A beautiful evening for a ride.  Mid-70’s, sun shining.  That time of the day when Ronald Reagan was buried—the landscape bathed in the golden light an hour or two before sundown.  I headed down Smeltzer Road on my Trek, wind behind me, legs pumping, cruising around 15 miles an hour.  Not a care in the world.  A perfect evening for a bike ride.  Just like that night a week before.  That night the fireworks were booming in Columbus.  That night a group of kids from this same area went looking for excitement. 

As I approach Pleasant High School, a not so pleasant reminder.  On the sign out front:  “Our prayers and sympathy to the Lust and Wigton families.  Next PTA meeting…”  A stone’s throw from the sign, the tennis courts are full of girls practicing for Pleasant’s tennis team.  They’re laughing and animated, full of life, swatting balls on the courts graced not so long ago by Stephanie. 

Adjacent to the football field, the field where Andrew played his soccer games last fall, parents clap and cheer as their little leaguers play baseball.  The stands are full, the enthusiasm contagious.  Life goes on—young athletes still innocent, still young enough to be untouched by the lure of fast cars and illicit beer.  For these, it is thrill enough to connect bat with ball and run to first base like their lives depend on it.  Authentic, unaltered experience is enough.  No chemicals required--yet, for social lubrication.  It is enough just to play and run in the golden light.

Cognitive dissonance is that state where the mind argues with itself over the meaning of the messages it receives.  The quick tour past Pleasant produces such a state.  On the one hand, recognition of young lives, formed here, cut short.  On the other, young lives being lived vibrantly and joyously on tennis courts and ball diamonds.  Tragedy on a sign.  Triumph on a tennis court. 

After passing Pleasant and heading south, then east, then back north again, I take an informal survey.  I start counting beer cans and bottles beside the road.  I’m counting only those I can see at a brisk clip and identify as a former container of an alcoholic beverage.  These are only a portion of the mass of junk we toss from our personal space into the public space—only a fraction of the self-absorption that allows someone to soil the space that isn’t his.  As the total mounts, 1-2-3 beer cans---11-12---20-21-22, the inevitable conclusion begins to form.  Each of these cans represents at least three—and perhaps more criminal acts.  Open container, driving under the influence, littering, perhaps underage consumption.  A good prosecutor could probably find more. 

My ride takes me to Vernon Heights Boulevard.  I turn right, past Warren and Florence Harding’s final resting place.  The count is up to 29.  At the entrance to the Marion Cemetery, one more Bud can—an even 30 in the ten miles I’ve gone since leaving Pleasant High School.  And that was only counting one side of the road.  An average of three per mile.  The road is mute testimony to a regular pattern of alcohol and driving privilege abuse.

On a whim, I turn into the cemetery—the new part, east of the Harding Memorial.  It’s a pleasant spin.  Then I see the grave:  earth still damp, flowers heaped in a mound over the new dug dirt—blooms still full and  fresh, but soon to wither in the summer sun.  Ribbons lie among the bouquets that say “Son,” “Grandson,” “God Son.”  Around the next bend, a mother—my age—tenderly polishes the black granite of a daughter’s grave.  Two years later, the pain still sharp and hard, even for those of us who barely knew her.  Like the flowers—too young, too beautiful, too full of promise.

Mandy and Andrew and Stephanie, we miss you.  Even those of us who didn’t know you personally—we know your parents, your friends, your teachers, your classmates, friends of your friends.  We are your community and we miss you.  We’ll miss the contributions you would have made here. 

Home again.  As I tap out these words, a siren wails.  The heart leaps.  My 16 year old is out in his old car with his new license.  God, please protect him—them—our kids.  Please help them use the brains you gave them.  Please don’t let my generation enable theirs to abuse substances.  Please.  The walk through the cemetery is becoming too painful.