It all started when my husband’s junior high school “frenemy” was pushed out the rear doors of a moving school bus and hit his head on the concrete curb adjacent to the street. Pushed by my husband, I might add.
Fearing he killed him upon impact, my husband was quite relieved when Mickey rallied. Instead of ending up in the morgue, Mickey and my husband both ended up the following morning in their junior high principal’s office.
“Okay boys,” the principal admonished, “you can take a swat or I can call your parents.” (This was the 1960’s and swats were routinely given out as a means of discipline.) My husband was savvy enough to realize a paddle to his skinny behind was far less daunting than a call to his dad at work. Mickey didn’t agree and wanted to avoid the paddle altogether.
My husband politely asked the principal if he and Mickey could confer privately for a moment and the principal reluctantly agreed.
“The fighting will continue between you and me, Mickey,“ my husband threatened, “and I will kick your butt every day unless you take the swat and our parents don’t get called.”
Mickey gave in.
My husband stepped up to the principal’s left and braced for the swat. It came, but was surprisingly mild.
Mickey went next. And as my husband recalls, he had never seen a swat so mightily delivered. Dust mites flew through the air off Mickey’s khakis, reflected in the sunlight streaming through the nearby window, as tears streamed down Mickey’s face.
That scene was indelibly etched in my husband’s memory and details of it were often repeated to me over the ensuing years of our marriage – a recollection leaden with guilt and laced with regret on my husband’s part.
I guess my husband and I – who attended the same high school and graduated the same year – are lucky. Among our class of more than 700 is a remarkable man, Mark Abrams, who faithfully tends our Class of ‘65 website and daily updates our doings. Our comings. Our goings. Our departures.
About a month ago, we got notice that Mickey was being cared for by hospice in Raleigh, NC, where he has resided since 2015. High school and junior high classmates were virtually gathering to share their memories of Mickey with him. We were unable to take part in the get together, but shortly thereafter I noticed a sea change in my husband.
“You know,” he remarked one morning, “I’ve always felt badly about that incident – beginning with me pushing Mickey off the bus. I’d like to call him and apologize.”
Hours later, after obtaining Mickey’s contact information, my husband did just that.
Many phone calls and texts flew between Mickey and my husband over the following weeks. The surprise? Mickey didn’t even remember the bus incident, my husband’s bullying behavior or the ensuing powerful swat.
A phrase Mickey wrote in one of his many texts to my husband was: “I’m very glad we have renewed an old friendship and that it led to an even better one.”
And my husband replied, “If not for family and friendships, what is life at the core of its essence really all about?”
“So true,” my husband’s former adversary noted.
Four days after sending that text, Mickey passed away.
What did I learn? Best to follow-up on good intentions, for it’s always later than we think.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor