With Led Zeppelin providing a baseline in the background, thirty some odd partyers, mostly in their late teens have gathered at a “rents-less house” outside of town on the Mohonk side of the mountain. The party has been going on for several hours and there’s a hum of chatter and a haze of pot smoke drifting through the house. In the garage, there’s a keg of beer surrounded by five guys.
The tallest, and least buzzed of the five calls out, “Whales Tales Prince of Whales calls on his court. Whales Tales -” He looks expectantly at the guy to his left who looks back with a blank look, then says, “Wha?” In unison, all of the others call out, “drink!”
The tall one again says, more insistently, “Whales Tales…” and points his elbow at the man to his left who after swallowing calls out, “ones,” and looks to his left, a shorter guy calls out, “twos.” The other two guys in the circle call out “threes” and then “fours” in quick succession.
The tall guy, McGlinchey, raises his red Solo cup and calls out, “Whales tails fives and social!” All five take a drink simultaneously. Then he calls out, “Whales tails twos,” and Inch, the short guy two men to his left calls back, “Nays!” McGlinchy says, “Who’s,” and Inch calls out, “Ones.” Dave the guy to Inch’s right quickly says, “Nays.” Inch replies, “Who’s,” and the reply is, “Threes.”
This all happens in a few seconds and all eyes move to the man in the circle, who made the last mistake one spot to McGlinchy’s left. He looks back with a “who me” expression. Inch calls out, “Drink Lenny!” Lenny drains his beer, laughs, and reaches for the tap for a refill.
The game has been going on for a while and all five are pretty toasted. Brian and Barry walk over to the keg and break up the action. Lenny jabs Barry in the ribs and says, “Call shotgun, Bar’s not leaving the mountain tonight.” Barry had been fondling a big chested junior named Marybeth all night and he grinned sheepishly at Lenny, his close friend that lived just up the road back in town.
Brian was by far the soberest of the gang and for good reason, Lenny, Dave, and Barry had come to the party in Brian’s VW bug and it was a good 10-mile drive off the Mountain back to New Paltz. About an hour later, Brian, Dave, and Lenny couldn’t find Barry anywhere, and figuring he was hiding out with Marybeth somewhere, they decided to leave without him.
Fate is a fickle thing.
Marybeth had actually already left, and Barry was out in the backyard taking a leak and they just didn’t see him. Brian did an amazing job navigating the backcountry roads making it within a quarter-mile of Lenny’s house when his little VW rang straight through a telephone pole. Lenny riding shotgun without a seat belt flew out through the small windshield. They found him later wrapped around a tree. At only 19, Lenny was killed instantly. Brian and Dave walked away from the crash unharmed, at least nothing was broken physically.
The next morning at 9 AM, Barry was sound asleep when the clock radio by his bed came on to wake him. He always set it to WPDH, the Hudson Valley’s popular rock station. Since it was on the hour, the news came on. Barry woke up to the announcer saying, “Tragedy in New Paltz last night as a 19 year old was killed when the car he was riding in crashed on Rt 32. The name hasn’t been released until next of kin is notified. Stay tuned for more details as they are released. In other news…” Barry knew instantly it was Lenny. Later he would only say he just knew.
I woke up a bit later, grabbed a glass of OJ, and walked out on the back deck. Barry was sitting down in the yard at our picnic table with his head in his hands. He was three years older than me and about twice my size, so to see this big man crying was surreal. I walked back into the kitchen and our Mom was washing dishes in the sink. Her eyes were all red and she told me what happened to Lenny. As a high school freshman, it was impossible to fathom. It was even more difficult to fully grasp the loss my big brother was experiencing, along with the sense of guilt he felt for not being in the car with them.
The next week was a blur. Hundreds came to Lenny’s funeral. The casket was closed due to the accident’s trauma. I knew Lenny’s sister, Janet, as she was a grade ahead of me, but wasn’t good friends with her. I don’t remember meeting Lenny’s parents, but I’m sure I did. Most of Barry’s friends were macho types who showed little emotion and quickly tried putting Lenny’s death in the rearview. I don’t think Barry ever did.
Eventually, the rest of the world moved on.
⇔
A few years later, needing to fill out my class schedule, my mother was trying to guide me.
“Mom, there’s no way I’m doing calculus. After a 72 on last year’s geometry Regents, cruel and unusual punishment is not a hobby.”
“Well, what would you take in its place. You can’t just play with cameras and kick soccer balls.”
“Mr. Campbell is teaching a new elective this year, I’ll take that instead, even though it doesn’t sound like much more fun than math.”
⇔
George Campbell was the kind of guy that craved an audience. As an extroverted nerd who was 140 pounds dripping wet, he found his audience as a ninth-grade earth science teacher. George had the energy of three teachers and had an unbridled enthusiasm for everything. He was able to make this work in high school, with a quick mind and an active dry wit, every class was an adventure. For most, he was a favorite teacher, but for those who wanted to melt into the background, he could be a bit too much. I had previously gone to middle school in a semi-private Campus School and was still trying to find my footing in the public High School in ninth grade. George Campbell’s class was a wake-up call that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, and for the most part, I survived to wake up back in black and white by the end of the year.
Teaching earth science was not enough for George. He led an explorers troop, the scuba club, and in my sophomore year, got the school to let him teach a Death class. Having sat through a year of George’s exuberance in earth science, it seemed like an odd choice. It was offered as a half-year elective class, and skipping my love for math, I signed up for it during my junior year.
It was a very different George Campbell that taught about death. It was something most of us avoided, so he took a measured approach that slowly engaged the class and evolved into many deep discussions.
In the first month or so we learned all about the stages of death and dying. Pretty sober stuff. That section ended with a trip to the cemetery where we were encouraged to do gravestone rubbings. New Paltz was over 300 years old, so there were some very cool ancient tombstones, and I got rubbings from a guy who died in 1707.
Then things got weird. George invited guests to come and speak to the class. One woman came dressed as a 1960’s flower child who talked about mysticism and visions she had that were far-out! Another had a Russian accent and talked for an hour sharing how she was a “medium” able to commune with the dead and heard voices from people stuck in Purgatory. She handed out business cards to the class that gave 50% off for a 30-minute session. These were clearly cranks and fakes George wanted us to experience, but it got us all to begin questioning whether there was life after death. He had a revivalist preacher come to class who clearly wasn’t a crackpot and made a strong case for followers of Jesus and spoke at length about religion.
In the very next class, George asked each of us to describe any actual experiences we had with death or the afterlife. One of my friends Jessie lived in a former 19th century boarding house, and he told the class in a very “matter of fact” way how he sees ghosts all the time roaming the halls. He said that they were boarding house guests who died there. I had been to his house, and although I never saw a ghost, his place was pretty spooky.
Another friend of mine told a story about the old stone house that was on his family’s property. The house was originally built in the late 1600s and had been inhabited by French Huguenots who emigrated due to religious persecution. He told how he and his Dad camped out in the house and were woken in the middle of the night by loud voices coming from the chimney. The voices were speaking in French.
When it came to me, I didn’t have any ghost stories to share. Instead, I told a story about a sports camp I had attended back when I was 10 years old. My Dad was a pretty well-known college basketball coach and was always invited in the summer to coach at camps held by pro coaches and athletes. He usually took me along, and that summer between 5th and 6th grade we went to a camp hosted by Tom Landry and Roger Staubach of the Dallas Cowboys. They had evening entertainment throughout the week, and one night a “light artist” performed. He had a huge canvass the size of the entire stage where he would paint using colors and lights to tell a story while a musical soundtrack set the mood.
It was impossible to truly share what I experienced, and I told the class that they’d have a hard time believing what I was about to tell them. The artist started with a blank slate and the audience had no idea what the story was about. As it unfolded, we were all drawn in, and the artist painted the story of the life of Jesus. I was only 10 and not deeply religious at all, but when he was finished, there were tears in my eyes. I actually felt as if something had entered my body and an intense feeling of passion was inside me. I wasn’t the only one. When the artist was through, no one applauded, and you could hear a pin drop among the 1,000 or so young boys in the audience. The silence lasted for about 5 minutes. Then everyone just got up and quietly walked out of the auditorium. When I was through telling the story, the class ended, and no one kidded or laughed at me on the way out.
⇔
As the class wound down to the end of the semester, George had one last powerful session to spring on us. He had already taken us on a journey about life and death and we would never be the same. Then Lenny’s mom and dad walked through the doors of the Death Class.
It was only a few years since Lenny had died. To ensure his death wasn’t meaningless, both his parents had become strong advocates against drunk driving, and I figured that’s what we’d talk about when George introduced them.
Instead, Lenny’s dad started out by saying how he missed Lenny and how unfair it was for him to be taken so young. We could all see tears starting to fall out of his mom’s eyes. He told us how he always raised Lenny and his sister Janet by making sure they knew they trusted their judgment. There was no curfew; they never checked their breath for alcohol or pot. He wondered aloud if he had made the right choice in raising them this way. His mother spoke up…
“That night, the kids were out and we stayed home. We had a wonderful dinner, watched some TV, and went to bed early. At 1:13 AM, I was woken by Lenny standing over me and shaking me awake. I knew it was 1:13, because we have a digital alarm clock on my bedside table, and it was the first thing my eyes saw when they opened before I saw Lenny.”
It was established by the state police that Brian drove his VW off the road, hitting a telephone pole between 1:10 and 1:30 AM. The accident occurred about a quarter-mile from Lenny’s house.
“Lenny had a calm look on his face, but I sensed he was worried about me. I looked over to shake my husband awake, and when I looked back, Lenny was gone. I knew that something was wrong; a dread came over me that I live with every day since the accident.”
Lenny’s parents then got up out of bed, got dressed, and walked out to the end of their small street where it met the state highway. They saw the flashing lights down the road at the accident scene.
“Tears were streaming down my cheeks and I knew Lenny was gone,” his mom gushed as she closed her eyes reliving the scene in her mind.
Lenny’s family didn’t blame Brian, as they felt the pain and anguish he suffered would be enough of a burden.
“There is no question in my mind that there is an afterlife. Lenny woke me up to say goodbye. He wasn’t transparent or ghost-like, he was as real as you’re sitting there at your desks. I wish I had given him a long hug, but the look in his eye that night was his concern for me. I truly believe he appeared to me on his journey to his next life to let me know he would be all right.”
George thanked them for sharing their story, and when they left, he let out a huge sigh and wiped his eyes. He looked at the class and told us there was nothing more he could teach us.