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Friendship . . .
(in memory of Rod Childers)
Rod,
my friend—or, as we called you back
then for reasons I’ve long
forgotten: “Pidge.”
It’s been more than thirty-five
years. Does anyone still remember?
I remember. I don’t want to forget.
I can’t forget. My heartache has
only deepened.
You started four years. Varsity fullback.
As we said then—built like a brick
shit-house.
Solid. Hard. Low to the ground. Not
easily stopped.
The irresistible force moving the
immovable object for a four-yard gain.
Then you’d get back up (more slowly
in the fourth quarter).
December 1971. The immovable object was a
semi. No getting back up.
They came by the dozen. Young and old
from Elkton—those who cheered you
on.
Rivals from Drain, Yoncalla, Oakland.
They cried, too.
More than thirty-five years ago—can
that really be?
Now, you are alone, there on the hillside
above the Umpqua. It is a beautiful spot.
Since 1984 my dad, our coach—we
called him Buzz—is only a long jump
shot away.
That will keep me coming back from time
to time (I saw your grave, summer of
’07).
But now Buzz has his Betty nearby.
You’ll always be there alone.
“Rodney Vern Childers. Born December
1954. Died December 1971. Number
35.”
We had good times together—
The rapids. My first drunk. Noticing
girls. Playing ball. A few fistfights.
Wasting your dad’s window panes with
BB guns.
The analgesic balm in the jock (I
didn’t think that was funny).
Mr. Cotreaux’s confrontation after
you fire-crackered his garage.
“I want to tell you something, Mr.
Rod Childers!”
Now it is more clear to me (kids
don’t appreciate these things
enough).
The kindness, the wisdom, the humility.
You were a true friend.
A little league trip. The excitement of
the drive-in stop.
When you live in Elkton, Oregon, fast
food is a rare treat.
But I was broke—too ashamed to let
on. How did you know?
You had some spare change, no words
needed to be said.
The sleepovers. Eighth-graders talking
till dawn.
There’s no God, we’re on our
own, I said. You weren’t so sure.
That talk-show philosopher from San
Francisco we listened to at night,
Ira Blue, said we need faith to be human.
By the time I realized you (and Ira) were
right, you were gone. How did you know?
Football. You started as a
freshman—the rest of us were scrubs.
Game day, the scrubs run out at the end
of the line. You ran out with me, the
last two guys.
Each game, four years, you and I bring up
the rear—even as all-stars. How did
you know?
Yes—you were a friend. I know that
now much more than I did then.
There is no love without loss. No
friendship without sorrow.
We always will have to say goodbye
sometime.
You weren’t taken for my benefit
(though benefit I have).
We learn through our tears, bittersweet.
Dear God help me not waste this gift.—Ted Grimsrud,
Harrisonburg, Virginia, teaches theology
and peace studies at Eastern Mennonite
University and about once every ten years
writes a poem.
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