The Mountain

I remember when we were young that this central Texas hill was always called the mountain. It was really a hill, but to my gang of friends it will always be known as the mountain. The mountain stretched for almost a mile in length and was the steepest on the north side which happened to be the side we played on the most. On the top here was a large round water tower with graffiti painted on its walls. Hearts with initials, love and peace signs painted along side words of hatred. I wondered how they had painted them so high up on the walls. Below the mountain was the cow pasture that sometimes had some cows in it and always a bunch of jack rabbits. With bows acquired from the local Five and Dime Store, we would pull the rubber tips from the arrows, sharpen them in a pencil sharpener and proceed to run as fast as we could always expecting to bag a jack rabbit. Needless to say we didn't even dent the population of rabbits with our expert hunting skills. But it was the mountain that drew our attention the most as the built in playground for our war games. Cedars nestled in the rocks created our ambush points and our forts. We always had to have a fort or a base to plan missions. Vietnam was raging in the far east and since most of our fathers were there or had come back, war games was always a fun past time. Our bullets were always imaginary and never drew blood. Part of the game was who could die the best after being ambushed from behind the cedars. Bam bam bam your dead one of us would yell. The one shot would flop and crawl sometimes getting back to their feet to be shot over and over and in true Hollywood fashion die flopping on the ground hand outstretched to the sky. But in our games we have the luxury of jumping back up to play again. We could not ever picture the reality of real war. Our fathers did not share these truths with us. To this day my Dad has only told me three different stories about Vietnam, none containing any violence. He was there for a total of about four years in two tours between the years of 1965 and 1970.

Billy

I feel really compelled to share this story today of Billy, one of my best friends back in the late 70's. I really can't remember the exact year but I was driving and I didn't yet own my Z car, so it must have been 1977 or early 1978. Billy was one of those guys that was immensely popular. Totally unlike myself who didn't make many friends. We came to know each other at the Bonwood Bowing Alley where I worked and his Dad came to bowl. Billy's Dad was also an important father figure in my life at this time. Without him I surely would have ceased to live much past my 18th birthday. Billy would later work at the bowling alley too. We bowled in the Junior leagues together on Sturday mornings. We went to tournements as a team and almost won a state championship. His Dad was Japanese and his Mom was Polynesian. They were both wonderful people and shared their home and hearts with all of Billy's friends. It was this good cultural mix giving Billy his exotic look with a smile that captured everyone in its wake. The mix of the Japanese and Polynesian traits fit him perfectly. His smile was the epitome of the great personality he shared so willingly with everyone. Billy was also very athletic always ready to challenge or take on a competitor to arm wrestling. It was easy to see why he was so popular. But it would be this popularity that would land him a seat in a powerful Camaro at the hands of a driver not yet skillful enough to handle the power it produced. Billy would die in an accident on a Saturday night when the car plunged off the side of the road falling more than a hundred feet below. Billy would be thrown from the back seat so I am told and land more than fifty feet from the car. He was the only one to die that night. A part of me died along with Billy that night. We were best friends as I said before. We bowled together and played foosball together. It was our foosball connection that had drawn us so close. He played the front man and I the rear or goalie. We would enter tournaments and were really getting quite good. Billy had a great fast move that allowed us to score rather easily on most opponents. I totally quit foosball after that night never seeking another partner. I look back at this some thirty years later and realize just how much I had loved Billy in almost every sense of the word. I can't remember the exact date of the funeral but there was still snow on the Wasatch mountains and it was rather cool but not cold. The funeral service was packed as the whole school had turned out to come. I do remember that when arriving at the grave site all the cars pulled up to the curb and no one would get out of their vehicles. I stood at the hole in the ground crying by myself for what seemed to be an eternity. Billy had just turned 18. Why did this happen to him? Why wasn't anyone else getting out of their cars I kept wondering? Don't they really care as much as I do? I tore myself up with this incessant self chatter while waiting for the casket to be placed over the grave. I said goodbye to Billy that morning but have never forgotten him. Billy's father would become my surrogate father in the next few months. He metaphorically saved my life through his counsel and the confidence in my ability he shared with me. As I reflect on these days years later, I know that our lives are never really as long as they seem.