Time Goes On . . .

When I first met Mike he was a goober, a geek, a nerd, and possibly the nicest guy I have ever known. Today is his birthday. Don't know why I remember or why thoughts of him have paraded throughout numerous portions of my day. He'd be 64 today; he died in 1969, just six days after his 23rd birthday. Driving from work, he was a half-block from home, turning left into his neighborhood, when the person driving behind him decided to pass. I guess she was unaware that passing at a T-intersection was illegal. Eight-hours later, in the local hospital, Mike died.

If a crystal vase were dropped from our table to the tile floor, the shattered pieces would fly everywhere. In a similar way, Mike's death shattered the world of his young wife, his two-year-old son, his extended family, and his numerous friends. Nothing could put all their lives back together again in the way they had been before that awful moment.

Mike loved cameras, photography, and developing his own film. He loved sports cars, sports car magazines, and sports car races. He loved learning. He loved discussion and debate.

When Mike was a young adolescent, his family moved into the neighborhood across the street from Mr. Fun. Quickly both boys discovered they loved cars and 10-speed bicycles and girls. One was as serious and studious as could be and the other, well the other ultimately became Mr. Fun. They spent hours together riding bicycles to the city of Pomona where Mike had lived. They spent hours building model race cars. They spent hours at the sports car races.

When I married Mr. Fun, I married into the relationship. I counted Mike's friendship as one of the better wedding gifts I received. He became like a brother.

A year later Mike, a Catholic boy, married a protestant preacher's daughter. The tension of that reality was slow to dissipate for their parents. The union caused all of us to discuss God, the Bible, Heaven, eternity, and all things religious much more than we possibly would have. In our group of young-married rag-a-muffins if anyone could be credited with revering God, it would be Mike.

Unbeknownst to Mike, he was the one who tagged me with a nickname that others began to use in honor of Mike after he was gone "K-roll." If there was ever a soul who believed that these two "rough-edged married teeny-boppers" would become productive citizens, Mike would be that one. On the other hand, he would also be blown over if he could parachute into our lives today and discover what the two of us have become in the forty years since he departed.

Today I found a shard of crystal -- razor sharp, drawing blood instantly with its painful memory -- but also tossing rainbow light sparkles in every direction. We haven't forgotten him. We haven't stopped missing him. Today we celebrate Mike.

Good night from Southern California.
Rosie (& Mr. Fun), aka Carol

P.S. The photo is from late autumn 1968 . . . Mike was 22. I was very pregnant and gave birth to our daughter on December 31st.