Where We Live: Memories of a hero

With the coming of spring I always cherish that feeling of rebirth and a renewal of life. Winter is fading and the days are getting longer and everything smells better, sweeter. Even the soil has a spicy scent to it.

It’s a nice change from this winter, when I actually spent quite a bit of my time thinking about loss. We all suffer some losses in our life. Everyone grieves differently, and some more intensely then others.

I was telling my daughter a story not that long ago about my first friend. Jay was a kind, sweet neighbor boy a year older than me. He lived two doors down from us in a very new neighborhood. So new we still had gravel roads.

Jay was also my first hero. I remember it as clearly as if it were just yesterday, my Dad teaching me to ride a bikethe summer before my fifth birthday.Dad removed the training wheels, stood behind me, gave me a push and yelled, “pedal, pedal!” And I did. Unfortunately, Dad forgot to tell me how to stop.

So I went flying down our littlegravel-strewn road as fast as my chubby little legs could pedal. As I whisked past Jay’s house he was out in the yard with his sister, and I shouted, “Help, save me!”

Iremember his cry from somewhere behind me, “I’ll save you.”

Jay was always a stout fellow, but that day that 6-year-old flew up next to me, and in the wink of an eye, pushed me onto the dirt road. Ouch!

I was covered in scrapes and bruises — remember those were the days before knee pads and helmets. But I did not care one bit. Jay was my hero; he had saved me.

We moved away shortly after I turned 5, and our families kept in touch. We moved back, though a few streets away, when I was 10. But Jay and I didn’t become friends again until high school. It was like having a big brother. And when I think back to that time, in many of my most fun, frivolous and naughty times, Jay was front and center.

When we graduated, we once again lost touch. Jay had gotten a job in the food industry, and a few years out found himself in a bit of a jam. His motherasked me to write a letter to a judge regarding Jay’s character. All I could do was write about my hero, my friend and the closest to a brother I had ever had.

The only thing I remember writing was that thething he was accused of he could never have done, and I even remember writing out a scenario that explained what I believed had happened, leading to his pleading guilty. I begged the judge to be lenient on him.

I never spoke to Jay after that. His mother thanked me on his behalf and said what I had written had made animpact on the sentence handed down. When things blew over he moved down south, got a job as a sous chef in a fancy restaurant in mint julep country.

He never came back.

This winter, I found out through Facebook that my dear Jay passed away a few years ago. He left a wife of many years, children and a successful career. It was a bittersweet moment, because I was so proud of my hero and felt his loss so keenly, despite not seeing him for decades. I guess just knowing that your hero is out there, you always feel a bit safer.

So as this spring blooms forward, I feel the same awakening, and gratitude that I got to have my own knight on a White Horse — or in my case, a 6-year-old boy on a red Schwinn — swoop in and save me.