MEMORIES OF MT. ZION SCHOOL

This picture was taken in November, 2006 by the CAwebmaster's Love of his life. (CHS '66) This was in the middle of our 6,170 mile "Road Trip" which incluled a vist inside the new CHS! We were all very impressed.
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The following is a copy of a comment sent in by Bob Stonecipher:
Sent: Thursday, November 23, 2006 1:15 AM
Subject: Remembering John Michael:
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Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Tonight I stumbled upon a file I had written the night I learned John Michael had died. I had not planned to share it, but I have a great deal to be thankful for, and my friendship with John Michael was a wonderful part of my life.

I send this rememberence in the fervent belief that Mr. Blaney is no longer with us. It is with reluctance that I share it, and it would be impossible to share it if I knew Mr. B would be fretting about mixed tenses, dangling phrases, and unnecessary verbosity.
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To all my classmates, a wish for a Happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas.
Bob Stonecipher
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Despite being a member of the first baby boomers to reach 60 years old, I am always shocked to hear that we lost another class member. With time I accepted Al and Alan’s deaths. They died of speed. Our generation enjoyed speed. I enjoyed speed, even though numerous accidents and the totaling of two of my father’s cars proved I did not belong behind the wheel of a car.

We were fortunate. None of us lost their lives in Viet Nam. This is surprising, but it is evidence of our invincibility. I assumed all of us would live well into their eighties and most of us into their nineties. Still, the memorial list is starting to grow.

But the latest addition of John Michael to the list of deceased classmates fills me with grief.

John was my best friend. We were inseparable from the days of Mt. Zion elementary until graduation. In our elementary school days, Phil Merrill, John, and I owned all of the woods east of Sugar Creek and north of U.S. 136. Every mound of dirt had four feet deep holes where we had dug in anticipation of finding an Indian burial mound. Every overturned tree had an earth and post fort built around the upturned roots. We were prepared to defend our woods with spears and clubs made from hollow reeds growing near the creek. Phil moved to New Market before we were able to claim the entire woods, but John and I continued to increase our claims throughout the years until our early teenage years when we finally extended our woods to Yountsville. By that time we had discovered bailing twine and had lean-tos, full campsites, and rope swings throughout the woods. We improved our swimming holes and natural springs and built rope bridges across the gullies. We floated logs down Sugar Creek years before we rented our first canoe from Clement’s. Nature erased the evidence long before expensive sub-divisions covered our woods, but at one time those woods did belong to us.

Until age 16 John and I explored Montgomery County on our bikes. We would leave home early in the morning and return exhausted just before dark. Who would let their child or grandchild do that now. Was it our freshman year or the summer before our sophomore year that we discovered girls? We would ride a couple of miles down Mt. Zion Road to Cox’s Pond. There we would meet beautiful girls named Diana, Barbara, and Guyanna. The romantics that we were, we played “kick the can” long past dark until one of the mothers demanded we leave. I was in love with one of the girls but I do not recall a serious kiss. John dated the other two and I assume his relationship was equally platonic. On reflection, when my wife met him on our 25th high school reunion, she tagged him a “player”.

Our world was so small in those days. The Strand, the Drive-Ins,the strip between the Country Diner and Dog & Suds, and the high school were our complete world. I remember one big date that we planned for weeks. We purchased maps, asked friends, and even consulted our parents because we had needed all the information we could find. We had grandiose plans to take Betty and Mary all the way to Indianapolis and could not afford mistakes. Where we went eludes me. All I remember is the intense preparation.

In our senior year we discovered illicit liquor. We took great pride in scoring a couple of six packs or a fifth and hiding them throughout Montgomery County. I don’t think we had yet mastered the art of drinking to oblivion. Acquiring alcohol was much more fun than actually having to consume it. One winter weekend we decided to recover a six pack hidden under a bridge on Black Creek. We were worried it would freeze. The creek was near flood stage and the water had covered the ledge where the beer was hidden. I was the one elected to recover it. Hugging the side of the cement pillars, I waded knee deep in freezing water to the hiding spot. The beer was not where it was supposed to be. I found one can. Feeling with a hand and arm quickly turning blue, I located all but one can. There were four of us. Who were the other two? Anyway, once blood circulation had resumed, the four of us had to consume five beers. It had to take two hours to finish those beers. Gulp, gag, gulp, gag. Then accuse the guy next to you of gagging. Another gulp, gag. Why is the front passenger window open? “John! Are you pouring good beer out?” Denial. Gulp, gag.

We were such rebels.

The world, just like our woods, grew a little each year. One of our last trips together was during the summer following graduation. We took off to Cincinnati. Maps, and plans, and intense preparation were no longer needed. John had a date with Debbie Reynolds. She was a beautiful young lady I had dated every summer when she visited her grandparents. That is until the last summer when she informed me she preferred John. Hey, maybe my wife was right. John was my best friend, my co-conspirator, my accomplice. But I was never a player. Maybe John was a player. I should have asked more questions, buddy.

My parents moved from Crawfordsville following my graduation. John married a beautiful woman that I greatly admired. They married too early and she resented John maintaining relationships with old friends. Both events put a strain on our friendship. I started my “Forest Gump” march through life and, once I crossed the first bridge, did not look back.

There was a brief reunion the day following our 25th reunion. I made him promise to keep in touch and visit me. I promised to do the same. Shortly after that I crossed another bridge and, once again, did not look back. I missed our 40th reunion. Why not? We are invincible. I can wait until our 50th to see John.
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Bob Stonecipher, November 2006