Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend

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July 5 of 2012, I was sitting in my living room, watching the news when a story emerged that there had been a home explosion and two bodies were discovered inside. The home was in my hometown of Aledo, Illinois. It didn’t take long for word to get out that one of those bodies belonged to my childhood friend, Patti. Patti had filed an order of protection against her ex-boyfriend and within days of that filing, he went to her home, shot her, poured gasoline on her and in the house, set it on fire and killed himself. This was the violent end to a frightening relationship that left her rightfully fearing for her life. The order of protection that she filled out in her own words was disturbing, and although it was filed in the courthouse, the police were unable to locate her ex, so Patti didn’t go back to her home for several days, fearing what would happen if she ran into him. On July 5th, she went back to her home to grab some clothing, where her ex found her and killed her. That evening, I wrote a piece about Patti- it was a collection of memories and experiences that still warm my heart, even if they are tainted with sadness. So here’s that piece- it’s important to share it because let’s face it, a piece of paper isn’t going to save anyone’s life. If you know someone who needs help, do everything they will allow you to do to help them find safety.

July 5, 2012 ~ Just north of Aledo, Illinois, on Route 94, lies a small community by the name of Hamlet.  It was there that I moved when I was three and lived for several years.  I lived a pretty simple life out among the cornfields, the country church and the farms; with no kids to play with, I had to find things to do by myself.  Days before I began kindergarten at Apollo Elementary in Aledo, I had an accident that resulted in a trip to the ER and a huge mass of stitches on the left side of my mouth, leaving my cheek swollen.  This was not exactly what I had envisioned for my first day of school.  The accident pretty much ruined any chances of my “blending in”. 

On that dreadful first day, I was sitting alone in the kindergarten classroom in a corner, putting together a puzzle. A small voice asked if she could help me.  I looked up and said yes to the little freckled girl with the crooked bangs and the jack-o-lantern smile. It was there that Patti Lindquist became my very first grade school friend. 

It’s funny.  I can’t remember what I did yesterday.  I can’t remember birthdays.  I don’t know when I’m due for an oil change.  I sometimes forget how old I am.  I forget the details of stories that people tell me moments after our conversation.  But I can relive flashes of my childhood like they happened this morning and a lot of those moments included Patti. 

Patti and I became friends instantly.  In fact, we spent the first five years of our school existence as inseparable.  Furthermore, we spent those years giggling.  I don’t know what we giggled about.  I can’t imagine now, in my almost 40 year old, cynical, jaded mind what could have possibly been so damn funny.

In kindergarten, we were often separated and placed in different corners of the room. Sometimes, we were removed from the classroom and placed in the hallway on opposite sides of the milk cooler.  After the teacher left (and this should come as no surprise- I can’t remember her name, other than it started with an H), one of us would move to the opposite side of the cooler to be with the other so we could giggle more. If Mr. Larson, the principal, would walk by, we would scoot to the other side of the cooler so when he walked back the other way, he wouldn’t know we had been placed out there because we were misbehaving.  Once, during one of our many “sit by the cooler” sessions, Miss H came out to check on us and we were busted for sitting there together.  She grabbed each of us by the arm and told us we were going to the office.  I apparently had no intention of doing so, and my instinct was to kick her. To this day, I have no idea why she let go of both of us and left us in the hallway and returned to the classroom.  If I had to guess, based on my own experience with small children, it may have been to avoid the anger that results in beating someone.  Maybe it was because she decided her classroom was more manageable with us not in it.  Or perhaps, maybe she just gave up out of total exhaustion.  Regardless, she did not return to teach again the following year.  In fact, I’m not even sure she made it through our entire kindergarten year before leaving.   

In the first grade, Mrs. Talkin tried every seating arrangement possible to keep us from giggling.  We sat in opposite corners, opposite sides of the room in every direction, and we even sat with our backs to each other once.  None of it worked.  We giggled throughout the entire first grade.  After that year, Mrs. Talkin retired.  And after that year, Patti and I never shared a classroom again.

Patti and I with Mrs. Talkin at a school festival where Mrs. Talkin was a “fortune teller”.

My parents loved Patti.  They would take me to her house to play or she would come to ours.  We would ride our bikes to a small cemetery west of Hamlet and lay out in the grass and have picnic lunches and read the headstones.  The trip to and from the cemetery was always a tricky one.  We had to pass a farm on the way there that had a dog with two different colored eyes.  We named him “One-Eye.” One Eye was a mean dog. He chased cars, trucks, combines, whatever- when they passed his house, so I’m sure two little nine-year-olds looked pretty tasty in comparison.  We had to pedal really hard before getting to One-Eye’s house, to get up enough speed to get past it without being caught.  All this while maintaining control on the gravel road.  Was it scary? Yes. Were we exhausted?  Yes.  Did we giggle? Oh yes.  At the cemetery, we would jump off our bikes and fall into a heap of laughter at the close call. 

Since we loved our bike rides so much, my parents bought each of us these awesome little FM radios that could hook onto the handlebars.  We rode all over the countryside listening and singing along to songs like Juice Newton’s Queen of Hearts.    

Patti’s farm was one of my favorite places to be.  First of all, Patti’s dad was like Santa Claus. Seriously. He was just a jolly, happy guy.  He was always interested in what we were doing and he loved our stories.  And he didn’t get mad when Patti and I made a mess in the kitchen making a cake or brownies.  (We once made the batter for a chocolate cake but it never made it to the oven.  We ate the entire bowl of batter.  Then we lay around on the sofa for the rest of the afternoon because we felt so sick.)

Patti and I always found mischief on the farm.  We were across the road from the house, standing on a fence, watching a bull in a field once when I asked Patti if bulls really charge when they get mad.  “I dunno,” she said, “let’s find out.”  We climbed to the other side of the fence and went closer to the bull.  We tried waving at it, running away from it, jumping up and down, but he was clearly not interested.  Then Patti did what comes natural to any kid- she picked up a dirt clod and looked at me.  I shrugged my shoulders and I picked one up also.  We threw them at the bull and hit him several times.  At this point, I can honestly tell you that, yes, bulls most certainly do charge when they get angry.  If I had run in my high school track career like I had run that day, I would have gone to State all four years. Never have I run or climbed a fence as fast as I did in that field. We ran all the way back to the house, crashed through the back door and fell on the kitchen floor gasping for breath, holding our legs made of jelly, and laughing so hard we were crying. 

While I still lived in Hamlet, Patti and I joined the Hamlet Handy Helpers 4-H Club.  My mom helped Patti out with her projects when she could.  I’m sure this was a challenge for my mom because alone, I was an intense child. With Patti, I was intense and giggly. Top it all off with Patti’s similar personality, and I’m shocked my mom wasn’t put in the nut house. But Mom had a lot of patience with both of us and she and my dad always treated Patti like she was part of the family.

My sophomore year in high school, I attended State Police Youth Camp for a week in Springfield. And who do you think was at my side that entire week?  You got it.  Patti had no desire to go into law enforcement that I know of, and I can’t honestly tell you why she agreed to go with me.  But whatever the reason, I was glad she was there. Being away from home was not easy for me, but having her there made me feel less lonely.

I remember my mom taking us to an REO Speedwagon concert at the Illinois State Fair one year.  After the concert, we got lost trying to find the hotel; and I have to give my mom credit for keeping her cool, because Patti and I giggled the entire time my mom was driving around looking for the right place.  (At this point, we were in high school and we still giggled all the time.) We did stop giggling, however, after recognizing that my mom was experiencing a brief moment of insanity and frustration.  Mom decided to stop and ask directions at a gas station, during which Patti and I decided we better pull ourselves together because Mom was getting pretty pissed. Unfortunately for Mom, the gas station attendant didn’t speak much English and when she returned to the car with no more direction than when she went into the gas station, Patti and I burst out laughing so hard that even my mom couldn’t help herself and the three of us sat in the parking lot trying to regain composure before venturing back out onto the interstate.

Over time we graduated and went our separate ways. I didn’t see Patti much when I was in college. We were, at that point, living very different lives. After I graduated college in 1994, I returned home before finding a job and moving. It was then that Patti showed up one day with her daughter, Brittany, asking me to go to the park with them. Patti’s daughter was just a little one at the time and we took her to the baby swings and caught up on all that had happened since we left high school. Patti loved that baby fiercely. She wanted the best for her daughter and she was struggling to figure out how to get there. But if there was one thing I knew nothing about at the time, it was motherhood. She was reaching out to me and she was searching, searching, searching…  I wanted to help her somehow, but in the end, I just hoped that just being there to listen to her was enough. 

About fourteen years later, we caught up again, this time on Facebook. I am so grateful for that opportunity. In the last couple of years, I’ve read about her life, her girls, her struggles and her joys. We messaged back and forth sometimes and caught up on all that was new, sharing new stories about our lives and our kids. It was a joy to be back in her sphere again.

If I could describe Patti in one word, it would be “intense”.  Patti never did anything half-way.  She worked intensely, she gave intensely, she loved intensely.  I feel privileged that I had the opportunity to know her and be a part of her existence here on Earth, if only for a short while.  Patti brought a lot of laughter to my life.  Not a trip to Aledo on Route 94 goes by that I don’t drive through Hamlet or past the gravel road to the Lindquist house and think of the memories she and I created. 

Godspeed, my old friend.  May your new life beyond be filled with the intense love and laughter you shared with so many.