Throwback Thursday: My Best Friend's Funeral

A Personal Reflection

September 1968. The night before our first day of school, junior year. I’d been driving around with Joe LaGreca, a friend with a car. We stopped at Frank Capelli’s to laugh and chat and shoot the bull. My last words to Frank, my best friend in the world at that time, were, “See you tomorrow.” He rode off on his bike, we drove off in the car.

The day of the funeral, for which five of his friends and I had been selected as pall bearers, my mom (bless her heart) said, “Don’t be afraid to cry.” I was too numb inside to hear this sage advice. It was a hard reality we were all dealing with. It wasn’t till 1991, 23 years later, I woke one morning and bawled like a baby. It felt so good to finally get it out.

The trigger event was a boy on a bicycle at dusk the evening beforehand.

That was how Frank had been killed in 1968, hit by a motorist while on his bicycle, 20 minutes after I’d been with him looking forward to the new school year. He’d been with Ian Crosley and Randy Freytag. The three were riding the bikes through an unlit stretch of road to the next neighborhood, and evidently Frank was too far out in the road. The horror of that scene, not only for Randy and Ian but also for the driver, must have been unspeakable as the car came up over a small rise and mauled him with the grill.

The next morning it seemed strange to not see Frank at the start of the day. The strangeness continued through several hours where our shared classes found him absent. At some point I began to hear the rumors that he’d been struck, but no one knew any details. Throughout the afternoon my fears increased and when the school bus dropped me off at school day’s end I bolted home with one aim, to call the hospital.

This was a very difficult moment. I asked if Frank were there, and she said no. I was incredibly relieved and asked when he’d been released. The nurse knew the truth, but was not permitted to tell me. An awkward moment fell over us and then she said, very solemnly, to call the family.

I called the Capellis and when the phone was lifted from the receiver all I could hear was wailing. Whether it was Nancy or her mother I do not know, because both were in a swoon of incomparable anguish. Through incoherent sobs I understood that I should call back later, a gesture that let me know I was still a friend of the family. And why the hospital could not tell me anything more than that "he was not there."

The day of the funeral we were dressed in suits, the six of us, my first time in a Catholic church. The sanctuary was filled, a very large contingent on hand, one of the largest funeral gatherings I have attended from that day to this. Who were all these people? The priest came down the aisle with incense, dressed in vestments like I’d never seen before. We knelt, sat, knelt again… I followed in unison as the others did… all meaningless for me, and I an empty shell. I remember not a word.

Next, we were in a large black limousine, following a train of vehicles to the grave site. It seemed forever and when we arrived the solemn contingent was waiting for us because our vehicle was a little too far from the front. We were hastened to the hearse to lift the casket and place it in the grave.

Like a series of scenes in a strange film or incoherent dream, the next was at a Howard Johnsons. Several adult men in suits ushered us to an ice cream counter. Evidently they sought to soothe us through this kindness because they knew we loved him. They bought us ice cream cones. We sat and ate in silence. No one knew what to say. It was a very strange moment, and the strongest memory I have from my best friend’s funeral.