I met Marcie in 1978 at the age of nine. This is not a tragic love story. Although, it might be.
A Mayflower moving van pulled up to the gray house across the street from our cul-de-sac. I observed the family moving into that house, and they appeared to have two children, both daughters. Bummer… no boys.
I met Marcie on a sunny summer day just a few days later. She was outside riding on her skateboard. I grabbed mine. Hers was much nicer, and she seemed much more skilled.
Because our street was rough, it was easier to skateboard on sidewalks and driveways. My driveway was gravel, so I had a good excuse to move closer. Her driveway had a steep angle to it. I suspected she may be motivated to find a more level surface.
I made my way down the sidewalk and ended up in a neighbor’s large, flat driveway. As I may have been hoping, the new girl with the cool skateboard crossed the street and joined me as I coasted around in large ovals.
We skated in silence for several minutes. This finally came to an end when I fell off my board accidentally, but possibly on purpose. She laughed and I mustered the courage to ask her name and where she came from. Marcie was from Oregon and missed it. She was possibly not happy about moving to Spearfish, South Dakota. Her dad got a job at the large sawmill in town.
I met Marcie at her house. I gave her a walking tour of the surrounding area, which was the Rose Hill Cemetery that bordered her backyard. I showed her the graves of people who had lived very long lives and very short lives. I showed her the grave of Levi Blizzard, whose real name is unknown. I explained how it was rumored that the man was found after a severe snowstorm in the late 1800s frozen and wearing a pair of Levi’s. I showed her the southern edge of the cemetery, which was a cliff that overlooked the entrance to Spearfish Canyon. It’s quite a beautiful view of steep cliffs, pine trees, and aspen trees that surround a winding road that runs the length. This cemetery was a popular place to run, ride, and explore.
I met Marcie in the cul-de-sac, both of us on our bikes. We rode down to the city park and to the fish hatchery. We saw trout of all sizes and bought handfuls of food and tossed it towards the fish. The fish would jump and slither over each other in a frenzied effort to get a morsel of food.
I met Marcie with two inner tubes, and we walked to the creek and floated in the frigid fifty-degree water. We lasted about a mile, which was still within easy walking distance back home.
I met Marcie in the winter at her house with those same inner tubes. She had a wicked hill in her backyard, perfect for sledding.
I met Marcie and her dad, Gordon, at their kitchen table. He taught us about stamp collecting. It was a fun hobby. Kids love to collect all kinds of crap.
I met Marcie at her garage. Gordan had a rattlesnake in a gallon-jar there. The next time I saw the snake, just the skin was pinned to a board. I think I was happy about that and I stopped worrying about a potential deadly snake escape.
I met Marcie in my garage. We loaded up as much lumber, plywood, and nails as we could carry. These were things my father didn’t know he didn’t need. We built the best tree fort on the block in a pine tree next to the cemetery.
I met Marcie in her basement, and we listened to 45s and played foosball. She was, and likely still is, a foosball savant.
I met Marcie and we became best friends.
I met Marcie at her dad’s truck, which we called “the Beater”. For the last several months, Gordon had given us a ride in his company truck to school every day on his way to work. But on this day, Ash Wednesday, February 20, 1980, something was different. Had they been crying? Not sure, but they were very quiet.
Marcie just pointed across the valley. From our hill to the one on the other side of town, I could see a plume of smoke. But I couldn’t tell exactly what the source was. Marcie explained it was the sawmill. THE sawmill. The one that employed hundreds of people in our small town. The one that employed her father. The one for which they moved halfway across the country.
So many questions came to mind. How bad is the fire? Total loss. Will they rebuild? Too soon to tell. Will you move away? Maybe.
Ash Wednesday took on another meaning from that point forward.
I met Marcie when all her family’s possessions were packed, once again, on a Mayflower moving van.