Star Lake revives memories, reminds us how life is fragile

     Starting the 60-mile journey from Morristown to Star Lake, I dwelled on the fragility of life.

   I was headed to the backyard celebration of life for Scot Fraser, 74, my former neighbor and science teacher, at the invitation of his wife Mary. Scot was a non-smoker yet a victim of lung cancer last fall. I noted sadly that he passed too soon. The fates seemed cruel.

   As the miles passed, I dwelled on the flipside of fortunes. My friends the Quackenbushes had endured life-threatening medical conditions. Art endured a brain bleed in a tumble when refereeing; Cindy contracted an aggressive form of leukemia. They spent seven months at medical facilities in Boston, then returned to Canton just days ahead of their son’s wedding. The fates ruffled them, but they survived.

   My truck crossed Black Lake and zipped along the Pope Mills Road. I chuckled about 50-year-old memories of that road when it was narrow and twisting, resembling a boa constrictor wrapped around a victim.  When my father drove an eight-passenger school bus, delivering players after sports practices, the testy curves made this section of Route 58 seem like varsity driving. Schoolbooks would fly, the bus would seem to lurch out of control but never crash, and players would cringe. Fran Holleran was not a great driver, and I knew he was hurrying to get home to his six children and spouse, Eileen, who had to leave for nursing duty at the hospital.

  “The worst thing about that,’’ reminded his three-sport star Joe Ott, “was that he would turn around from the wheel to make eye contact during a conversation.’’ We survived.

     After the truck passed through Gouverneur, I spotted a sign for Balmat. It reminded me how a friend beat a brain aneurysm.

   Every landmark evoked a memory; every face reminded me of a story.

   I passed signs for Edwards and Harrisville and thought of high school baseball and basketball games. When I entered the Adirondack Park, then passed Clifton-Fine Central School, I thought of eight-man football games and how C-F dominated my Green Rockets.

   Football was dropped in 1974 as small schools shifted to soccer. Scot Fraser and Fran Holleran coached Morristown in the fall of 1974, but our team was terrible. We had no skills. The joke was that Scot was the only guy who knew the ball was round. One of our players crossbody-blocked an opponent at midfield, stood over him and pronounced “You’re dead!’’ The referee stepped in to prevent a fight. We tied one game that season and lost the rest.

   Arriving at the Fraser compound – several tents and RVs made it seem like a KOA campground – I was stunned. More than 200 people had gathered for Scot’s celebration of life on what would have been his 75th birthday.

  “Scot did plan his celebration of life, but he called it a party,’’ said his widow Mary. “He wanted no wake, no funeral, no burial. He wanted a party in the backyard with the kids as we have done for many years. The geriatric bar in the backyard was his favorite hangout.’’

   Children played kickball. Beer cans popped. Celtic music rang from the sound system. A slideshow captured memories.

   “I don’t believe he anticipated such a huge crowd,” Mary said. “He knew friends and family would be there, but I don’t think he knew how much he was admired. I was humbled by the attendance, and I am sure he was too.’’

    In the maze of tents, chairs, tables and admirers, Robin Dulmage was the first person from Morristown I met, and we talked about coaching and reffing and growing up with strict parents. I shook hands with Dick Lake and chatted with John Perretta.

   I greeted John’s wife, Debbie, who my father often called Beverly. He conveyed to vice principal John Lynch once how standoffish “Beverly’’ seemed before Lynch set him straight: “Geez Fran, if you called her by her right name, Debbie, she might respond more warmly.’’

  Ann Bogardus Moore Fenlong told how Scot tried to keep his players eligible for soccer by creating the “F Troop.’’ He stole the name from the 1960s sitcom. High school athletes were required to post passing grades each week to be eligible to play. A list of eligible players was posted each week outside the athletic office for the entire school to see. If one of Scot’s players was failing biology or chemistry, they earned a front-row seat, joining the F Troop.

  I related the story of how Scot had written “mastication’’ on the blackboard during a unit on digestive processes. Ever the quick wit, he turned to the class of teen-agers and said: “It’s not what you’re thinking. It means to chew your food.’’

  There was enough barbecued chicken, rolls, salads and desserts to feed a battalion from Fort Drum. Plenty of speeches; plenty of memories for his grown children — Colin, Jamie, Patricia and Shannon.

   Soon it was time to start the 3½-hour drive to Rochester. I passed Deferiet, the hometown of my former principal at St. John’s Elementary School in Morristown. Sr. Joanne Clark, the youngest of 12 children, had joined the Sisters of St. Joseph. She brandished a paddle and a gruff exterior, but was really a kind, caring soul. I recalled squealing on the sixth-grade boys who nicknamed her “Ironpants.’’ She marched into the classroom and lectured the boys about respect. Her parting shot: “So the next time you make up a nickname, remember it’s “Sister Ironpants.’’ Lesson learned.

  About 150 miles remained when my phone chimed. My basketball buddy was lamenting that he was boarding a plane for his brother-in-law’s funeral in Wisconsin.

  While he enjoyed the uplifting story on the Quackenbush family, he recalled his brother-in-law: “Wonderful guy. Healthy, active, 71, and a 4-handicap. He was in a car accident … sitting at a red light, got plowed into … docs missed a brain bleed, sent him home, and now I’m flying to his funeral.’’

   It reminded me that the fates aren’t always so kind. Life remains fragile.

       Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/