Bill on The Hill by Don Taco

Bill on The Hill

  

  During our high school years, a group of us often took our breaks and lunches on The Hill. That hill probably only had a drop of about 4 feet, and it would be generous to describe it as even a gentle slope, but it was still the hilliest place on campus, and perhaps of any place within walking distance, and was always referred to as The Hill. We lived in the flatlands. It was the leading edge of a lawn area starting at the concrete walkway into the front entrance and bordered by the fence protecting us from average or non-Catholic people who might choose to walk down the sidewalk there. Picnic tables and benches existed, but we had The Hill. At our 40th high school reunion, a decent sampling of The Hill's stalwarts gathered there again and reminisced. We were cool.

  During the events of our 50th reunion, I visited the hill again. The lawn area now hosts a large building, an arts center if I am not mistaken, something we never imagined. In our day, there was no Art. There were no Electives. No Shop. No Theater. There were Academics, and Extracurricular Activities, which included all the sports teams, not that they weren't well-supported. Even when we invented the Soccer Club and turned it into a team, it was well-supported. We arrived, we were told what classes we were taking, and that was that. Things have changed. The Hill has changed. It is now planters and concrete and paving blocks between those two buildings, and a somewhat less inviting place to gather for lunch.

 

  But it has an added feature. There are marble plaques arranged in an artful display, and on those plaques are engraved the names of all the graduates of that high school since time began. Of course, I immediately went and found my name, and checked the spelling, and scanned the names of my classmates. We were the 10th graduating class. Fifty years later, a lot of water has passed over that dam. Now, even with as highly as the Class of '71 regards itself, there still weren't any gold stars to distinguish us from all the other classes. But there are little white crosses next to the names of those we've lost.

  I went to the class of '73, and found my brother Bill's name. Little white cross.

  I don't think of Bill every day. Years have passed. But I was reminded of this memorial today when I saw a photo montage that included images of old guys our age visiting the Viet Nam veteran's memorial in Washington D.C. It was the same image. Except without the horrendous pathos of the senselessness of those deaths, and the horror of war.

  Still, it was touching. There are tears in my eyes as I write this.