I married a boy from this small town valley of 520 in which
I now live, and naturally all of the love and loyalty I feel toward my home
town, Pace feels for his. This includes the wonderful people who contribute to
what his small-town experience has been—uncles, aunts, grandparents, teachers, neighbors, employers, classmates, and friends. Vance taught him how to shoot a basketball
with proper technique—square that elbow, keep it tucked into your side,
practice consistency, and don’t shoot with two hands. Grandpa Lester would wake
Pace and his little brother, Parker, early in the morning by knocking on their bedroom window. He needed them to come
and help him sheer the sheep, change sprinklers in the hay fields, or load the hay onto the
back of his truck, an old black Ford with a flat-bed attached. Grandma
was the designated driver for these occasions…bless her heart, she never had a
drivers’ license and those damn hay bales would sometimes get right in her way.
Uncle Gene and Aunt Spring would regularly invite his family over for dinner—a
single mom at the time, and her five children—Pace has fond memories of their
kindness toward them. Mr. B made history interesting and applicable, Phoebe
helped him with his homework, and Mike was a mentor, not just a golf coach. The
list goes on. Both of us have been shaped by our small town associations.
Then there are those small town tragedies—when someone
unexpectedly passes on. The whole town feels it because it literally hits home.
Small town tragedy has a large impact on the community—large because all are
aware of the one. There is a saying that “you don’t know what you have until
it’s gone.” I agree that this is often the case. How many of us have
experienced a moment of bad health, and suddenly remember how great it was to
simply move without the aches, or to simply sleep instead of adding to the
chorus of neighborhood dogs with your barking cough. Sometimes it takes the bad
to recognize the good—the anguish to recognize the joy, the loss to recognize
what was once present.
A few years ago, I wrote down the following observation:
Why do we not focus on someone’s potential
and beautiful attributes until the day of their funeral? I recently heard of a
football player in a nearby city who died of cancer. He was 18. By the time I’d
heard accounts of his knack for patience and his zeal for life, I felt like I
knew him …that a piece of me had been lost, yet I had never met this kid in my
life. How many great individuals do I
pass by each day and how many acquaintances do I overlook?
I am always amazed that when someone is gone, their flaws
seem irrelevant; we simply remember and revere the good. You see, Zakk was
adventurous and loved making connections—he regularly called Pace on the phone; “What are
you into, bro?” he would ask. This would lead to a conversation about business
ventures and new ideas he was eager to explore—last week he was killed in a car
accident in Mexico. I will always remember his love for laughing no matter the
circumstance, like the time I couldn’t get the horse shoe into the opposite
pit, but somehow managed to get it into the 2nd story window of my
sister-in-law’s house—normally a situation where I would flee in embarrassment,
I was able to laugh too.
Earlier that same week, Ferrell passed away after a
long battle with cancer. He had a fondness for Diet Coke and Brockle-face cows—particularly the fact that they always had a patch of white on their face or legs. It was a daily occurrence that he would drive by our house in a little, red truck with a Black Lab barking excitedly from the bed the whole way down the street. His family was his world. Whether it was preparing for the deer hunt with his kids or planning activities for the family camp-out, he was committed to making memories.
Jace was 4 years old
with a love for big equipment. He accompanied his dad on many occasions—hauling loads of gravel in semi-trucks, bailing hay on the farm, or
simply helping the newest family in the neighborhood move into their home—I
still remember him standing under our giant pine tree, in his over-sized Denver
Broncos hat, waiting for his dad to help us finish unloading a trailer full of
boxes and furniture. Shortly after his 5th birthday, Jace passed
away due to an inoperable brain tumor. His family has been an amazing example
of trusting God and believing in good things to come—their knowledge of seeing
their “Jace Bud” again is beautiful to behold.
Miles, Zakk’s brother, had a
drowning accident the summer before his junior year. On his Facebook page, a
couple of weeks before his passing, he had posted this on Facebook: “What’s one word that describes me???”
Friends responded with “Ahsome,” “Caring,” “Amazing and unforgettable,” “Smiley,”
and his younger brother wrote, “Loving.”
That same summer, only weeks later,
Jesse was taken in a car accident. Jesse was 6’ 6’’ and everyone called him
“Big Red.” He loved basketball and never missed a lay-up. Somewhat quiet, he was known as a gentle giant to his friends. That basketball season following the accident, his team won the state championship and held his jersey on
the sidelines throughout the whole game. Only 18 students graduated in 2013,
they had lost two of their boys, two of their friends.
Steve, an avid hunter,
an avid friend, and an avid fan of country music—especially Easton Corbin’s
song, “Roll with It,” was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few years ago and
although the whole community was fighting with him, he was unable to conquer
the disease. He sold Pace his first hunting rifle complete with a high-quality
scope. He was one of the nicest guys I had ever met. In fact, it seemed that
anyone who met him thought the world of him as his funeral was packed from the
front of the church to the back…packed...wall-to-wall chairs. Standing room
was even difficult to find.
