graden davis

The news was unexpected.

I had just arrived in Oregon last month when my sister-in-law informed me I had received a telephone call from my high school pal Joe Stewart (and occasional commenter here) telling me that Graden Davis had died of a heart attack.

As I grow older, there are times when people tell me someone has died, and I need a moment of reflection to remember who they are talking about. Not so with Graden. He was one of those people who was a big part of my high school years. And those relations -- and memories -- matter.

I have some friends who were school chums and neighbors from the fourth grade through high school. Stephanie Reed. Jim Hunt. Colette Justice. David Eikrem. Daurel Colony.

Graden was not amongst that group. His father was in the Navy, and he was a military brat. I think he is the only person I ever met who was born in Saipan. Having lived all my life in Oregon, I found his background exotic when he finally joined the rest of us at Rex Putnam High School outside of Milwaukie.

We formed one of those relationships that young men rely on in their teens. It turned out it was a good match. We shared a lot of eccentricities. He owned a piranha. Nothing could have been more fascinating to a teen-age boy than studying how, even as an individual fish, the piranha was perfectly designed to strip the flesh from a screaming porter in one of those serials we enjoyed.

We were also experimenters. One of us came up with the brilliant idea of putting the piranha in my family's swimming pool and then inviting unaware guests to take a dip. It never worked as planned -- as none of these pranks do. The shock of the cold, chlorinated water left the piranha floating on the surface of the water where we quickly rescued it.

Graden was one of the few people in high school who owned a car. A boat-like convertible. During one of Oregon's worst snow storms, we decided to take the convertible to Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood to spend the day skiing. Apparently, we never considered the fact that the blizzard would shut down the chair lifts. It did.

So, we decided to head over to Mount Hood Meadows, instead. We never got there. Just past the turnoff to Hood River, a small (but effective) avalanche barreled down the mountain and trapped about five cars. We were one. Being trapped in an avalanche (even a small one) is not what most people would call an adventure. Especially, in a convertible.

But we were unfazed. We broke out some small Hostess fruit pies, a bag of potato chips, and some French onion dip and had ourselves an impromptu picnic while listening to the soundtrack of a recent movie on his 8-track player. The highway department soon had us on our way home -- with a Dad-voice admonition that we should not travel in weather like that.

That convertible would add another thrill when, on a double date, while driving along the freeway at teenage speeds, the hood popped open and wrapped itself around the windshield like a plastic bag. Graden, completely blinded by the hood, calmly pulled across three lanes of traffic to the shoulder where we used an old hanger to tie it down -- laughing the while time. Our dates failed to see the humor in the situation.

I have always wondered at the rhythm of relationships. After high school, I saw Graden occasionally in college. But that contact ended when I joined the Air Force. Even though we lived in the same metropolitan area, I saw him only at those mileposts in our lives. High school reunions. We always took up immediately where we had last left our conversations, but we would not see one another until the next reunion.

The last time I saw him was just short of a year ago. My high school class had organized a 70th birthday party for all of us (putting the granfalloon to the test). Even though we had just had our 50th reunion two years before, it was a good opportunity to get together and catch up on our lives.

Graden, Joe, and I talked about the range of things all old guys discuss. Death was one. Someone had compiled a list of our classmates who had died. Some additions were surprising. How could such a young group have so many fatalities? The fallacy in the question, of course, is that we were not young. Well, we were. But, we are now old.

The next time we gather, Graden's name (and undoubtedly the names of others, perhaps mine) will be on that list. But none of them (including Graden) will be forgotten.

While the three of us reviewed the list of the fallen last September, we told stories about each of them. They were our comrades. No. They are our comrades. Because every one of them has added something to our lives and made us who we are today.

I will miss Graden at the next reunion. But I will have stories to share.