Lordy, we had ourselves a time, playing games my mother had gleaned from a party book. We gulped sweet punch and sugared ourselves up on candy corn and M&Ms. Disguised as ghosts and goblins, we ran into the night, knocking on the doors of the dear hearts and gentle people who populated my hometown.
We were completely safe. Or so we thought.
Donnie Harper and I rode our bikes through the neighborhood, collecting enough candy to keep us in sweets for weeks to come. And then we pedaled to our respective homes to sleep the sleep of the innocent.
The next week my family moved to Chestertown, Md., where my father had taken a teaching job at Washington College. It was there that we received a phone call on Saturday, Jan. 29, 1955, from our former neighbor Mary Moeller. My mother answered the phone and then called me into the living room of our new home.
She was, as always, straightforward. I recall her exact words: "Donnie Harper's dead. He was hit by a truck and killed instantly. It happened this morning."
My parents and I sat quietly for what seemed like hours -- I don't remember a time in my life when I was so completely engulfed by silence. Then my father attempted to assuage my grief with a few words that are lost to me now. In fact, there was nothing he could say. There was nothing anyone could say. The first death is the hardest.
Donnie Harper didn't die in the service of his country. He was a boy who lived 10 short years and was killed on his birthday. But he was a friend of mine, and I remembered him on Memorial Day.
Last week, more than 51 years after Donnie's death, I traveled to the Talbot County Public Library to read through the microfilmed Star-Democrat for Feb. 3, 1955 (the paper was published on Thursdays in those days). The article, placed just above the fold, is also straightforward: "Youth Killed on Tenth Birthday: Donald Wayne Harper Killed Instantly -- First Pedestrian Fatality Since 1945."
Only a brief explanation is offered: "Young Harper was hit near the intersection of Centerville Road [now Washington Street] and Duke Street. The driver of the truck, a 20-year-old, said the boy was running along the side of the road kicking a soccer ball and darted out in front of the truck." No photograph of Donnie accompanies the news story.
A few weeks after Donnie's death, my family returned to our hometown to visit my grandparents, and I was told by friends that Donnie's parents had given him a basketball for his birthday and while he was shooting baskets, the ball had rolled into the street. Donnie was attempting to retrieve the ball when the truck ran over him.
As with most families who suffer the death of a child, the Harpers -- Donnie's mother and father and his older brothers Boyd and Bobby -- were no doubt inconsolable. But their tragedy didn't end with Donnie's death. Eventually, the family moved to Colorado, where Mr. and Mrs. Harper had another son who was also killed in a traffic accident a block from their home.
Most of us have known someone who has died in a traffic accident. In 2005, U.S. traffic deaths reached 43,200, according to statistics released by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. Worldwide, an estimated 800,000 human beings die each year in traffic accidents. It's a price we're willing to pay for mobility.
Last week, after reading the newspaper story of Donnie's death, I drove to the Spring Hill Cemetery annex and found the flat bronze marker embossed with Donnie's name and the dates of his birth and death. Someone had left blue plastic flowers on the grave. I had nothing to offer but a few minutes of my time and this brief remembrance.
Stephen Smith can be reached at travisses@hotmail.com.
