What I started writing about was something that I never have written about...a memory from Junior year that came quickly and faded fast, but really punched me in the stomach. It doesn't really have to do with Pop Tarts, but it does, because we were adolescent, young, set free, and stupid. Actually, I was...with a few of the other guys. We were asked to be student ambassadors for the Northstars marching band because they were competing in a national show that didn't let adults bring equipment onto the field. They needed to recruit a bunch of guys and they did...most of them on lacrosse teams, football teams, baseball teams, etc. who were dating girls in the Dance Ensemble. I roomed with three of them and, for the most part, while the band practiced we were told we could stay in our rooms, which we did, but also this is where the mischief began. I noticed coolers the adults had were full of alcohol and they left them outside of their rooms without supervision. I took one, and the guys and I were set for evening fun while we played Pitch and smoked cigars (nasty things those are...but there was a store around the corner and we bought some). We also bought a couple of dirty magazines, one of them called Cherry Poptart. We pretended we were grown ups for the weekend, did what we were supposed to for the band, but when left to our own disposal, we were idiots, including taping pictures from the magazine all over the hotel elevator. We laughed our asses off.
We were never caught, though. It was a fun trip...part of the stupidity of adolescence. It was a group of guys in their senior year and me, a junior (I had my incidence in 9th grade, and stuck to the straight and narrow after that). This was a rare, spontaneous weekend, and because I always worked and I took off for the long weekend to do the band gig, I thought, "Why not? Live it up." Because I was a year younger, I wanted to seem cool so when the coolers presented themselves without parental policing, it was a no-brainer. And I was hit to the older guys.
I think I put the story out of my mind because of the luck thing - we really did get away with it all - but mores because one of the guys was this lacrosse player....super popular and a twin whose sister was equally as popular. We bonded briefly that weekend and I figured when we returned I'd probably never see him again. A year's difference -- the juniors vs. the seniors -- makes all the difference. Two weeks later, he, his twin sister, and another brother died in a house fire. It devastated the school, so much so they shut it down until after the holiday break. We were sent home (which almost got me arrested, but that is another story from being young and stupid)
I've always been sort of numb about this story, because I knew the kid, but I didn't really know the kid...just briefly...a blip on the radar. I learned more about him when we returned to school and he lost his life. He was so loved and cherished by the senior class. In my young mind, I didn't realize life could be taken so young...so quickly...without any meaning.
When the year ended, yearbooks came out, and at my school that was always a big deal...there were close to 2,500 kids in the building, 10th-12th grade. One of the highlights, always, was to read senior memories, and figure out if you could decipher any the secrets shared in the brief notes. In Josh's memories...this kid I only knew for one weekend...wrote, "Crazy Crandall - Cherry Poptarts" or something like that. I was trying to figure out how he included this memory in the short time between our return from Michigan and his tragic departure.
I think I packaged the story up and tucked it away without really sharing it with anyone because it was so intense at the time. He truly was loved by so many, and I was just this dorky kid with a box cut. These older kids were just stuck with me in their hotel room. I had the weekend off and was bored. The history followed and we had a blast.
Then the tragedy.
I think of this often. 18 years old...an age I taught for many, many years, and I definitely never shared this story with my students (unless the Michigan hotel party and porn was left out). 36 years later, I'm thinking of all the life that has come my way, and all the life he and his siblings were denied. It is something, Private Ryan. Earn this. I hope the life I've lived makes up for those lives cut too short.
Yup. Art. It can trigger stories out of nowhere, especially a Poptart. Youth is wasted on the young.
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