These are the things I've written for our dearly departed classmates, all of whom died way too young:
There is a Cancer in Streator, and it is Killing the Most Beloved of Us
At first there were the five of us: Billie Arbogast, Billie Cox, Mark Ganzer, Robin Watson, and Greg Williams.
Kindergarten and first grade were the best - we played sun up 'til sun down in the summer, and just loved being in school together, then Billie Arbogast moved away, and it was down to four. A part of us had departed, and, at some intuitive level we could sense it, but four boys, braving the wilds bounded by Greeley School to the North, Kleaver's Grocery store to the South, along Everett Street, had plenty enough to keep them from getting philosophical, or looking too deeply into the meaning of being a part of.
We played basketball almost year round. Two on two, or we'd go to the grade school out east, over the bridge across the wide swath of railroad tracks and play teams - the four of us together. Softball in the summer time - four was plenty for a team - pitcher, shortstop, two outfielders. If need be, we could substitute a runner.
We'd even watch a little TV. The American Basketball Association had just formed, and they were exciting! They dunked!! They shot three-pointers!!! They had a red-white-and-blue patriotic basketball, but, mostly we played, ran, and rode our bikes, all over the North side of town, up and down, and down and up, and back again; exploring the streets, and the bridges over the stream that run past the glass factory where we'd find floating six packs of empty cans of beer.
Greg Williams bet me I wouldn't last a month when I got my paper route. I lasted four plus years 'til we moved.
Billie Cox, so handsome, the tallest one of us, the one we all wanted to be best friends with.
Billie Cox is dead now too. Didn't make it past '95. There is something toxic in that little farming community that formed and shaped me. It might be from the coal mines, it might be from the glass factories, it might be from the DDT, but it certainly kills those whose immune systems are not strong enough to fight off the toxins.
The lives of Streator's children, and my grade school class mates are at risk.
Oh, Billie Cox, if you have not died in vain, then we MUST uncover this killing agent and rid it from the sacred ground of our youth.
=====================================================================================
My drummer, drummer, boy.
It just seems impossible to me. the words, "Ralph Kotches is dead," strike like a metal-gloved hand across the face. How long ago was it anyway, that wayward fun-loving soul drummed up the roars of thunder with that smile on his face saying "got a plan, got a plan, hey man, got a plan, you won't even BELIEVE it!"
Ralph Kotches is dead,
and one day, too, I shall follow.
So my drummer, drummer boy, my friend,
drum me into the halls at the end,
of where I was born to go and stay.
So my drummer drummer boy,
laughing loudly, filled with joy,
set the tempo march us double time.
So my drummer, drummer boy,
keep me cat-like ready, keep me iron-steady,
keep me in the joys of heady child's play near God. So my drummer, drummer boy,
Streator's pride, Streator's joy, May
you that drummer, drummer boy always be.
So my drummer, drummer, boy, drum some
more, that we may see, what will be in store,
if only we, join hands embark on the goals of community, serenity, and love.
--------------------------------------------------
Oh no, how can it be that Linda Bedecker has died so young?
Oh no, how can it be that Linda Bedecker has died so young?
She who used to have hair-ironing Friday nights,
And put half a buck of gas in the pink car,
Who kept all the girls laughing, except for gym class which ROARED!
Who sang and sculpted, and took the road trip to F L A with
Kathy, June, Wilma and Judy in the brand new '70 Cutlass Oh alas, alack, did these lasses ever pick up the slack And what stories they did tell of THAT trip before the reality of the separation of the umbilical cord from Streator and all those Streator class mates into what is next in the world - Be it college, military, or some drudgery job at the factory, Marriage, kids, just run away to get away not then even realizing Better than this it would never be, although, at best, you can find just as good.
Who had more fun at Norris' than at the homecoming dance Because fun, and life, are always where you find them, WHEN YOU CHOOSE
to make the best of the moment – that ZEN-like state which God confers upon us at our pleasure.
Gone, so tragically departed but, if I were to wager there ever was
One Holy Spirit who stays and guards and guides me into the straight and Narrow ways of the Lord's most loving children
Then it's Linda B. that's guiding me to see the see we all did see
A glimpse of all the best that we might ever be.
God Bless you Beloved Child of God.
=============================
Patty Wilkereson is dead, too.
Of all the girls I adored, Patty was so special - the freckles, the blond hair;
But she was a tomboy, and that always attracted me - because a tomboy
will race you, play catch with you, not throw a dodge ball like a girl -
You don't ever have to worry about hurting a tom boy Far more likely, you will slip up and put them off and they will haul off
And whale on you.
Patty was just a human being - a friend - a dear friend And a good human being.
So many of the girls describe their love-hate relationship with her.
I think it was because she was always surrounded by boys who loved tom girls.
Jealousy and envy - and these were qualities that Patty did not possess
So, no wonder there was sometimes such friction and animosity It was as if an alien from another planet had landed and was in serious danger
Of capturing the hearts and loyalties of all the boys - all the best of boys
All the best looking, the smartest, the kindest, the most artistically gifted.
Patty went military - what else? What else is as tom boy who is a God-fearing patriot
Supposed to do?
Patty Wilkerson is dead, and a part of me died with her.
Rest in peace oh angel - who always called us out on our nonsense,
But who could play the nurse, Joan of Arc, and Xena Warrior Princess
Without ever skipping a beat.
I'll see you in heaven, Patty Wilkerson -
And we can run and throw and laugh the rest of days away.
============================
379 In Memory - Steve Brust, Streator H.S., 1969
I knew you not, oh Steve Brust
But this I know:
You married Mary Jo Hart
To whom I was so closely attached
What with the piano lessons together and the duets
At Louise Castelli's studio,
With the plaster bust of Ludwig Von
And the playing of tag football
And the exploring of the crick
And going onto the North banks of the crick
To smoke reeds and weeds
To be cool, like all the heroes and heroines in those
Black and White movies from the 30's (the depression)
Where they showed all the rich people
Dressed so elegantly in their finery,
Chain smoking and drinking and being refined and witty.
What kid would not be seduced by such a life as this
Especially a kid not conscious of, but also not unaware
That we were not rich, by any means And although, not poor,
If lower-middle class had been a term routinely bandied about, This one, we would have recognized instantly as describing our own families
And, likely, because the horizons were limited
Pretty much to the factories
(the GI bill had not benefitted many parents from Streator)
The military, the public utilities, the barber shop, the farm, The auto shops, the newspaper, scissors grinder even (perhaps - there was one of those and he would sharpen your scissors for a quarter; he had a regular route)
Or one of the dirty, back-breaking jobs that didn't pay well
But most assuredly paid enough
So that a man could afford to feed his family
And have his wife a stay-at-home household engineer.
And you married Mary Jo
And you loved her, and she you
Until the end of time
And your children have grown up beautiful,
Intelligent, good citizens, and you even got to know
Your grand children (luckier here in that by far you than I,
who will have to adopt in order to have a grand daughter;
not that my own son is not trying - its just that
Well, I think he sees many fish in the see
And how lovely they all are
And how much he enjoys their company
In so many different ways,
So, is the poor child supposed to get married
Simply so that his old man can have grand kids?
And you kept your vow to her
She loved you, LOVES YOU STILL
with every fiber of her being
And although time has helped to heal
There is still that aching loneliness, which I would guess
Hurts most in the stillness of the late night
And early morning hours
When she awakens, and only the place in the bed
Where you slept, and your impress there
and her fondest, dearest, most cherished memories
Of you lie there with her
And speak to her
Of your unending love
And how you two will be reunited in heaven.
And if ever there was unfairness on this earth
What could have been more unfair
Than to have you plucked up
So young With so much to offer
So much yet to do.
Rest in peace, my hero.
You will always be a part of all of us
Of all of us whose lives you touched
And of all of us whose lives Mary Jo has blessed.
=================================
378 Remembering my class mates from Streator, IL H.S. 1969 who have passed into the next (the newer and better) life
Streator Township High School - Class of 1969: Remembering those who have passed on to the next and better life
The sadness at the loss of all these young lives is beyond words.
Rest in peace my dear friends.
God loves us all, and to the end.
We WILL be reunited.
We will ride our bicycles
On the paved clouds of heaven.
With the angels,
The archangels,
The Saints,
The sinners,
And Bernadette.
==================================
There is a Cancer in Streator, and it is Killing the Most Beloved of Us
At first there were the five of us: Billie Arbogast, Billie Cox, Mark Ganzer, Robin Watson, and Greg Williams.
Kindergarten and first grade were the best - we played sun up 'til sun down in the summer, and just loved being in school together, then Billie Arbogast moved away, and it was down to four. A part of us had departed, and, at some intuitive level we could sense it, but four boys, braving the wilds bounded by Greeley School to the North, Kleaver's Grocery store to the South, along Everett Street, had plenty enough to keep them from getting philosophical, or looking too deeply into the meaning of being a part of.
We played basketball almost year round. Two on two, or we'd go to the grade school out east, over the bridge across the wide swath of railroad tracks and play teams - the four of us together. Softball in the summer time - four was plenty for a team - pitcher, shortstop, two outfielders. If need be, we could substitute a runner.
We'd even watch a little TV. The American Basketball Association had just formed, and they were exciting! They dunked!! They shot three-pointers!!! They had a red-white-and-blue patriotic basketball, but, mostly we played, ran, and rode our bikes, all over the North side of town, up and down, and down and up, and back again; exploring the streets, and the bridges over the stream that run past the glass factory where we'd find floating six packs of empty cans of beer.
Greg Williams bet me I wouldn't last a month when I got my paper route. I lasted four plus years 'til we moved.
Billie Cox, so handsome, the tallest one of us, the one we all wanted to be best friends with.
Billie Cox is dead now too. Didn't make it past '95. There is something toxic in that little farming community that formed and shaped me. It might be from the coal mines, it might be from the glass factories, it might be from the DDT, but it certainly kills those whose immune systems are not strong enough to fight off the toxins.
The lives of Streator's children, and my grade school class mates are at risk.
Oh, Billie Cox, if you have not died in vain, then we MUST uncover this killing agent and rid it from the sacred ground of our youth.
=====================================================================================
My drummer, drummer, boy.
It just seems impossible to me. the words, "Ralph Kotches is dead," strike like a metal-gloved hand across the face. How long ago was it anyway, that wayward fun-loving soul drummed up the roars of thunder with that smile on his face saying "got a plan, got a plan, hey man, got a plan, you won't even BELIEVE it!"
Ralph Kotches is dead,
and one day, too, I shall follow.
So my drummer, drummer boy, my friend,
drum me into the halls at the end,
of where I was born to go and stay.
So my drummer drummer boy,
laughing loudly, filled with joy,
set the tempo march us double time.
So my drummer, drummer boy,
keep me cat-like ready, keep me iron-steady,
keep me in the joys of heady child's play near God. So my drummer, drummer boy,
Streator's pride, Streator's joy, May
you that drummer, drummer boy always be.
So my drummer, drummer, boy, drum some
more, that we may see, what will be in store,
if only we, join hands embark on the goals of community, serenity, and love.
--------------------------------------------------
Oh no, how can it be that Linda Bedecker has died so young?
Oh no, how can it be that Linda Bedecker has died so young?
She who used to have hair-ironing Friday nights,
And put half a buck of gas in the pink car,
Who kept all the girls laughing, except for gym class which ROARED!
Who sang and sculpted, and took the road trip to F L A with
Kathy, June, Wilma and Judy in the brand new '70 Cutlass Oh alas, alack, did these lasses ever pick up the slack And what stories they did tell of THAT trip before the reality of the separation of the umbilical cord from Streator and all those Streator class mates into what is next in the world - Be it college, military, or some drudgery job at the factory, Marriage, kids, just run away to get away not then even realizing Better than this it would never be, although, at best, you can find just as good.
Who had more fun at Norris' than at the homecoming dance Because fun, and life, are always where you find them, WHEN YOU CHOOSE
to make the best of the moment – that ZEN-like state which God confers upon us at our pleasure.
Gone, so tragically departed but, if I were to wager there ever was
One Holy Spirit who stays and guards and guides me into the straight and Narrow ways of the Lord's most loving children
Then it's Linda B. that's guiding me to see the see we all did see
A glimpse of all the best that we might ever be.
God Bless you Beloved Child of God.
=============================
Patty Wilkereson is dead, too.
Of all the girls I adored, Patty was so special - the freckles, the blond hair;
But she was a tomboy, and that always attracted me - because a tomboy
will race you, play catch with you, not throw a dodge ball like a girl -
You don't ever have to worry about hurting a tom boy Far more likely, you will slip up and put them off and they will haul off
And whale on you.
Patty was just a human being - a friend - a dear friend And a good human being.
So many of the girls describe their love-hate relationship with her.
I think it was because she was always surrounded by boys who loved tom girls.
Jealousy and envy - and these were qualities that Patty did not possess
So, no wonder there was sometimes such friction and animosity It was as if an alien from another planet had landed and was in serious danger
Of capturing the hearts and loyalties of all the boys - all the best of boys
All the best looking, the smartest, the kindest, the most artistically gifted.
Patty went military - what else? What else is as tom boy who is a God-fearing patriot
Supposed to do?
Patty Wilkerson is dead, and a part of me died with her.
Rest in peace oh angel - who always called us out on our nonsense,
But who could play the nurse, Joan of Arc, and Xena Warrior Princess
Without ever skipping a beat.
I'll see you in heaven, Patty Wilkerson -
And we can run and throw and laugh the rest of days away.
============================
379 In Memory - Steve Brust, Streator H.S., 1969
I knew you not, oh Steve Brust
But this I know:
You married Mary Jo Hart
To whom I was so closely attached
What with the piano lessons together and the duets
At Louise Castelli's studio,
With the plaster bust of Ludwig Von
And the playing of tag football
And the exploring of the crick
And going onto the North banks of the crick
To smoke reeds and weeds
To be cool, like all the heroes and heroines in those
Black and White movies from the 30's (the depression)
Where they showed all the rich people
Dressed so elegantly in their finery,
Chain smoking and drinking and being refined and witty.
What kid would not be seduced by such a life as this
Especially a kid not conscious of, but also not unaware
That we were not rich, by any means And although, not poor,
If lower-middle class had been a term routinely bandied about, This one, we would have recognized instantly as describing our own families
And, likely, because the horizons were limited
Pretty much to the factories
(the GI bill had not benefitted many parents from Streator)
The military, the public utilities, the barber shop, the farm, The auto shops, the newspaper, scissors grinder even (perhaps - there was one of those and he would sharpen your scissors for a quarter; he had a regular route)
Or one of the dirty, back-breaking jobs that didn't pay well
But most assuredly paid enough
So that a man could afford to feed his family
And have his wife a stay-at-home household engineer.
And you married Mary Jo
And you loved her, and she you
Until the end of time
And your children have grown up beautiful,
Intelligent, good citizens, and you even got to know
Your grand children (luckier here in that by far you than I,
who will have to adopt in order to have a grand daughter;
not that my own son is not trying - its just that
Well, I think he sees many fish in the see
And how lovely they all are
And how much he enjoys their company
In so many different ways,
So, is the poor child supposed to get married
Simply so that his old man can have grand kids?
And you kept your vow to her
She loved you, LOVES YOU STILL
with every fiber of her being
And although time has helped to heal
There is still that aching loneliness, which I would guess
Hurts most in the stillness of the late night
And early morning hours
When she awakens, and only the place in the bed
Where you slept, and your impress there
and her fondest, dearest, most cherished memories
Of you lie there with her
And speak to her
Of your unending love
And how you two will be reunited in heaven.
And if ever there was unfairness on this earth
What could have been more unfair
Than to have you plucked up
So young With so much to offer
So much yet to do.
Rest in peace, my hero.
You will always be a part of all of us
Of all of us whose lives you touched
And of all of us whose lives Mary Jo has blessed.
=================================
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He always used to make me laugh from across the table in Sunday School when I should have been paying attention to the lesson. He will be missed by the Class of 69' and I have been blessed by knowing him.
Wherever you are, I played your favorite song, "The Sound of Silence", on this website in your honor tonight.
Mo
Mark
"I'd love to get you,on a slow boat to China, all to myself alone.
Get you and keep you in my arms ever more.
Leave all your lovers weepin on a far away shore.
Out on the briny with the moon big and shiny
Melting your heart of stone
I'd love to get you
On a slow boat to China all by myself alone"
I miss you Randy and wish I could slug you in the arm for old time's sake. Love...Pam
Randy, I'll never forget you! Wish you were here to share all of the love and fun from all of the classmates for our 40th reunion. I'm sure you'll be there in spirit! I'll never forget you my friend!
Mona
I saw him again in 1999 at a High School awards banquet. My son was president of National Honor Society and introduced Randy as the speaker at their awards banquet. Afterwards I went up to him and said hi. He had no idea who I was until Doug Murray told him, he came over to talk afterward.
His address for the evening was so Randy. He talked about all the things he didn't do in High School that he wished he would have and how the students could achieve what they set out to do. He probably made a greater impact on those students with his honesty, because he gave them hope that some of them thought they didn't have.
The year he died I had the previlage to work with Tammie Panno so I knew a little of what was going on with his illness. Randy was an inspiration to all who knew him.