“Very sad our journey today Samuel. Ayuh, ayuh, I always hate to supervise when a young person is taken.”
These are the words I spoke on stage at MHS the day that Scott Ragsdale was taken from us. I played Joe Stoddard, the undertaker, in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town.
I think these are the words, I’m not quite sure but this is how they remain emblazoned in my memory. Perhaps those aren’t the words because memory is a peculiar thing. But that’s how I remember them. At the time, I had only the vaguest idea about what the play was about. But that night, the words, the role, and the reality came crushing home.
We had heard very early that day the details of what had taken Scott. Even 25 years later, I am reluctant to recount any specifics of that event, but I have to admit I have often cursed that dangerous bend where Scott was lost. Earlier that day, I remember becoming overwhelmed with grief, numbness, and shock. I’m sure that all of us who knew Scott felt that way. Finally, at soccer practice I had time to be alone with my thoughts and feelings. I sat down on the gate linking the soccer field to the parking lot and wrote a poem. In those days, when we were so invincible, I had little comprehension or experience in the death of loved ones. In the intervening years, I have gained considerable experience yet still scant comprehension of these profound losses. I don’t remember the details of the poem but I do remember the opening line. “No, not him, not Rags.” Only one person read that poem, my dear friend Kevin Bernard. As he said at the time, “Mark, I don’t think anybody is ready to read this.” So it was torn up and cast onto the winds and no doubt appropriately lost. I can only remember my feeling at that time was how incomprehensible it was that someone so full of life could somehow be taken away. And there was no one ever so full of life than Scott Ragsdale.
Our school name, Memorial, refers to something that helps us remember. In looking at the list of our departed, I can’t help but be shocked at the losses of Tom Metz, Carter Adcock and Bubba Johnson along with the others who I knew less well. I must confess I don’t know how they were lost but I remember them as wonderful people. But one name on that list, in memorial, strikes me to the core. John Chenevert.
We had a softball team. I don’t even know if we had a name. I just remember that we were really good in practice games, but pretty much sucked when it came to real game time. No doubt our pre-game warm up was suboptimal, “etc.” On our team were Scott Ragsdale and John Chenevert and they were the best of friends, and great people. As friendships are motivated by common passions, and passions are sometimes easily inflamed, one day after practice these two great friends came to blows. I doubt anyone can remember the point of contention in that dispute, but it was undoubtedly not very serious by the way that they were slapping at each other. They were fighting, but not really. While angry, they would never do the other harm. They just wouldn’t. And then so briefly after this incident they were both lost.
It really makes one wonder about the overall design and whether or not someone or something is calling the best of us home sooner than we would want. Though I can’t confirm this supposition, I can affirm that they were among the best of us.
Mark Hinnawi
“Very sad our journey today Samuel. Ayuh, ayuh, I always hate to supervise when a young person is taken.”These are the words I spoke on stage at MHS the day that Scott Ragsdale was taken from us. I played Joe Stoddard, the undertaker, in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town.
I think these are the words, I’m not quite sure but this is how they remain emblazoned in my memory. Perhaps those aren’t the words because memory is a peculiar thing. But that’s how I remember them. At the time, I had only the vaguest idea about what the play was about. But that night, the words, the role, and the reality came crushing home.
We had heard very early that day the details of what had taken Scott. Even 25 years later, I am reluctant to recount any specifics of that event, but I have to admit I have often cursed that dangerous bend where Scott was lost. Earlier that day, I remember becoming overwhelmed with grief, numbness, and shock. I’m sure that all of us who knew Scott felt that way. Finally, at soccer practice I had time to be alone with my thoughts and feelings. I sat down on the gate linking the soccer field to the parking lot and wrote a poem. In those days, when we were so invincible, I had little comprehension or experience in the death of loved ones. In the intervening years, I have gained considerable experience yet still scant comprehension of these profound losses. I don’t remember the details of the poem but I do remember the opening line. “No, not him, not Rags.” Only one person read that poem, my dear friend Kevin Bernard. As he said at the time, “Mark, I don’t think anybody is ready to read this.” So it was torn up and cast onto the winds and no doubt appropriately lost. I can only remember my feeling at that time was how incomprehensible it was that someone so full of life could somehow be taken away. And there was no one ever so full of life than Scott Ragsdale.
Our school name, Memorial, refers to something that helps us remember. In looking at the list of our departed, I can’t help but be shocked at the losses of Tom Metz, Carter Adcock and Bubba Johnson along with the others who I knew less well. I must confess I don’t know how they were lost but I remember them as wonderful people. But one name on that list, in memorial, strikes me to the core. John Chenevert.
We had a softball team. I don’t even know if we had a name. I just remember that we were really good in practice games, but pretty much sucked when it came to real game time. No doubt our pre-game warm up was suboptimal, “etc.” On our team were Scott Ragsdale and John Chenevert and they were the best of friends, and great people. As friendships are motivated by common passions, and passions are sometimes easily inflamed, one day after practice these two great friends came to blows. I doubt anyone can remember the point of contention in that dispute, but it was undoubtedly not very serious by the way that they were slapping at each other. They were fighting, but not really. While angry, they would never do the other harm. They just wouldn’t. And then so briefly after this incident they were both lost.
It really makes one wonder about the overall design and whether or not someone or something is calling the best of us home sooner than we would want. Though I can’t confirm this supposition, I can affirm that they were among the best of us.
In Memorial,
Mark Hinnawi