Although our lives drifted apart over the past thirty-eight years (who counts anymore?), I'll always consider Foster to have been truly one of my best friends. We met in 1957 in Ms. DeWalt's kindergarten class at Lamar Elementary, each of us fully 5 years old. We went through the trials and tribulations of learning to spell our names, tie our shoes, and forcibly get through nap time while being gradually socialized.
Because he was the brightest kid around and I was a good understudy with a remarkable gift to fake it, we ended up in literally every single class together for the next twelve years. We played football, baseball, and basketball in the streets and playgrounds together, fished for alligator gar, threw rocks at the oil storage tanks next to the projects (what's in those things, anyway?), marveled at the secrets of biology and chemistry, became future entrepreneurs in Junior Achievement, and took his dad's car with the "pushbutton transmission" to pick up our dates for the senior prom. I followed his lead to avoid combat duty in Vietnam by signing up for typing class (the only two guys there) so that, if drafted, we would have a skill that would likely keep us stateside in an important capacity that would someday be revealed. It was all quite a ride. But from day one, it was obvious that Foster wanted to "be" someone and had no problem with working hard to do so. So off he went to the University of Houston and off I went to Morehouse College. Unbelievably, freshman year in college was the first time in my life that I had been in a classroom without being able to look around and see "Kimosabe" and think, "we can ace this." The good news...my exposure to him had prepared me well.
To say he was focused and dedicated would be an understatement. It was that memory of his serious side and his incredible work ethic that kept me going during some of the toughest challenges I faced later in life. Guys like us of the wrong color from the wrong side of a small town aren't supposed to make it. Apparently, they forgot to tell that to Foster. I'm glad.
I last saw him almost 20 years ago. I last spoke with him 7 years ago. I last thought about him a few minutes ago and will always continue to do so. Rest well, buddy. And THANK YOU.
Kenneth Sparks
Although our lives drifted apart over the past thirty-eight years (who counts anymore?), I'll always consider Foster to have been truly one of my best friends. We met in 1957 in Ms. DeWalt's kindergarten class at Lamar Elementary, each of us fully 5 years old. We went through the trials and tribulations of learning to spell our names, tie our shoes, and forcibly get through nap time while being gradually socialized.
Because he was the brightest kid around and I was a good understudy with a remarkable gift to fake it, we ended up in literally every single class together for the next twelve years. We played football, baseball, and basketball in the streets and playgrounds together, fished for alligator gar, threw rocks at the oil storage tanks next to the projects (what's in those things, anyway?), marveled at the secrets of biology and chemistry, became future entrepreneurs in Junior Achievement, and took his dad's car with the "pushbutton transmission" to pick up our dates for the senior prom. I followed his lead to avoid combat duty in Vietnam by signing up for typing class (the only two guys there) so that, if drafted, we would have a skill that would likely keep us stateside in an important capacity that would someday be revealed. It was all quite a ride. But from day one, it was obvious that Foster wanted to "be" someone and had no problem with working hard to do so. So off he went to the University of Houston and off I went to Morehouse College. Unbelievably, freshman year in college was the first time in my life that I had been in a classroom without being able to look around and see "Kimosabe" and think, "we can ace this." The good news...my exposure to him had prepared me well.
To say he was focused and dedicated would be an understatement. It was that memory of his serious side and his incredible work ethic that kept me going during some of the toughest challenges I faced later in life. Guys like us of the wrong color from the wrong side of a small town aren't supposed to make it. Apparently, they forgot to tell that to Foster. I'm glad.
I last saw him almost 20 years ago. I last spoke with him 7 years ago. I last thought about him a few minutes ago and will always continue to do so. Rest well, buddy. And THANK YOU.
K. Sparks