When I was a high school junior in 1961, my classmate, Barbara, was killed instantly in an automobile accident. The driver was her friend, a senior with a new license.
It shocked me, a sixteen year old, that someone I knew died. Even my four grandparents were still alive.
I didn’t know Barbara well, other than that she was smart, friendly, and destined to do great things, starting with going to college. A rising star.
I watched, listened, stood shyly at the boundaries of social life, while Barbara effortlessly radiated a positive energy that escaped through the glints in her dark brown eyes. Either she was smiling, or on the verge of a smile. You didn’t have to be her close friend to feel included in her force field.
I had no idea if she had any sisters or brothers, but I knew enough to understand that she was like me in other ways, and that the future for serious students like us was golden.
When the news of her sudden death spread, girls stood around in groups, crying and hugging. The circles seemed impenetrable to me. I was deeply upset just as they were, but in my characteristic manner, I guarded my emotions.
The next morning, I walked the mile to school as usual. It was a strange day, only two or three students scattered in the seats in home room. The same in American History, English III, then Algebra II. Gym was cancelled.
We few just sat there, no lesson given, while the substitute teachers declared study halls. I was completely puzzled as the hours passed ever so slowly until, in time for lunch, my classmates returned, red-eyed and subdued.
Then it dawned on me — they must have attended Barbara’s funeral.
How did everyone know when it was, where it was? Had I missed an announcement? Maybe they all belonged to the same church and word got around. Was there an early bus from the school or did they get there on their own? How did they learn about such things, like how important it was to go to wakes and funerals?
My parents, my teachers, the adults I relied on, where’d they go?
I felt invisible on the outside, embarrassed and selfish on the inside, walking through the quiet corridors from one empty classroom to another, then sitting in silence.
After some weeks, there was talk of the driver, hushed references that there may have been drinking involved, that she wasn’t injured but even so, she wasn’t coming back to school, ever.
Barbara’s vacant chair seemed reserved for her, ready for her to sit down and turn, whispering briefly, to the classmate behind her.
Maybe this was a bad dream that would end with her sitting in class when I walked into Algebra as she raised her hand. After all, she disappeared in a flash. Maybe she would return just as quickly to find the blue canvas loose-leaf binders for each subject piled up in her locker.
I remember the honorary yearbook page with her junior year photo and lists of accomplishments: honor roll, clubs, sports teams, cheerleading. She was a couple of inches shorter than me but she seemed physically strong, solid but still feminine. It was in the way that she carried herself that said, confidently, “I know who I am. Don’t mess with me.”
I carried the disturbance in me for a time, beyond high school, until I could put my young adult life together in stronger ways. Not only me, but my whole class had been traumatized by the violent, untimely death of one of us.
Whatever the reason, something makes the memory of this young woman who died nearly sixty years ago unforgettable to me.
The past sixty years that were mine should have been hers, too. But only if life were fair.
This post digs deep into your feelings, and is really authentic! Love it! I really felt your confusion and loss. More, more!!!!!!
Yay, I did it! And nice to hear as much from you!
Barrie,
I’ve savored each of your posts, and today, I must reply. Barbara lived across from my grandparents’ house on Summit St, the house where I lived until age 4. That move was only a block away to Summit and Gibbons.
She lived with her parents and brother, in what seemed to me an Ozzie and Harriet frame. She was a cheerleader. If there had been a klutz squad, that would have been my calling. Yes, she was fit and positive and worthy of respect. We were in Brownies and Girl Scouts together. She was my Chem Lab partner, and owing to our surnames, was close by in any alphabetical ordering of seats.
Her loss was shattering. Her mom carried that burden acutely. Our classmates, as you reflect, were in shock, and the sorrow eased very slowly. For my part, I didn’t learn to drive until much later than the norm and don’t care much for speed yet. Imagine a stereotypical “female driver” at 25. Reason and safety prevailed, so that’s no longer a problem, unless it’s icy, which is hardly unusual in Minnesota.
A few years ago, I met a cousin of hers at a National Adult Protective Services Conference. Her cousin is with an APS Program at Catholic Charities in Newark. We reminisced about the family, and I sent her Barbara’s yearbook tribute page, which I had written so many years ago. Thank you and warm wishes, Iris
Thank you Iris, your additional facts and validation of my memories of the event are so important to me. I was wondering if I was the only one who carried this with me, but of course I’m not. And do you remember when Phyllis D. died at 16 of a brain tumor, that was equally devastating. I hope you are safe and warm in this extreme winter, it is subsuding a bit here in Boston now but maybe the Midwest remains under siege. Best wishes back to you, Linden friend.
Ah, this resonates with me. At age 16 I had a close friend die in a car accident. I could have been in the car with her. Janey spent the night at my house the night before. We both got up in the morning. I had to go to my job to open the boutique clothing store my parents owned in our small town. Think hippie wear. She begged me to blow off the job. It was owned by my parents, not a real job, I could get someone to fill in, etc. I told her I couldn’t do that to the manager who had the day off. In a small town, police and fire and rescue are big news. My mother heard there was a car accident, 3 girls in the neighborhood where Janey lived. The driver, dead at the scene, another seriously hurt and another, condition unknown. No names released. My mother raced into the boutique, saw me and collapsed. The following days were a blur. The Catholic family did not have a viewing, but it was requested by her mother to have her close friends sit with the open casket for the family. I am Jewish and had never seen a deceased person, let alone my dear friend. I did sit with her along with the other girls. I close my eyes and I can still see her at 16 in the casket. Her family never got over the loss. They moved away shortly after.
What a wrenching experience. And I feel your mother fall to the floor when she saw you — alive.
Sixteen seems like a dangerous age. If we get past it, there is safety for awhile….
Losing a classmate, at any age, under any circumstances, is a tragic reminder of mortality.
Yes. I just lost a high school classmate — Florrie — and it shocked me.
Wow. Very moving, and what a terrible experience for you and your classmates, something you can’t help but always remember.
Thank you Judy. I will always wonder about it.
I was very moved by your post. I also admired Barbara Dwoyer and still think about her sometimes.
Thank you Anne for your comment. It feels better that we share this memory, my Linden classmate.
Losing a friend is always difficult but when one dies in an accident, it’s even more difficult. I had a friend (one that Sandie H. knows) from when I was 16. At the age of 76 & a 9 year breast cancer survivor, she was getting a manicure & a car went through the building killing her instantly. It was 4 years ago & I think of her & her horrible death to this day. Your blog today brought this right back to me. Thanks Barrie for your wonderful & interesting blogs. Most of them I can relate to. Remas
Remas, that is a horrific and devastating loss. How can something like that happen? All we can do is share our grief with each other — and remember.