I flew home Wednesday to say goodbye to a friend. Scott was my first best friend, and because he was only a year younger than me, there's not a time in my early life where I can't remember him being around. For those who didn't have the pleasure of knowing Scott, let me take a little bit here and get you up to speed.
He was, what my uncultured, not-from-Jim-Town friends might call a hick through and through. Heck, we all are. But Scott, he took it a step further - he was an outdoorsman. If the world ever ended and we were forced to live in the woods behind my parents' house and wrestle deer for food, I would make sure that this kid was on my team. There was nothing he couldn't do when it came to the wildnerness, and was, as his best friend Dan said at the funeral Thursday, the one true "white-tail slayer." I don't remember a hunting season that Scott didn't get at least one buck... or goose... or bat... or turtle. Whatever there was to hunt, he was your man.
I was never into hunting, but I loved him because he liked to get dirty. Those of you who knew me during my formative years know I was quite the tom boy, and Scott indulged my every off-the-wall request. Flood dad's garden so we had mud to play in? Sure. Build a fort out of Mister George's cilo? Why not? Play army in the woods? Any day. Go in the barn and throw rocks at the bats? I'm game. And so there we were, two little kids running all over the fields and woods and creation, being.... well, hick-ish.
It was an amazing childhood, and I loved every minute of it. His friendship saved me from being pretty lonely back then, although I don't think I ever told him that. He had a sister to hang with, I was an only child. He probably had scads of neighborhood friends from school; I went to a private school in the city, and parents rarely wanted to drive 30 minutes to bring their kids to play. Although he probably had cooler kids to hang with, he never seemed to mind me including myself in on everything he did, if only, sometimes, to avoid sitting alone in my room and playing my favorite solitaire game - "counting red cars" that went by on the road.
Scott was a quiet, thoughtful kid, and the only reason he'd ever stick out in a crowd was because he was always 10 feet taller than anyone, and had the prettiest shock of orange-red hair you'd ever seen. I can't remember him ever yelling, probably because he never did. At least, around me. That doesn't mean he was exactly an angel, though.
I remember the time - we had to have been around 6 or 7 - that Scott and I were playing around his grandpa's barn (we were neighbors, with grandpa's farm between us). Marc was there, too - Scott's cousin, who was a year older than I. Scott played a little bit rougher when Marc was around and though I tried to keep up, I was still a scrawny little girl, and I think they enjoyed ganging up on me.
It was summer and we were exploring stuff, and Marc dared me to climb down into the bottom of the cilo. I was scared but tried to tough it out, and got most of the way down the ladder before Marc pushed me to the bottom. I was too short to reach the ladder from the bottom and panicked, while Marc and Scott laughed from above.
"You're going to have to live down there now!" Marc called down. "Your parents will have to bring you food and you'll be the cilo girl forever."
To a first-grade mind, being called "Cilo Girl" had some very serious repercussions associated with it that I hoped desperately to avoid. Plus, it smelled down there, and the ground was wet. There was no cover on the top of the cilo, what would I do when it rained? Would I ever play fetch with my dog again?
All of these things ran through my mind as I looked up at them. Had this happened last summer, I would've cussed up a storm and thrown half-rotted animal parts in their general direction until they got me out. But I was six, so instead I screamed and cried and hell, I probably peed my pants - until they got me out.
Scott's family had the best swingset in the neighborhood. Now that I look back, most of that because we were the only two houses with kids around, but I remember having fun because it was anchored in concrete so you could go really, really high on the swings and not have to worry about tipping over the whole thing (a grievous error that, if committed in my back yard, resulted in such serious punishments as being forced to spend the rest of the day indoors).
I was going to town on my swing when Scott decided he liked my swing seat better than his, and demanded I get off. I refused - I was just about to set the world record, I think, for height achieved in the 9-year-old category - and so, on my backswing, he planted his foot square in the middle of my back and I went flying off and onto the stone driveway.
It hurt - a LOT - but I wasn't about to let a boy see me cry. So I curled up in a ball and played dead until he came over to check on my well-being. I waited until he knelt down to shake me, and swung out blindly and wildly with my tiny, ineffectual fists of fury.
I dropped him on the first shot, and was pretty proud of myself until he started crying. I mentioned before that he was much, much taller than me, and so my first fist landed squarely in his crotch. I know this because he started whimpering, "You p-p-p-punched me in the p-p-p-penis!"
I wasn't sure who was going to get into more trouble - him, for saying the word 'penis' or me for cracking him there, but I didn't stick around to find out; I hightailed it home. If he ever told on me, I never knew.
Those are just two of about 6 million stories that come to mind when I think about Scott. As close as we were as kids, we started running with different crowds when I transferred to his school, and I didn't see much of him socially after that. After I moved to Florida, I ran into him a couple of times at our neighborhood bar - Hill's - and he was always at least nice enough to act happy to see me, give me a hug and ask how things were.
The last time I saw Scott was the day our best friends got married. Different weddings, different destinations, but in the middle of May last year we both ended up, dressed in our wedding best, at Hill's again. He looked great - he was the best man, and smiling ear-to-ear when the limo pulled up. Of course, his sisters were there, and together the three of us enjoyed a mini-reunion of the James Township kids all grown up. It was a lot of fun.
Since his passing, I've taken a lot of quiet time to reflect on my childhood and the various memories associated with it. Most of the good ones involve Scott in some way, and though we grew apart with age, he was a huge part of my growing up. I have him to thank for being fascinated with all things outdoors and, probably more than anything, toughening me up as a lil' me so that I didn't turn into one of those weepy, whiny types who watches Oprah and can't change a lightbulb.
I'm so sad he's gone now and that I didn't have more of a chance to get to know the adult Scott. But I'm pretty content with the Scotty I remember: The one who was terrified of Billy Bob at Chuck-E-Cheese, the one who was never happier than when he was dragging home a buck from the field and yes, the one who, once Marc was out of earshot, promised me that if I did end up having to live out my days in that cilo, he'd sneak me cookies in case my parents forgot them.
He was a great, great, great friend, and I'm comforted to know that he's in Heaven and happy now. We'll miss you, Scotty, but we all know that this is not goodbye, it's just see you later. Rest in peace, Red. :)
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| April 1982 ~ January 24, 2011 |
...................................sorry this entry is such a downer. While this may be selfish, I can't go to sleep thinking sad thoughts so, with your permission, I'd like to spend the rest of my time here making it up to both of us by rehashing the visit home that amounted to 34 hours from wheels down to wheels up.
Random Ruminations from Saginaw, Michigan:
+ It costs anywhere between $6.25-$10.50 for a vodka and Red Bull in Charlotte County. The same drink in Shields, Michigan? Three bucks.
+ I grew up in a magical place the locals call "Jim Town" that has a sense of community you really only see in "Fried Green Tomatoes" or "Now and Then" movies. It is such a wonderful feeling to walk into a place and know every single person in the room, from great-grandparents to cousins to kiddos and ex-wives... and though none of them are your family, you know they're still all a part of your family.
+ I think my dad and I are the only non-Catholic folks in the community: At Scott's funeral, we were two of maybe 10 people, out of a few hundred, that didn't take Communion.
+ I have, by my last tally, now spent at least 4 hours in six different states in five days in a stretch of less than two weeks (Florida, Georgia, Michigan, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas). I think I'm done traveling for a while.
+ It's funny that I can be gone for almost seven years now, and my parents still know where to find me when I'm home. I told my dad I was going grocery shopping for dinner and wasn't home in an hour, so he called me. "Where are you?" "Umm....wellllll....." "Oh. You stopped at Hill's, didn't you." I'm nothing if not predictable.
+ Speaking of Hill's, we've all been going there for so long that things have come full-circle. I was 10 or 11 when I started going there with my dad (he'd drink beer, I'd have a coke). I was 16 when I started going with my friends and, because my friend's grandparents own the bar, we all got to stay and my mom was never worried because she knew someone would tell on me if I tried to sneak a drink. 18 years later, I've drank with my friends and their parents, their parents' parents and our old high school teachers, but I was NOT prepared to do a shot with someone I knew while they were still in diapers and I was in third grade.
+ It was incredibly touching and so on-point when Dan entered the church carrying Scott's ashes... and he had the bill of a camo hat tucked neatly into one back pocket, and a pair of deer antlers hanging out the other. <3
+ I Know I'm Home When: I buy the entire bar a round, tip the bartender (whose brother I dated in high school)... I get more change back from a $50 bill than what I spent.
+ There is nothing finer in the world than washing down a Tony's original Steak Sandwich with an ice-cold Faygo Redpop. Paralleled only by a coney dog from the one true Coney Island (coney sauce, mustard, onions loaded onto a hot dog).
+ No matter how excited I was about having a Coney Island right next to my gate at the Detroit Airport this morning, I should never EVER have put down three gooey Coney Dogs right before I got on the plane. This should serve as my sincere apology, however belated, to the woman who was unfortunate enough to have to sit next to me on our flight to Atlanta.
+ Everywhere I go, once people find out what I do for a living they want to talk baseball. Lately, that's been centered around Florida and, by default, the Rays. It was wonderful, then, to be able to talk Tigers for the entire night last night.
+ I love how I can walk into a business, bar, or whatever, and someone I don't know will come up to me and say, "You're Dave Klemish's daughter, aren't you." And then they'll tell me a story about my dad.
+ The priest who directed Scott's funeral was pretty clever: We're a tight-knit community, and that's because there's about four generations of each family still in town. Because of this, there are at least 4,000 Schrems folks, 2,900 Gaertners, 1,500 Boehlers... and at least 675 Kretzs, Klemishs and Roenickes. After Dan gave his speech everyone was pretty teary-eyed, and the priest lightened the mood a little by quipping, "Thank you, Dan, that was beautiful. Now normally, we don't allow antlers or stories about deer in church..." Later on, he remarked, "My friend said that if I ever had this many Schrems, Kretzes and Gaertners in one place I ought to take up a collection." I can't count how many times during my short trip that I thought, "Only in Shields..."
+ If you ever make it to Hill's and a guy named "Bull" says he'll buy you a drink, go ahead and accept, he's a great guy. Don't, however, believe the bartender when he says you have to look at how big the guys balls are before he'll make you a drink. He's not exaggerating, but it definitely cuts down your chances for anything but extremely awkward conversation with Bull afterward.
+ Normally when I first get home from the airport, if my mom's asleep for the night I'll go in and give her a kiss goodnight, and she'll murmur, "Hey, honey. Glad you're home," in a half-asleep voice and roll back over. This time, even though it was after 3 a.m., she sat straight up in a flash and wrapped me in a boob-squishing, hard-to-breathe hug. It felt really, really good.
+ After years of yelling at me not to do so when I was growing up, my dad now (sometimes) feeds Sparty (his dog) with a fork. I think he's getting soft in his old age, and it makes me smile.
+ For those folks who only know me post-high school (especially those I've met since moving to Florida): I'm NOT from Detroit, I'm NOT ghetto and no, the movie "8 Mile" is nothing like my life. I wish all of you could come home with me once - to my REAL home. I bet it would blow your mind. No sidewalks, we have the Shiawassee National Wildlife Refuge. You had streetlights, we have "mercury lights." We have never had water that didn't come from a well, sewer systems are lost on us and we see nothing wrong with leaving our keys in the ignition with the doors unlocked - overnight, every night - in the driveway. We KNOW there's a difference in taste between store-bought veggies and those we pick from our back yard gardens. We sell corn by the road in the summer and pumpkins in the fall. We know the deliciousness that is Fish Fry Fridays at the local VFW. We have hall shows, know all of our neighbors on a first-name, hug-when-you-meet basis, and love them all like we do our own family. We wear Carhartts in winter, and drive our snowmobiles to the bar when the roads get too bad. The Shields Fest is a summertime event where we drink too much and celebrate small community. We get excused absences for the opening day of hunting season...and we ALL know that day is Nov. 15. Ninety-five percent of us have some sort of antlers, or animal heads hanging on the wall in our house, or in the garage. We don't think it's odd to go to mass on Sundays, have family lunch at grandma's house and then gather out by the barn and shoot the bats that fly out of the barn at twilight. If we get pulled over, it's by our neighbor and we're more worried about him thinking we're a bad person than about getting a ticket. When we hug someone we haven't seen in forever, it's a lingering, full-frontal-to-frontal embrace that lingers. It's not polite, it's heartfelt and necessary. I may have moved 1,300 miles away, but I'll always be a Jim-Town girl at heart.
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This is what a real back yard looks like. :) |
Alright, like I said I'm exhausted. I went to bed at 5 a.m. Wednesday, woke up at 11 and was on a plane home by 6. I got to Michigan after 3 a.m., was up by 8:30, stayed up until 4 a.m. this morning, got up, flew all day, went straight from the airport to the soccer pitch to work and now it's 2 a.m. and if I don't sleep soon, all that will be left of my mind are run-on sentences like this one.
G'nite, kiddos.
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