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My high school friend James L. Porter lived a life
brief but bright. When he turned sixteen in the summer
of 1964, he purchased a ’59 Ford Fairlane 500,
and then he lived not quite three months more.
Jimmy was a year ahead of me in school. If I told you
all I know Jim did, or what he wrote when he signed
my annual at the end of my freshman year, you would
think I was talking about a college boy. But Jim was
only a high school junior when, before school on
the first Monday in November, alone for once in
that fast five-nine Ford, on the curve of the state
highway at the edge of our little Wisconsin town,
he let the right tires leave the pavement,
and he flipped that Ford and died.
Oh, how the boys at school were shaken,
and the girls, oh, how they cried.
The funeral mass, at St. Joseph’s Church, took place in the morning on
Thursday or Friday of that same week, and anyone in the high school
who wanted to was excused to go. Maybe a hundred from the school—
students, teachers, other workers—walked the several blocks on that
cold and cloudless day, from the high school to the church.
The Catholics went in first. The rest of us waited our turn, standing in the sunshine,
on the brittle grass beside the steps and double doors. We boys nervously touched
our necktie knots and crossed our arms to close our sports coat fronts against the mid-
autumn chill. Above us pigeons cooed, in the bell room of the steeple. Then we heard a
flutter of wings, saw a shadow flicker on the grass, and watched a creamy splat of pigeon
doo splash across my polished shoe. Giggles and gasps replaced reverent murmurings.
Teachers sternly commanded quiet. I sacrificed my handkerchief for a purpose not foreseen.
The church soon filled to overflowing, but I was among the fortunate who found a
place to sit, in the company of other Protestants, in the back row of the choir loft. I
was crushed between my Lutheran pal Paul Anderson and the ample-bodied, kindly
Mrs. Jorgenson, our English teacher from the year before. The Latin of the liturgy
might as well have been Greek to Paul and me. Some distance into the service, when
the congregation had for the third time replied to the priest with the words Et cum spiritu tuo,
Paul tipped his head toward mine—he didn’t have room to lean—and he whispered, “Bud.
Why do they keep saying ‘Two Two Oh’? Do ya s’pose that’s their code number for ‘death’?”
I began to giggle, and then began to choke. Mrs. Jorgenson, reasonably supposing
I was sobbing, managed to wrap her nearer arm around me to provide a powerful,
consoling hug. I shook and shivered, and bit my lip, and she increased her embrace to
meet the need. Bless her heart, I was fond of that good woman. Paul, shoulders
shaking like my own, turned his face away and postponed his receipt of sympathy.
May Jimmy Porter rest in peace. May
laughter, Latin, and a pigeon’s surprise
bring clearer vision to tear-filled eyes.
♦
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