I was just remembering a childhood friend. Jeff was 2 years older than me, and our mothers were good friends, lifelong witness sisters. Jeff's dad was 'worldly,' and I can remember being envious that Jeff didn't have to go out in service and was allowed to miss many meetings. When he did come, he always had a notebook and was allowed to draw during meetings (I was required to appear to be paying attention, being an elder's kid and a good example.) But Jeff was a wonderful artist. I remember sitting by him at meeting, eagerly awaiting the next sketch out of the corner of my eye.
He was quiet and thoughtful. At elementary school, we were the only 2 witness kids for years, and we spent every Halloween, Christmas, and Valentines party together in the hallway or library. It was the one thing that made that bearable--looking forward to to playing that miniature chess game of his.
As a teen, Jeff had it tough at home and at school. His dad had terminal lung cancer. His dear granny died. They had big financial trouble. And he became more obviously different. Introspective, uneasy, sensitive, and depressed. I still looked for him eagerly in the hallway at school, and gloated at having a protective 'big brother' that saved me a seat at lunch at the senior's table! He came rarely to meetings, but I'll never forget one 'get together' squaredance where we were partners.
Remember this was 1977. Depression was not as publicly discussed, and antidepressants were not nearly as common as now. And Jeff, bless his heart, was gay. There was no chance he would get his dream of art school in New York. There was just no chance for this gentle soul to have a life in our little redneck town.
So that January he cleaned out his locker, and turned in his homework early. He cleaned his room and emptied his pockets. And he took his grandpa's old pistol out to the grape arbor behind the garage, settled down in the snow, and shot himself in the head.
I won't bore you all with the details of my intense grief at age 15. I'm tearing up thinking about it. I'll always remember how Dad and I went out to that grape arbor and scraped up all that bright red snow by flashlight, so Jeff's mom wouldn't have to see it again.
My dad gave his funeral talk, to the immediate family only. He says it was one of the hardest things he ever did. (see my old posts--my dad was one of the good guys). None of Jeff's few friends, including me, were allowed at the funeral. My mom said it was better that his folks didn't have to deal with a bunch of emotional teenagers.
I finally found his grave, at a little country cemetery, and cried over his headstone. "May Jehovah remember my only son".
I'm sorry this is so long. But I'm still missing him.