Remembering Shane

Not sure why I am feeling all nostalgic.

Just remembering my childhood friend Shane.

He had a four-wheeler.  Suzuki.  Like this.

There was that log, that we would put on the back.

We’d try to make it fall off by driving around crazy.

The log’s name was Buddy.

We spent hours on that four-wheeler.

He had a Yamaha motorcycle, too.  Like this, I think.

We rode it in Arkansas.

That was a fun trip.

There were lots of tree stumps and trails there.

And dirt.

We chewed bubble gum and got our heads shaved at the barbershop.

His mom bought me a half shirt.

Yeah, one of those.  Bare belly.

It had a razorback on it.

We matched.

His dad drove a four-wheel-drive Ford Bronco.

It wasn’t white like OJs.

Shane called his grandma and grandpa Potty-pot and Poppy.

That was weird.

It must have been a big deal for my parents to let me go on that trip.

Shane moved away.

Heard he liked to ride bulls at the rodeo.

And chew tobacco.

He died in a car wreck.

The funeral was at my church.

I still remember it.

It was really sad.

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