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Remembering Bruce

The three of us would run free like foals in springtime when we were young.
As cousins go, Bruce and Marvin and I were close growing up. We were separated in age by mere months, I being the middle of the trio, Marvin the oldest and Bruce the youngest. We jokingly reminded each other of that order, too, for many years.
Memories of the mischief we got ourselves into make me chuckle. On dark, rainy Saturday mornings we could be found in the basement of the Minnesota Science Museum on University Avenue scaring ourselves by peering at the mummy, wandering through the dark passages, staring over and over at the creepy artifacts collected in that historic old building.
Other Saturday mornings we would climb into the loft in the garage where we would spend hours pouring over comic books. Stacks and stacks of comic books. What culture!
Weíd make runs to the corner store for penny candy, and dutifully shop there for our folks on occasion. Somehow they never trusted us after we came back with strawberry soda pop and chocolate chip ice cream for floats.
We played in the school playground across Thomas Avenue in an area near what is called Frog Town. We collected bugs and caterpillars in empty city lots.
We argued with Carolyn, the neighbor girl who lived behind my cousins, across the alley, who had a crush on ìmyî guys for years. She and I just never got along.
Bruce and Marvin and I fished together, ate a lot of meals together at the ìkidísî table each holiday, and generally shared those awkward moments of growing through adolescence trying to help each other understand our feelings, as buddies do.
When the carefree moments of young childhood moved into the seriousness of high school studies, summer jobs and boy- and girlfriends, we grew apart somewhat.
Marvin graduated first and went into the armed forces, and married. I graduated, went off to college and then married. The following year Bruce graduated from high school and joined the Army. He was a handsome soldier.
It was the mid-60s. The United States was involved in a ìconflictî as they called it, in Southeast Asia.
Back then, we knew the agony of waiting to be drafted, or to be sent overseas if one was already in the military.
The day came that Bruce, one of my best buddies, was shipping out. The reports we heard each night on the evening news of the death counts, disturbed us, yet, the reality of knowing someone in that daily number had not affected us.
In July, 1968, it did.
We buried Bruce next to Grandma and Grandpa, near the young baby, Bruceís sibling, who died shortly after birth. A star on his tombstone reminds passersby that he gave his life for his country. The memories of our childhood need to be stirred on occasion for his wonderful smile and all the fun we had growing up often fades.
This Memorial Day, take out the photo albums and remember all those cousins, brothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, moms, grandparents and friends who made the greatest sacrifice for us.
I remember Bruce, oh, yes, I remember my dear cousin.

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