When I think of something that might make an article here, or just part of one, I write it down on an index card, with maybe a few words of detail. Then I stick the card into one of the subject-area note packs I keep.
The last time I went through my “grade school” notes, I saw I had five separate cards with nothing on them but a name, Fred Marasna.
What was so special about Fred that his name kept randomly surfacing in my memory? Well, Fred was the first person I ever knew who died.
On the first day of sixth grade, our teacher told us that Fred had died over summer vacation. I don’t remember her exact words, but they were short and unfeeling, something as direct as “Fred won’t be coming back to school, he died.”
There was no discussion of how Fred died, or what a great kid he was, or how we should feel about it. One day he was there, then he wasn’t. Today, they’d have a special assembly, bring in grief counselors, maybe plant a tree. I’m not making fun of those approaches, they are a huge improvement over the past, where if someone you knew died you just sucked it up and dealt with it, or not, as best you could.
I don’t remember much about Fred. I’m not even sure I’m spelling his last name right. I can’t remember where he sat in our classroom; maybe his illness kept him out of school a lot. I don’t recall ever talking to him. That doesn’t mean he was shut out, it just means the occasion never arose. Maybe that’s part of why his name keeps floating up now.
The year before, our class sometimes played softball at recess, and I do have one specific memory of that, of Fred standing on first base, waiting for the ball.