My tears fall so easily tonight, emotions that have been dormant for so many years
have been rekindled. One week ago there was a
tragic accident in our county.
Four young, handsome, grabbing-life-head-on boys died when their car lost control on a small knob along a country road. They were all on the same football team. Just starting to live.
Tonight there was a memorial service at a nearby church with more then 2,300 people in attendance.
These boys were loved by many. They have brought together an entire town, an entire county for that matter.
So young. I have no words.
However, I have a heart that understands and remembers so well the pain of young death. It was a sunny, September morning as I drove to school. A fresh 16 and the world was at my feet. The beginning of our Sophomore year, a whole year ahead of us. Passing an accident only a minute after it happened I said a prayer and couldn't get the picture of the wreckage out of my minds eye. A car smashed against a small four foot cement wall. No other vehicles.
Several hours later news began to travel through the school that our dear friend Anthony had been in an accident. We, his friends gathered together, prayed, cried, hoped. A few of us went to the hospital that night and fewer still got to see him. When I close my eyes even now, 16 years later, here at my kitchen table I can picture the room. I can hear the incessant beeping, see his Mom holding his hand, see the huge softball size welt on his forehead and one tiny scratch on his hand. I can see him seated upright in the hospital bed. I can see myself walking over to him and saying, "he looks good"....and he did. Nothing wrong from the outside looking in. He looked so peaceful, he looked so much like himself. Quickly we were ushered out of the room, left to cry alone in the elevator going down. The next morning he was gone. So many internal injuries, too many. 
(Back in the days of 35 mm film. I only have a few pictures of him.
This was taken when a group of us went to the beach the Summer before he died).
He was born on my Dad's birthday, June 24th. I met him when I was just a little girl wearing leg warmers and a matching headband. I was in 4th grade at a new school and walking down the hall came my first love....strutting was more like it!! Every Spring from 4th-8th grade we were the item. Of course, since Kirk Cameron was too far out of my league, I would have to settle for Anthony! Oh, the "check yes" notes we passed....too many to count! And then one day at recess he asked me if I liked him and I just stopped him in his tracks and laid a big one on him....my first kiss behind the snack bar next to the softball diamond. I was 13. "I guess that's a yes" he replied!
(Claiming our seat next to one another for some random track and field picture. First row, far right, both in white t-shirts, you'll notice my lovely white hightops). In high school we remained close friends, our options expanded and thus our love life as well. We still spent countless times together with so many mutual friends; hiking, camping, cliff/bridge jumping, (into water), playing soccer, dance parties, late night bonfires, roof top talks, you know, all that delicious stuff that makes up those fleeting high school years. 
(Roaring fire atop Chickie's Rock with plenty of Turkey Hill Iced Tea of course)!
Except with him, it was only one glorious year. He turned 16 on my Dad's birthday and 3 months later he had died. He was so proud of his yellow Volkswagen Golf. And when I look back to those moments of passing his car accident, I can see the hand of God blinding my eyes to his one-of-a-kind vehicle. All I saw was a man, (later realizing it was his Dad who was following him to school) run up to the freshly crashed vehicle, slowly lift a limp head from the steering wheel and call out for help. And that is why the image stuck with me all morning long.....such desperation and sadness. I still cannot believe I didn't know it was him. I'm so thankful I didn't know it was him. 
(8th grade. The front row jokers, Jon Hash and Anthony holding a flower)
He died the day before my Mother's birthday, September 7th. Four days later he was buried. Many of us met at my parents home and we walked together to the church, just a short stroll down a back country road. A sad procession of young, black clothed mourners. 
(The first boys soccer game shortly after he had died with one player missing. We released yellow and black balloons from the middle of the field and all the players from both teams wore black wristbands in his honor. We made a HUGE sign that had been signed by all his friends. We celebrated that night with zeal and passion, just as he had lived life).
The days and nights that followed were filled with so many questions, some were found at the bottom of a bottle or the end of a joint, but mine were found during quiet nights at his graveside. For years I could see his grave stone from my bedroom window. The church where he is buried was that close to my home. Sometimes the moon would look like it was shining down a single ray on his grave and on those nights, if it was warm enough, I would walk up there and lay beside his grave in the moonlight. Sounds creepy. It wasn't. It was the closest I could get to him. I would close my eyes and just remember.
(Chilling in our tree along Zook Road~far right. For some reason a yearly tradition started, parties at Janelle's house. The entire class would come over and we'd play all day; eat hot ham and cheese sandwiches wrapped in tin foil, make our own ice cream sundaes, my Dad would give us a candy scramble and we'd just be kids. This happened every year of our elementary time together and even into high school. Throwing parties is still one of my favorite things to do). For MANY years I would have very vivid dreams of him on that exact date, September 7th. My most favorite and deeply moving was the one where we were cliff jumping. There was a group of us taking turns. We would jump, swim to shore and then watch the others jump. When all of us had come to shore, it was his turn. He had his hat on backward, typical Anthony style. He backed up, ran with such force, speed and vigor. Out he went, away from the cliff wall, but he didn't fall into the water. He went up. Waving all the way.
I still cry thinking about it. That was him. Leaving in the middle of an adventure. He spent his one life well. He loved his Mom. He hugged generously. His older brother Mike was his hero. He didn't hold grudges. He could throw a mean punch. His Dad was his friend. He had the most precious birth mark on his cheek, that was huge when we were in 4th grade, (in my eyes), but by 10th grade had become much smaller and quite endearing. I sent letters to his parents for years, every September. Just to let them know I had not forgotten him. I've lost touch with them, much to my sadness. I think they moved down South. If you read this someday Phil and Sue, he's still alive in my heart, just as he is in yours.
(See that cutie in the middle? His name was Chris Cox. He's the one responsible for jacking up that picture of Anthony! Somehow I got placed next to these guys in the yearbook. {And for the record that hairdo took me 30 minutes to get right and it still looked crooked. Oh, the days of bangs!} Chris also lived a very short life and at his viewing, peeking out of his shirt pocket, was a picture of his best friend Anthony. They are together now. More on Chris's life someday).I've wanted to write about Anthony for years now, but never found the right time. His life meant so much to me, still does. And even though the last time I saw him he was lying in a casket with a baseball cap and cowboy boots, he didn't stay there in my mind. He stayed in the memories; in the sunshine and candy scrambles, in the kickball games and the hidden-back-of-the-bus kisses, in the bike rides during the Summertime, (we lived only a few miles from one another and would meet up underneath the evergreen trees at the edge of our property~~not to DO anything, just to say we met up).
He remains fast on the soccer field and fearless through the forest trails, brave to those bigger then him and kind to the underdog. He remains in my sons eyes because I don't know how long I have them on this side. We are not guaranteed a long life and this I have learned the hard way. He remains in the crackle of firelight and the thump of cowboy boots, in a good country song and a muddy, dirty jeep. He remains clad in a weathered red baseball cap, faded cut off jeans, shirtless and sitting on a mountain bike flying down Zook Road, he remains. 
Anthony Mark Freed
June 24th, 1979-September 7th, 1995
And this was not the beginning of young death for us, over the next 5 years I lost 5 more friends to tragic accidents. And they will each have their own post at some point in time. It's the least I can do.
"And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain
But I'd of had to miss the dance."
~Garth Brooks, "The Dance" this song was played at his funeral~
foam ball from the dollar store. 
our shoe system for the adultos. 
the floors use to be this color.
