Absent Friends; a Stroll in Morris Hill Cemetery

  You never know when or where you might encounter people you haven’t seen in years. It can happen anytime, sometimes in unexpected places. 

  A cemetery, for example.

  A few days before Memorial Day, I made my annual pilgrimage to Morris Hill Cemetery to lay flowers on the graves of my parents. It was a nice afternoon, but the cemetery was all but deserted. A good time to take a stroll and check out the neighborhood.

  The first stop was at the grave of Terry Blake Reilly. Terry was an Idaho state senator and the founder of Terry Reilly Health Services. He was killed in a plane crash while campaigning for lieutenant governor, a life lost far too soon. He was only 39. 

  I knew Terry from grade school. He was a year behind me, but it was one of those small schools where everybody knew everybody. He was tall for his age, and fearless. One day on my way home from school, three bullies had me backed up against a fence in an alley when Terry happened by and sent them packing. It probably saved  me from a beating. I will always be grateful to him for that.

  The inscription on his grave:  “I’d Rather be Fishing.”

  Thanking him once again for saving my bacon, I bid him farewell and went to see what other figures from the past might be in the area.

  A few steps from Terry’s grave led to the final resting place of Harold and Ellyn Gates. They were the parents of more people I’d known in grade school. One was in my class. Kevin Gates was the tallest boy in the class, and one of the nicest. My father once suggested that I could do worse than to use him as a role model.

  It would be great to know what became of him. A Google search yielded enough people named Kevin Gates to start a football team. One, in Meridian, seemed to fit except for the names of his relatives.  None of the names of his brothers or sister appeared in the search. If you read this, Kevin, I’d love to hear from you.

  Next on my walking tour were Don and Narcy Anchustegui. It’s impossible for me to be certain, but it’s a pretty good bet that they were the parents of John Anchustegui, who lived in the neighborhood where I grew up and was one of just two people in my life with whom I’ve had a fistfight. 

  No idea after so many years what started it, but what ended it is vividly remembered. It was John’s fist coming to a hard landing on my nose. We’re talking serious pain here. Stars and planets.

  The other fight happened years later, in high school. Armed with liquid courage, I picked a fight with a boy who was known for being exceptionally good at them. He also was bigger and stronger. Same result:  stars and planets, copious bleeding. And a lesson learned. No fights since then. We won’t get into how many years that’s been.

  Not far away were Ed Groff and Audrey Arregui. Audrey was my sister’s best friend when they were young. Though they hadn’t seen each other in some time, she came to my sister’s funeral. A nice lady.

  Encouraged by finding so many people from the past in such a short distance, I ventured farther and came to the memorial for Sen. Frank Church and his wife, Bethine.

  The Woodwards were snake-bit when it came to interacting with Sen. Church. Arriving at the Idaho Press Club’s New Year’s Eve party not long after we got married my wife and I ran squarely into the Churches.

  “I know you!” my wife said. “You’re Bud Davis.” 

  New to the state, she had confused a congressional candidate with the state’s senior senator. Church couldn’t have been nicer about it.

  Five years later, Church unsuccessfully ran for president. I was an editorial writer then and part of a group that interviewed him in the aftermath of his campaign.

  “Tim, you know the senator,” the newspaper’s publisher said by way of introduction.

  “Of course!” I said, reaching to shake the famous hand.

  And spilling the senator’s cup of scalding hot coffee in the process!

  Some of it ended up in his shoe. He hopped around on one foot, grimacing while trying to take the shoe off. It’s fair to say I was mortified. But, once again, he couldn’t have been nicer.

  Walking farther still, I reached the singular headstone for Paul Revere.

  For newcomers unfamiliar with him, Revere was the leader of Paul Revere and the Raiders, the most successful rock group ever to have come from Idaho. I was fortunate to have known him fairly well. He was a force of nature.

  Paul’s headstone is unique. It features an engraving of a three-cornered hat like those the Raiders wore as part of their Revolutionary War costumes, and an inscription:

  “He came. He rocked. He left.”

  Seeing the graves of all these people, once so full of life but now gone, made me realize with a start that I now have more friends and relatives who are dead than living. A sobering thought.

  They were good people. I miss them.

  That said, I’m in no hurry to join them. My headstone can wait a while.

Tim Woodward’s column appears every other Sunday in The Idaho Press and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@gmail.com.