens.”

                Suddenly other voices in our group sang out in harmony like the school choir. “Yeah,” Tony said, ”how would you guys like some of your own medicine?” Then Jim said, “Takes a lot of guts to gang up on a guy, doesn’t it?” Even Scott who was the biggest disciplinary problem in the school and guilty of some of the worst tease and torment tactics ever witnessed said, “You guys want to see some bullying, I’ll show you some bullying.”

                The bow ties stood in front of us like chiseled statues. Not a move was made or a word spoken. There was only a look of fear and bewilderment on their faces to suggest what was going on inside their tiny brains. They had been called out.

                “Now,” I said loudly, “you put the word out that Mark is to left alone. Anyone caught tormenting or abusing him will answer to us. Do you understand?”    

                The group of little antagonists was glad to be dismissed and I was confident that when they reached the safety of their own peers, word would travel fast. As for my peer group, I was never more proud to be a part of something. To a man, they stood up and spoke out for what was right. Maybe it was just pressure from within, that once one member said something was right the others immediately conformed to the concept. I like to think it was more than that. I like to think it was part of our growing maturity and social consciousness.

                When the bell rang and we went back into the school, Mark walked down the hall at the head of our group. He was not the kind of kid to gloat or taunt his former adversaries. He was just happy to belong to something too. After all those years of living in fear, of wondering what was wrong with him that invited such harsh ostracism, he finally had friends and felt the freedom came with it.

                When we got off the bus that day, I decided to walk Mark home. It was not that far out of my way and I felt that my friendship should extend beyond putting fear into the hearts of his enemies. I was surprised at how much and how fast the little guy talked once his inhibitions vanished. There was no unconscious restraint of his thoughts, no suppression or regret of his behavior, only the unbridled enthusiasm of a child.         

                Mark told me how happy he was with the opportunity to move freely at school. He said that he usually stayed inside at recess to avoid the abuse of the other kids and that the only reason he ventured outside today was that he was encouraged by the events at the bus stop that morning. I reassured him that he wouldn’t have to hide behind the fire barn to wait for the bus and that he could go out at lunch time every day to make new friends. I was impressed with his positive outlook and his courage to test his new freedom. Throughout our short conversation he never complained about the injustice of his situation or mentioned the names of particularly abusive kids as though he coveted some kind of revenge and retribution. He was all about going forward and how bright the situation looked now. He had great expectations.

                We arrived at a landmark of sorts where Mark and I would part company. West Shore drive ran in an arc along the river with its two ends curving back up to the highway. There was a triangle where the road intersected with Du Page street. Within the triangle lay the landmark. It was huge grey stone that had been there forever. At least five feet tall and an equal amount in width the behemoth stone stood there taunting every boy in the neighborhood to try to scale its smooth, uncompromising surface. The stone rested its massive weight against a birch tree.  For those adept enough to scale the stone, there was an added challenge of climbing to the top of the tree. It was a rite of passage for boys in our neighborhood and everyone knew that sooner or later they must conquer the rock.

                “I can see boys trying to climb this rock all the time from my window,” Mark said. “I’ve seen you in the top of the tree.”

                “Yeah,” I said, “I’ve had my experiences on the rock but it’s not much of a challenge anymore. The bigger you get, the easier it becomes.” Strangely enough, my response did not trigger memories of skinned knees and elbows nor did it trigger the release of any endorphins over my first successful triumph over the tree. Instead, I thought about this little boy alone in his room, looking out of his window watching life pass him by.

                “How about you,” I asked “do you want to give it a shot?”

                “I can’t climb that thing,” he sheepishly replied. “I look at it every day and wonder if I’ll ever be able to get up on that thing.”

                “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” I replied.

                “No, my sister would kill me if she knew.”

                “Your pants are already torn at the knee, you could tell her you did it on the rock.”

                “No, I’m sure she watching me right now from the picture window. She’s always watching for me to come home. That’s why kids don’t chase me all the way home. Once I get past the rock, I slow down and walk so she won’t get upset.” He proceeded to tell me that his sister was much older and very protective. The way he explained it was almost like having another mother but the bullies knew that if they chased Mark past the rock and into her view, there would be hell to pay.

                I gave Mark a pat on the back and told him that I would see him in the morning. He turned and ran for home but it wasn’t that fear for life kind of pace, it was more like he couldn’t wait to get home and share some good news.

                The next morning I was pleased to see that Tim had walked over to my bus stop again. I was even more pleased to see that Mark was there in line with the other toy soldiers waiting to charge and thrust and slash with his imaginary saber. At recess I saw him too running and playing with his classmates. I guess the word got out to the other kids that he was protected and they better just learn to live with it. And every day I walked him to the big rock where we talked along the way. I learned that he liked to read and put together plastic models. I learned a lot about Mark but unfortunately most of the things made me feel even more sorry for him. All of his activities were the ones of a sheltered, insecure little boy.

                One Saturday two of my friends and I rode our bikes up to the local store for some junk food. It was a mom and pop store that existed long before their replacement with the much more impersonal national franchises, the kind of store where the owner knew almost as much about you as your parents. Our trip took us by the big rock and past Mark’s house where he probably saw us from his bedroom window. The sight of his friends tooling on a Saturday morning caused him to test his freedom in a new venue, the neighborhood.

                With the aid of the hill on our return trip we were able to fly down and round the curve at high speed. When we hit the straight-a-way I could see Mark with his back up against the rock and three of the neighborhood boys in his face. Although these guys were my friends they were public school kids and didn’t understand the rules we had established about Mark. This intervention was not going to be easy. We were the same age and equal in number. I could smell confrontation.

                I peddled hard despite the speed at which my bike was already traveling and came to a skidding halt a couple of feet from the rock. My friends raced in behind me providing the same dramatic entrance.

                “What’s going on here,” I asked in a manner that suggested that a show down was imminent.

                “We just caught the doughboy and we’re having a little fun,” Robbie replied. Now these guys were normally ok. We played together under normal conditions but my friends and I had already arrived at the conclusion that picking on weaker kids was not fun. I believe that my father’s alcohol addiction had made this whole bully thing an abhorrence from the start. His insensitive tactics served to weld the rest of my family together with unbreakable bonds and made us musketeers of sorts. When it came to trouble, it has always been “all for one and one for all.”

                “Well,” I said, “Mark is our friend and we don’t let people pick on him anymore.”

                “Well,” came the reply, “who died and left you in charge of the neighborhood.”

                “Nobody died, yet,” my friend Jim answered, “but we can decide who’s in charge of the neighborhood right now.” We had just passed the point of no return. Jim had recently traded in his neck tie for the open collared shirt of a public high school. He was a hard fighting Irishman with a reputation for not backing down from anything or anybody. Within seconds, he threw down his bicycle and took the loud mouthed Robbie to the ground. Pat and I immediately followed suit and before long there were three pairs of boys rolling around on the ground throwing punches when the opportunity presented.

                The fight went on for several minutes before Robbie’s mother arrived on the scene. She was screaming loudly and trying to pull Jim off her son. Finally, the mayhem gave way to reason and the fight ended. As we dusted off our clothes, Robbie’s mom tried to get to the bottom of the issues surrounding the confrontation.

                 “What is going on here,” she screamed. “I have half a mind to start calling all of your parents right now.”

                “Well,” I said in our defense, “these guys were picking on Mark and we stopped them.”

                “I can’t believe that my Robbie would do something like that,” she said defiantly. Maybe you misinterpreted something.”

                “No,” Jim said sarcastically. “They were picking on the kid and you can call my parents right now if you want. I’ll tell them the same thing.”

                Fully challenged with the truth that her innocent little darling had dirty hands she retreated from her threats. “Well, what do you expect from thirteen year old boys?” she said.

                Jim sensing that the argument had shifted in our favor went for the kill. “We expect that if they are looking for a fight that they come and find one of us instead of picking on this kid.”

                Although Jim had handled this from start to finish I decided to offer some support. “From now on Mark has the right to go where he wants and do what he wants. He’s not going to be afraid to step out of his front yard. Not trying to be disrespectful ma’am but were serious about this.”

                Faced with the ugly truth that her son was a bully, she offered the following reconciliatory response, “Robbie, I don’t want you and your friends bothering this boy again. Do you understand?”

                The three boys looked up from the ground and acknowledged her command. It always seemed that after the confrontation, the bully or bullies as the case may be seem truly ashamed of their actions. I wondered what caused people to keep doing something that made them feel bad. If it was a case of low self- esteem, then it had to be self- perpetuating. The more I do it the worse I feel and the worse I feel the more I do it. I was learning that the only way to break the cycle was to take a stand.

                We took Mark back to his house where his sister was waiting for his return. She was watching from the porch and for her brother’s sake, for once, she let the scene play out without intervening. It must have been emotionally traumatic for her to bet all of her marbles on the actions of three “tweenage” boys.     

                “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mark’s sister said gratefully “I was about to go down there myself.”

                “No need for that, we won’t let anything happen to him,” Jim said. He then told Mark to go and get his bike so he could go for a ride with us. His sister looked nervous as Mark eagerly ran up the driveway to get his bike.

                As the group rode off I waited behind to talk to his sister. “I know you’re worried about him,” I said, “but he’s afraid of you just like everyone else. All he wants is to be a little boy and do some of the things boys do. Jim’s right. You don’t have to worry,  we’ll take care of him.”

                We rode for hours that Saturday morning and brought Mark home tired but safe. His sister came out on the porch to greet us as we tooled up the driveway. I know she agonized every minute he was gone but if she wasn’t going to let go she would at least have to ease up because he had friends now and they would look out for him.

                September rolled into October and I continued to walk Mark home. It was amazing how his enthusiasm for life increased with his freedom. We talked about sports, and girls and what he was going to be for Halloween. He started coming down to Clark’s field after school to play baseball. He wasn’t very good but I always made sure that he was on my team and more importantly to a young boy with developing self-worth, that he wasn’t the last kid picked to be on a team. I would see him on weekends riding his bike or skipping stones on the river. We didn’t hang out a lot mainly because he had found some friends his own age.

                At the end of October I walked Mark to the curve in West Shore Drive. I looked at him and said “Mark, I don’t think I need to walk you home anymore, no one will bother you anymore. I’s not that I don’t want to but it’s more like, well, it’s more like everything else in your life that you can do on your own. Do you understand?”

                “I understand Chris,” he replied, “but we’re still going to be friends, right?”

                “We’re always going to be friends Mark,” I replied “and as your friend I need to help you conquer one last fear. Today, you and I are going to climb this rock and that tree and we’re going to sit up there and talk about what’s next and why.”

                Mark looked long and hard at the rock that he said he could never climb and when he looked back at me I was stooped over with my arms down and my fingers laced together. Instinctively he put his right foot in my hands and I boosted him as far up the rock as I could. His left hand found one of the few indentations in the smooth rock and his feet began digging and pushing up against the stone. After inching his way a foot or so I leaned my shoulder into the rock beneath his feet and pushed up with my knees. He in turned straightened his knees and pulled himself on to the top of the rock. He quickly got to his feet and stood alone atop the great grey stone. I was very proud of him standing there with his arms curled up in a Charles Atlas pose. Except for the more than average sweat stains under his arms and the excessive amount of drool that his physical exertion produced, he looked every bit of the conquering hero. I quickly scaled the rock behind him and we stood there together for a moment before turning to scale the tree. I’m sure his sister watched in agony from her picture window as we climbed the tree together. We talked about a lot of things and I remember him say “Roger Maris might be able to hit sixty-one home runs but I bet he couldn’t climb up here.” I remembered my first time conquering the rock and all the times after that and none seemed as rewarding as the climb I made that day.

                When we climbed down from our lofty perch and it was time to say goodbye he turned to me and said, “Maybe I’ll walk you home from school tomorrow, if that’s OK.”

                As November gave way to December Mark walked me home from school every day. When we said goodbye at my driveway he walked casually home through his neighborhood to his home. If he felt like going out after school, he did. If he felt like riding his bike or skipping stones, he did that too.

                In the middle of December, Mark stopped coming to school. After a week, I walked down West Shore Drive past the great grey stone to his house. I knocked on his door and when his mom answered, I asked why Mark hadn’t been coming to school. She told me that Mark was very sick and that he might not be coming back to school.

                A few days before Christmas in my thirteenth year Mark died of an inoperable brain tumor. I found it very difficult to accept that someone so young could die. I suppose that to the trained eye all the symptoms were there, the weight and coordination issues, the strange orbit of his eye, the excessive sweat and drool, and the difficulty in his speech when he was excited. It never occurred to me that Mark was sick. If it did, the protective actions of me and my friends would have been motivated by pity rather than just the right thing to do. I’m glad I didn’t know. I don’t think events would have unfolded the same way if I did know. I could only think about what a brave little kid he was. In all our conversations he never mentioned what it was like to live in fear of everyone outside of his family and he certainly never mentioned all the trips he had to be making to the doctor. He was always optimistic and looking ahead to what the next day would bring. The kid had guts. 

                A few years later I read “Flowers for Algernon” by Daniel Keyes. I thought about the similarities between the main character Charlie and my little friend Mark. Although Mark was not able to achieve the genius status of the fictional character before his decline, he was able to be a little boy. He could ride his bike, play baseball, skip stones by the river or sword fight with the bow ties if he liked.   

                The day before Christmas several feet of snow fell on our neighborhood. I went to Mark’s house and shoveled their driveway. Then I cleared the stairs and porch. When I was done I took two jars of change and bills that I saved for Christmas and emptied them out on their freshly shoveled porch. I knocked on their door, grabbed my shovel and ran. I hid behind the great grey stone and watched as Mark’s mom and dad came out on the porch. They held each other in their arms and stared over at the rock. I wondered what they were feeling at that moment. I wondered if they were glad their driveway was shoveled, or what a very sad Christmas it was for them. I like to think that as they stood there in each other’s arms on that cold December morning, they were just glad that someone else appreciated their odd little boy as much as they did.

                The only thing I regret about my actions through the whole thing, was dumping the money out on the porch. I should have left it in the jars. What can you expect from thirteen year old boys?

                    

                 

               

 

 

 

                                                                              The Power of Prayer

              I was leaving my brother’s house after the 1985 Super Bowl when I saw flames shooting up above the trees in the distance. My heart sank deep in my chest because I knew all too well the location of the raging fire. I ran through the yards and arrived at the door just as Tim, my best friend since grade school was arriving home. I yelled to him and asked if the kids were inside the house and he answered that they were. We entered the log cabin house and ran up the stairs. We made our way through the thick rolling smoke in the kitchen but when we tried to enter the family room, we were driven back by the flames. I yelled to my friend and said that we should go outside and break a window in back and try to get to the bedrooms from the back of the house.  As I turned to work my way back through the dense smoke I got a glimpse of Tim’s 6 year old step-daughter lying on the floor. I scooped her up and ran back down the stairs and out into the fresh, cold air of the January night. I grew up in that neighborhood and knew almost everyone so I carried her limp body across the street and pushed open a door to a neighbor’s house. The two boys were home alone so I told Danny to get me a blanket and Mike to go outside and wait for the ambulance.   

                I placed the girl on the floor and checked for breathing and a pulse…there were none. Trained by the U.S. Army as a nurse I began CPR as I had done in too many other unfortunate situations. Anyone who has ever performed CPR knows that it is a physically demanding and emotionally draining experience, especially when a small child is involved. I began my compressions talking to her, telling her to stay with me and that everything was going to be ok. Having done this before I felt a certain amount of confidence in my skills and knowledge. I continued talking to her through the first five minutes of breaths and compressions but there were still no signs of life. My confidence in a successful resolution was waning fast. As the stress built inside me I began to yell and curse. It is a conditioned response mechanism that everyone uses to draw hidden reserves of strength and determination from within themselves. I was getting tired and I was afraid that she had been without oxygen for too long. I used every expletive I had ever heard which included taking the Lord’s name. My fear and frustration had taken control of me. After my rational, confident behavior failed giving way to raging anger caused by a fear that this beautiful young child was dying beneath my hands, I began to pray. I wept out loud and begged the Lord Jesus Christ not to take this child. I prayed through my tears and asked Him to spare her for her innocence alone. I reminded Him that she was so young and had her whole life in front of her. I begged Him to share his strength with me and prayed that He would succeed where I was failing… that I couldn’t do this without Him. There was nothing I ever wanted more in my life than to prevent this innocent young child’s death. At this moment of extreme crisis with her life and my hope of success dwindling rapidly my prayers could not have been more focused or sincere. 

               I blew two breaths into her mouth and leaned back into position at her chest. I watched her for any sign of life before starting the next set of compressions. As I pushed down on her sternum, she gave up a small, frail cough and smoke passed from her lungs as though she had just inhaled a cigarette. I stopped doing compressions and assisted her breathing until the ambulance arrived.

                After several weeks in ICU, she finally recovered from the effects of that near death experience.  The heartbreaking reality was that while she survived, the bodies of her little brother and two sisters were found in the ruins of their family home. I knew those children very well and there was no way to measure the depths of my despair. I grieved for those children who would never grow to realize their potential and for their parents who had suffered the greatest loss a mother and father could endure.

What made it extra difficult for me was all the attention. Newspapers wanted interviews, neighbors stopped by my house and friends called to congratulate me but I avoided it all, I couldn’t deal with the grief. I just couldn’t get past the magnitude of the loss to take any credit for the degree of success. Besides, no one knew how helpless I felt when I held that child’s life in my hands. No one knew how inadequate I thought my efforts were except for my passionate plea to God to spare her life.

              Several weeks later, I was nominated and won a medal for heroism from our U.S. Congressional District. I didn’t really want to go to the ceremony but the nomination came from the little girl’s family and I couldn’t ignore that.  I asked my family and friends not to attend and took only my mom with me for moral support. The room was full of people as there were other awards for civil service and Good Samaritan acts given out that day. I feared being in front of all those people, I didn’t know what to say. I had thought about it but without much success.

My name was the first one called. Congressman O’Brien spoke about the tragedy, handed me the medal, and shook my hand. He asked me to say a few words to the group and nudged me toward the podium. Then, it came to me… the truth. I suddenly felt very much at ease. As I faced the group, I said, “I would like to thank you for the honor… but it is really through the Grace of God and the power of prayer that this child lives.” That was it. The plain and simple truth had set me free.

             I was still a young man and sowing the last of my wild oats, I guess. I wasn’t that spiritual, I was not yet even on my journey back but I felt, no I knew that God had put me there, at that exact time and place to save both her and I together. After all the reckless and dangerous things that I had done which could have ended my life, I knew that this was why He had saved me. I knew that I, like all of you, are instruments of God and that we have a mission.  I don’t like talking about the fire and after more than thirty years have gone by, I must admit that this is the first time I have put into words what really happened that cold January night. This story isn’t about me as a person but more as an instrument of a much greater power.  “Tell us what God’s power and wisdom are, completely different from the world’s view of power and wisdom.” It wasn’t until I read Rick Warren’s words in chapter 37 of The Purpose Driven Life where he said “shared stories build a relational bridge that Jesus can walk across from your heart to others,” that I decided to share this story. It is by the Grace of God and the power of prayer that I too was saved that night.