Story of a Bottle and a Friend

Each spring is a celebration of life. Lawns and trees that were dormant and lifeless all winter become lush from the warmth and moisture delivered by the new season creating beauty and work for homeowners everywhere. I was trying to find a balance between these contrasting aspects by trimming back the huge Arborvitae that had long been unattended and was now blocking the front door at Mom’s. When I finally made it to the mid portion of the mass, I found a message left behind by an old friend. A beer bottle was inverted and jammed in the crotch of the tangled branches. It had long been hidden by the thick growth of the plate-like leaves of the tree. I paused and stared at the bottle, remembering the night it was placed in its temporary home over 40 years earlier. It became a time capsule, rendering vivid memories of the last person to touch it – my friend, Jerry.

We started school together in the first grade and walked the same stage twelve years later as we graduated from high school, beginning a new chapter in life – rapidly moving to different compass points in adulthood. We became successful with jobs, families and retirements.

I was saddened to here of his passing a few years back. And now, staring at that bottle, he lives again as I remember the escapades of our youth and final summer together.

Jerry always had a better set of wheels and that made me jealous. First, was a three speed Schwinn bicycle. It was hard to beat a bike with gears. And later, he drove a baby blue 67 Ford Mustang with a white top. It was that Mustang that carried us on weekend excursions filled with country music from Charley Pride and Jim Ed Brown. The 8-track played “Kaw-Liga” and “Pop a Top Again”, and whenever Jim Ed sang the refrain we were compelled to pull the tab from another can. Sometimes we’d buy three six-packs of different brands thinking we would become connoisseurs or maybe just find a favorite. I think we liked them all, but the search for “one” was fun.

Jerry always seemed to catch the worst of it—even when we were young. Once during a friendly dirt clod war with the Witherspoon boys, he took a hefty clod to the face. His bloody mug ended our fun and made nurses out of all of us. This was a trend that continued as we grew older.

One night, Joey and Jerry decided to drink whiskey. This was a poor choice. Two eighteen year olds with a quart of Champion was a ticket to trouble. Pee Wee and I drove the two drunks around, keeping to the back roads so we wouldn’t get caught. Thank goodness for sober friends. They were loud, unruly and needed to stop and take a leak. I was afraid they would get sick and mess up Jerry’s car—which happened. But, it was different than I thought.

I let Jerry out the passenger door and watched him sway and stumble as he tried to take care of business. He unzipped his pants and before he could relieve himself, he fell forward and planted his face into the gravel of the country road. When I rolled him over, he still had his manhood in his hands. Now we had to play nursemaid to Jerry and babysit Joey at the same time. This proved to be quite a handful of a different sort. (Pun intended).

Joey finally settled down and took a nap. That’s just a polite way of saying he passed out. Pee Wee pulled in at a roadside station and we cleaned Jerry the best we could. We picked the gravel from his face and tended to his bloody nose and split lip. We threw his bloody shirt in the coin-operated laundry with a dose of Tide and a Coke. Surprisingly, the yellow shirt came clean and it was just past midnight when we had him ready to go home. Pee Wee and I stumbled through the dark maze of his quiet home and put our friend to bed. We felt more like thieves than friends.

The next day I was on the way to the swimming hole with my brothers when we met the familiar blue Mustang. We stopped, backed to meet, and got out for a conference. Jerry looked like he had lost nine rounds of a ten round fight. He was marked with bumps and bruises and had bloody marks where I had removed the gravel. He led the conversation saying, “I’ve just got one question. What the H*** happened?”

It always “happened” to Jerry. Like when we went to the Sausage Fest at Windthorst. We stopped at the package store and bought a case of Coors for the trip. I was going to be smart and threw a handful of rock salt on the ice before closing the lid. I just wanted to make it really cold. I did. By the time we made it to Windthorst, the beer had turned into icy slush that could only be consumed with a spoon. Everybody wanted to know where we got the frozen treats. Well, almost everybody—some just laughed. But, I must admit, it was both tasty and potent. That night at the dance, I got to missing Jerry and thought he’d found a girlfriend. Then, on a trip for another Icy, I found him crawling between the cars. He said he had “just got back from Wichita”. I didn’t think so, but the night was over. He slept all the way home.

I pulled the bottle from the tree and thought about the night he stuck it there on the way to his car. He then backed off one side of the cattle guard as he left our driveway. Dad pulled him out and I watched him drive away.

That was the end of our summer and college would lead us to new friends and the rest of our lives. I’m glad he left the bottle behind. Just like spring had invigorated the grass and trees, a smile grew on my face as I relived the lost friendship of our youth. His memory made me feel younger, if only for a few moments.

Thank You, Jerry.

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