I first met Rich Worthington in the second grade. He invited me to his birthday party. Boy, was I surprised! Not only did Rich receive presents, but everyone attending the party got a present, too. Mine was a plastic red airplane with twin engines.
In ninth grade physical education class, Rich and I were supposed to be getting dressed after showering. But we were horsing around, and Rich threw his arm around my neck and lifted me up off the floor. I couldn’t breathe and fell to the floor, unconscious. I awoke with my classmates looking down at me. “Is Gene alive or is Gene dead?”
Rich and I had to hurry up and get to our next class. I didn’t know I had a cut above my right eye. We walked into the classroom and the teacher said, “That’s a terrible cut above your eye. Let me put a Band-Aid on it.” Rich was quick to say, “Gene, you don’t need a Band-Aid. God can heal it without a Band-Aid.” Rich started talking fast about Band-Aids and God. I thought, “Rich might be a Christian Scientist.”
The scar above my right eye is Rich’s scar.
Rich and I both graduated from Bothell High School in 1964. We both ended up in Vietnam. Rich was a helicopter pilot over South Vietnam. I was in the Naval Amphibious Force in the Mekong Delta and up the Saigon River. Rich was flying, I was floating.
Whenever I was on leave, I made it a point to see Rich’s father, Mr. Worthington, who had an insurance agency in the Bothell State Bank. He would always raise his hand and wave; if he wasn’t busy with a client, we would talk. “How’s Rich?”
“Rich volunteered for a second tour of duty.”
After two years of active duty in the Navy, I wondered about Rich and decided to go see Mr. Worthington. As I entered the bank this time I sensed something was wrong. Gone was the familiar hand wave. “How’s Rich?”
With a cracked voice he said, “Rich was killed in Vietnam. His helicopter crashed. They never found his body.” Mr. Worthington was trying hard not to cry, but I knew his heart was crying.
I left the bank not remembering anything for several days. But I wanted to talk more with Mr. Worthington. I knew he lived at the top of Norway Hill. I had never been up on Norway Hill. As I approached the house, Mr. Worthington was standing in the driveway as if waiting for me. I don’t recall our conversation, only the magnificent sunset.
“Rich’s mom is sick in bed,” Mr. Worthington said. “I know she would like to see you. Would you like to come into the house?”
I had to tell Mrs. Worthington about the great time I had at Rich’s second-grade birthday party. My red twin-engine airplane was still flying through my mind. And I just had to tell the story about getting knocked out in ninth grade, and the Band-Aid.
This was the last time I saw the Worthingtons. I know, Rich, you had no problem walking through the Pearly Gates. When I meet you in Heaven, what a glorious time we will have reminiscing about our friendship.
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