WHATEVER HAPPENED TO...

A number of years ago I was fascinated by a series of books entitled "Whatever Happened To...? by Richard Lamparski. I'm not positive, but I think he wrote 11 of them chronicling former television, movie, and cultural stars, and their lives after the fame and fortune. Some sad, some surprising, some as expected, yet all interesting. The series also piqued my personal curiosity as I drifted back in time. In a previous post I mentioned attending a grammar school reunion some years back. Of the 50+ members of our class, nearly 35 attended, a high percentage indeed. Throughout the two-day festivities, names of the missing were bandied about, however several remained mysteries. I kept running through those halcyon days of my early youth, and one name kept inserting itself at each stop. I eventually asked the question: Whatever happened to Johnny Palmer?

I suppose everyone can remember best friends from the formative years. Mine was Johnny Palmer. I was blessed with a number of pals in grade school, but for some reason Johnny and I were just a bit closer. After the reunion I kept thinking about the lack of surety in the responses concerning his whereabouts. A couple of years ago, while preparing to teach, I looked at one of my class lists for the opening semester, and the name Johnny Palmer stared at me from the page. Obviously not the original, but a strange reminder. Why does this mean anything now? I guess we all want to relive or at least revisit the past, just to see if it was as much fun as we think we remember. It's hard to explain Johnny Palmer; he was different from the herd, what we call a maverick these days.

We attended a Catholic grammar school (grades K-8) located in a lower middle class, blue-collar, heavily Catholic neighborhood. Both Johnny and I lived on the border of the school's loosely drawn boundary line, but our families were members of the parish, just in case. I guess you could say we had an outsider-type kinship. We often walked to school, a long jaunt by any standards. It wasn't the five-miles-in-a-blizzard situation we all remember our parents and grandparents describing, and we could take the bus if we so desired. I liked to walk because that left me 15 cents to buy maple bars at the nearby bakery. Both of our dads were working men, to whom dollars were precious, and our moms toiled as homemakers. The concept of a two-paycheck family was still years away. Why Johnny and I became close remains a mystery. I loved sports; he tolerated them. He enjoyed building things; I reluctantly watched. Despite the monotony of wearing the always-popular salt and pepper cord pants, blue sweater, and white shirt every school day for eight consecutive years, I was fussy about my appearance, and Johnny could have cared less. He wore patrol boots (heavy, clunky high top work shoes) 24-7, while I always needed the latest model of white Red Ball Jets that made me run faster and jump higher. We were indeed a 50's version of the grammar school odd couple.

The age-old saying that opposites attract certainly applied to the two of us. In the sixth grade we both had stupendous crushes on a classmate named Barbara. I'm not sure why (who can ever understand young affairs of the heart), because she was about six inches taller than either of us. Somehow we overcame the competition, not to mention Barbara, at about the same time. On another occasion we decided to build a model hydroplane (racing boats were highly popular in Seattle), and enter it in a contest. If memory serves me right, it took us (mostly Johnny) at least a couple of months to construct. When the day came for the much-anticipated contest, we were most confident in our first-place chances. It didn't quite work out as planned. We placed the boat in the water and it promptly sank. Seems as though we didn't quite patch that gaping hole in the bottom of the hull. I hate to admit it, but I think that was my responsibility.We fussed and fumed for about 23 seconds, then marched on to our next adventure.


Our final bonding activity came in the eighth grade when I was our baseball team's best (and only) pitcher, and Johnny donned the catching equipment. Occasionally, he could catch a fastball, but he simply let curveballs hit the dirt and picked them up on the rebound. His less-than-20/20-glasses enhanced vision was a contributing factor, but that never really bothered me despite my competitive nature. To borrow from a common baseball saying of today, it was just Johnny being Johnny.

Our paths rarely crossed after grade school. He attended a public secondary institution and I ventured off to the area's new Catholic high school. We rarely saw each other then, but I would hear things from time to time. Johnny struggled with his education, at least that was the grapevine rumor. He had never been an honors student, and possibly developed other outlets. I don't think we visited more than twice during those subsequent years. I do remember two things about my friend: he was incredibly loyal, and marvelously independent. What you saw is always what you got. I learned from him, even though I didn't realize it at the time. Johnny Palmer was my first friend.

After asking the question at the reunion, there was no definitive answer. Finally, someone said, "I think he died." I stood nearby, stunned. There was no follow-up explanation, nothing concrete. Just those four saddening words. It seemed as if a sizable chunk of my childhood had been scratched and eliminated. I always wanted to apologize for not patching the hole in the boat. Sorry Johnny, it won't happen again.

No more reunions.

MM