No? Mebbe it’s just me then.
Earlier today, in the roasting, humid afternoon, I stole The Amazing Bob away from Neck Heaven with the promise of Curry Hardware shopping (who can resist hardware store shopping — seriously?). The ultimate destination? Dairy Freeze in West Quincy. Bob, god of husbands everywhere that he is, was cool with the plan.
As we sat in the car, slurping up our soft serve before it could melt all over hell, (mine — orange sherbert/vanilla twist, dipped in that awesome chocolate shell stuff. His? Plain vanilla. Bob’s a soft serve purist), memories crowded into my brainpan. I thought of Julie Ackerman, my friend when I was nine years old.
That year, we lived in a small western Pennsylvania town named Indiana (located near to Idaho, PA and California, PA. of course) Coal mines and the university were and still are the primary reasons to be there. Daddy was teaching math at the college.
Julie and I shared a love of all things Barbie and Dairy Queen. On occasional, blisteringly hot summer weekend afternoons, we’d draft our roller skates into service. These were converted into Barbie doll convertibles with kite string attached to the toe so we could pull them behind us, Barbies strapped in for the ride, while we made our way down to soft serve heaven.My family didn't stay in Indiana more than a year or so, leaving for, Bloomington, Indiana where Pop pursued his Ph.D. I’d anticipated, when we moved back there a few years later, that all my old chums would greet me with open arms. Allies would be there waiting. I wouldn’t have to start the friend making from scratch yet again.
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| Me and my fabola little sister Celeste in Bloomington |
Wrong-o. Turns out those few years, happening at the tail end of childhood and the beginning of adolescence, effectively wiped out everyone’s knowledge and affection for me. Either that or I came back looking and acting like Hannibal Lector. Hey, could be!
In any case, my folks and hers were good chums and remained so. I’d get periodic updates on Julie and her siblings. Her eldest brother Mark had gone on to college, majoring in art. Older sister Jan was studying marketing. John, her brother closest in age, was still in high school.
Fast forward to the end of my freshman year in college (we all went to Indiana University of Pennsylvania— it was right there and a decent, relatively inexpensive choice). I came down the stairs in my parents home to find them in wicked somber convo. They ceremoniously stopped me as I made my way to the shower in our basement. They had bad news. John Ackerman had committed suicide. Mr. Ackerman had discovered his son's body the evening prior when he and Mrs. Ackerman came home from a dinner out. John had hung himself out in the garage.
I was stunned — truly shocked — tremendously sad and a bit horrified too. All the Ackerman kids seemed to have it all going on. They were musically and artistically talented, intelligent, hip and very attractive. They all looked to have huge futures just sitting in front of them, waiting to be snatched up. That John would be depressed enough to call permanent quitsies just blew me sideways and three quarters. At least.
Imagine, just imagine that.
John’s older brother Mark became a born again christian (in the hypocritical, bible-cherry-picking vein), going on to found and lead one of those big box, ‘christian’ cults. As far as I know, Julie went on with her plan to become a veterinarian and then moved out west. I don’t know what became of Jan but I do know that she developed narcolepsy around this time.
We all handle and process trauma and tragedy differently. I don’t know how I would have reacted or responded had I lost one of my sisters like this.
John had done the deed shortly after moving home from Boston. He’d come up here, presumably, to make his mark on the world.
He did, just not in the way he’d hoped.
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