December, 1974
My Darling Wife,
This is a letter that no man ever wants to write, but I'm lucky enough to have some time to say what I've forgotten to say so many times. I love you, sweetheart.
You used to kid me that I loved the truck more than you because I spent more time with her. I do love this piece of ironshe's been good to me. She's seen me through tough times and tough places. I could always count on her in a long haul and she was speedy in the stretches. She never let me down.
But you want to know something? I love you for the same reasons. You've seen me through the tough times and places, too.
Remember the first truck? That run down 'ol' cornbinder' that kept us broke all the time but always made just enough money to keep us eating? You went out and got a job so that we could pay the rent and the bills. Every cent I made went into the truck while your money kept us in food with a roof over our heads.
I remember that I complained about the truck, but I don't remember you ever complaining when you came home tired from work and I asked you for money to go on the road again. If you did complain, I guess I didn't hear you. I was too wrapped up with my problems to think of yours.
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I think now of all the things you gave up for me. The clothes, the holidays, the parties, the friends. You never complained and somehow I never remembered to thank you for being you.
When I sat having coffee with the boys, I always talked about my truck my rig, my payments. I guess I forgot you were my partner even if you weren't in the cab with me. It was your sacrifices and determination as much as mine that finally got the new truck.
I was so proud of that truck I was bursting. I was proud of you too, but I never told you that. I took it for granted you knew, but if I had spent as much time talking with you as I did polishing chrome, perhaps I would have.
In all the years I've pounded the pavement, I always knew your prayers rode with me. But this time they weren't enough.
I'm hurt and it's bad. I've made my last mile and I want to say the things that should have been said so many times before. The things that were forgotten because I was too concerned about the truck and the job.
I'm thinking about the missed anniversaries and birthdays. The school plays and hockey games that you went to alone because I was on the road.
I'm thinking about the lonely nights you spent alone, wondering where I was and how things were going. I'm thinking of all the times I thought of calling you just to say hello and somehow didn't get around to. I'm thinking of the peace of mind I had knowing that you were at home with the kids, waiting for me.
The family dinners where you spent all your time telling your folks why I couldn't make it. l was busy changing oil; I was busy looking for parts; I was sleeping because I was leaving early the next morning. There was always a reason, but somehow they don't seem very important to me right now.
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When we were married, you didn't know how to change a light bulb. Within a couple of years, you were fixing the furnace during a blizzard while I was waiting for a load in Florida. You became a pretty good mechanic, helping me with repairs, and I was mighty proud of you when you jumped into the cab and backed up over the rose bushes.
I was proud of you when I pulled into the yard and saw you sleeping in the car waiting for me. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon you always looked like a movie star to me. You're beautiful, you know. I guess I haven't told you that lately, but you are.
I made lots of mistakes in my life, but if I only ever made one good decision, it was when I asked you to marry me. You never could understand what it was that kept me trucking. I couldn't either, but it was my way of life and you stuck with me. Good times, bad times, you were always there. I love you, sweetheart, and I love the kids.
My body hurts but my heart hurts even more. You won't be there when I end this trip. For the first time since we've been together, I'm really alone and it scares me. I need you so badly, and I know it's too late.
It's funny I guess, but what I have now is the truck. This damned truck that ruled our lives for so long. This twisted hunk of steel that I lived in and with for so many years. But it can't return my love. Only you can do that.
You're a thousand miles away but I feel you here with me. I can see your face and feel your love and I'm scared to make the final run alone.
Tell the kids that I love them very much and don't let the boys drive any truck for a living.
I guess that's about it, honey. My God, but I love you very much. Take care of yourself and always remember
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that I loved you more than anything in life. I just forgot to tell you
I love you,
Bill
Rud Kendall
Submitted by Valerie Teshima
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For the Love of a Child
Seventeen-year-old Mike Emme drove a '67 Ford Mustang. It had sat neglected in a Colorado field undriven for over seven years before he bought it, rebuilt it and painted it bright yellow. A gifted student, Mike was a happy, helpful young man with a future as bright and cheerful as his car. Friends called him "Mustang Mike."
"I wish I could have learned how to hate," the note read. "Don't blame yourselves. Mom and Dad, I love you. Remember, I'll always be with you." It was signed, "Love, Mike 11:45.''
Mike's summer love had been terminated abruptly by his girlfriend's engagement to someone else on August 23. On September 8, in a move that stunned all who knew him, Mike slipped into the front seat of his bright yellow Mustang, closed the door and shot himself.
At 11:52 his parents, Dar and Dale Emme, and his brother, Victor, pulled into their driveway behind Mike's bright yellow Mustangseven minutes too late.
By noon the next day, teenagers started arriving at the Emme home wearing T-shirts bearing the words "IN MEMORY OF MIKE EMME" imprinted above a bright yellow Mustang. (They had been created by Mike's best friend, Jarrod, and Jarrod's mom.)
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A stream of stories that went on for days began emerging. Most were news to Mike's family. Some went clear back to grade school times, when he had shared his lunch with a less fortunate child or contributed his lunch money to some fund drive.
A stranger phoned to share how her car had broken down late one night, leaving her and her two small children stranded on a dark road. Mike had stopped, shown her his driver's license to assure her he would not harm them, got her car started, and followed them home to be sure they arrived safely.
A classmate from a single-parent family revealed that Mike had canceled his order for a brand-new, completely built Mustang transmission, which he had saved up for to put in his own car, and bought two used ones from the salvage yard instead so that this classmate could get his car running too.
Next came a young girl who disclosed that had it not been for Mike, she would not have been able to go to the Homecoming dance. When Mike heard that she did not have the money to buy an evening dress, he paid for a very nice dress that she had found in a used-clothing store.
When Mike was 14, his niece was born severely handicapped. Mike learned how to remove the tracheotomy tube from her throat, should an emergency arise, and replace it with a new one; how to perform CPR on her; and how to use sign language to sign songs with her because the tracheotomy tube, without which she would die, prevented her from talking. Their favorite song to sign has a chorus that says, "God is watching us from a distance. . ." It seemed like Mike was always there to give happiness, a hand or a hug.
Teenagers gathered at the Emme home to comfort the family and each other. They discussed the tragedy of teen suicide and the fact that the highest number of teen
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suicides are gifted (high I.Q.) children. They learned that suicide is the sixth most common cause of death of children ages 5 to 14 and the third most common in those ages 15 to 24. They discovered that each year suicide takes the life of over 7,000 children b
etween the ages of 10 and 19, and that it is now becoming epidemic even in our elementary schools. Someone mentioned a study that compared adolescents who committed suicide but who had no apparent mental disorders with kids of the same age who did not commit suicide. It found only one differencea loaded gun in the house.
As they explored what they themselves might be able to do to prevent this type of tragedy, someone looked up, saw a bright yellow Mustang on one of the T-shirts, and the Yellow Ribbon Project was born. Linda Bowles, a family friend, brought over a large roll of yellow ribbon and printed up little business-card-size papers containing instructions on how to use gthe ribbons. They read:
YELLOW RIBBON PROJECT"
In loving memory of Michael Emme
THIS RIBBON IS A LIFELINE: It carries the message that there are those who care and will help. If you (or anyone else) are in need and don't know how to ask for help, take this, or any yellow ribbon or card, to a counselor, teacher, priest, rabbi, minister, parent, or friend and say: "I'D LIKE TO USE MY YELLOW RIBBON."
Sitting on the Emmes' living room floor, Mike's friends shared their stories, their grief and their tears as they mourned the loss of their friend by pinning a piece of yellow ribbon on each instruction card.
Five hundred of these yellow ribbons were placed in a basket set out at Mike's memorial service. By the end of
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the service, the basket was empty, and 500 little yellow ribbons, complete with instruction cards, had begun their mission of saving other children from suicide. In just its first few weeks, the Yellow Ribbon Project prevented three teen suicides that we know of, and was soon introduced in all of Colorado's high schools. It has been growing ever since.
Because of the internal nature of depression, loneliness and fear, thousands of our very fine childrenwho appear to be perfectly happyare screaming silently in the deepest of emotional pain. What can we do?
Free ribbons and suggestions are available at The Yellow Ribbon Project, P.O. Box 644, Westminster, CO 80030, or call (303) 429-3530.
Thea Alexander
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The Last Dance
One of my first tasks as a boy was to help gather firewood. I loved it. I went with my father out into the woods to cut and split the firewood. We were men working together as mighty lumberjacks, doing our share to keep our house and women warm. Yes, he taught me to be a provider. It was a wonderful feeling. Oftentimes he bet me that I could not split a big old knotty cut of wood, say, in 500 strokes. Oh, how I tried! Most of the time I won, but I think he always gave me plenty of strokes because he saw how proud and happy I was on that last powerful stroke (499th) when the piece of wood finally split. With runny noses from the cold, we then pulled the sled of wood home, heading in for some grub and a warm relaxing fire.
When I was in first grade, my father and I watched television together on Tuesday nights: Wyatt Earp, Cheyenne, Maverick and Sugar Loaf. He totally convinced me that he rode with them in his past. He was always able to tell me what was going to happen before it happened. That is why I believed him. He said he knew them so well he could predict their actions. Boy, was I proud; my father was a real cowboy who rode with the best. I went to school and told this to my friends. They laughed at me and told me my father was lying to me. To defend his
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honor, I constantly got into fights. One day I was beat up pretty badly. Seeing my torn pants and split lip, my teacher pulled me to the side to find out what had happened. One thing led to another, and my father had to tell me the truth. Needless to say, I was crushed, but I still loved him dearly.
My father started to play golf when I was about 13 years old. I was his caddie. He would let me hit a few shots when we got away from the clubhouse. I fell in love with the game and became good at it. Once in a while Dad brought two of his friends along. When Dad and I took them on in a skins game and won, I beamed with joy. We were a team.
Both my father and mother's second love (us kids being the first) was dancing. Together they were fabulous. The ballroom crowd nicknamed my parents, Marvin and Maxine, the great M & M's of the dance floor. It was their romantic fantasy come true. I never saw Mom and Dad with anything but smiles on their faces when they were dancing. My two sisters, Nancy and Julie, and I always went along to the wedding dances. What a blast!
After church on Sunday mornings, my Dad and I were in charge of preparing breakfast. While we waited for the oatmeal and raisins to cook, we practiced our tap-dance routine on Mom's clean, newly waxed floor. She never complained.
As I got older, our relationship seemed to grow apart. When I entered junior high school, extracurricular activities started to consume my time. My peer group were jocks and musicianswe played sports, played in a band and chased girls. I remember how hurt and lonely I was when Dad began working at night and no longer came to any of my activities. I submerged myself in hockey and golf. My angry attitude was, "I'll show you. I will be the best even without you there." I was captain of both the hockey and
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golf teams, but he did not come to one of my games. I felt as if his lack of attention was conditioning me to be a bitter survivor in life. I needed him. Didn't he know?
Drinking alcohol became a part of the social scene for me. Dad no longer seemed like a hero, but more like a person who did not understand my feelings or that I was going through a very difficult time. Once in a while when we were both drinking and getting high, things seemed to get closer between us, but the special feelings of the past were just not there. From the time I was 15 until I was 26, we never said we loved each other. Eleven years!
Then it happened. One morning Dad and I were getting ready for work. He was shaving and I noticed a lump on his throat. I asked, "Dad, what is that on your neck?"
"I don't know. I'm going to the doctor today to find out," he said.
That morning was the first time I saw Dad look so scared.
The doctor diagnosed the lump on Dad's throat as cancer, and for the next four months I saw my father die a little each day. He seemed so confused by what was happening. He was always so healthy; it was unbearable to see him go from 165 pounds of muscles and flesh to 115 pounds of skin and bones. I tried to get close to him, but I guess he had so much on his mind that he could not focus on me or our feelings toward each other.
This seemed to be the case until the night of Christmas Eve.
I arrived at the hospital that evening and discovered my mom and sister had both been there all day. I stood watch so they could go home and get some rest. Dad was asleep when I walked into his room. I sat in a chair beside his bed. From time to time he would wake up, but he was so weak that I could hardly hear what he had to say.
At about 11:30 P.M., I got sleepy, so I lay down and slept on a cot that an orderly had brought to the room. All of a
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sudden, my father awakened me. He was shouting out my name. "Rick! Rick!" As I sat up, I saw Dad sitting up in bed with a most determined look. "I want to dance. I want to dance, right now," he said.
At first I didn't know what to say or do, so I just sat there. Again he persisted. "I want to dance. Please, son, let's have this last dance." I went over to the bed, bowed slightly and asked, "Will you dance with me, Father?" It was amazing. I hardly had to help him up from the bed. His energy must have come from God's grace. Hand in hand, arms around each other, we danced around the room.
No writer has ever written words that could describe the energy and love that we shared that night. We became one, united in the true meaning of love, understanding and caring for each other. Our whole life together all seemed to be happening at that exact moment. The tap-dancing, hunting, fishing, golfwe experienced everything all at once. Time did not exist. We did not need a record player or radio, for every song that was ever written, or ever will be, was playing in the air. The small room was bigger than any ballroom in which I had ever danced. Dad's eyes lit up with a glitter and sorrowful joy I had never ex
perienced before. Tears came to both of our eyes as we kept on dancing. We were saying good-bye, and with just a short time left we both realized once again how great it was to have this uncompromising love for each other.