It was right about the time Stevie Nicks was singing “Rhiannon” from the movie soundtrack that I noticed John slide his arm around Michelle. I was sitting next to John on his right and Michelle and Margot were on either side of us. We were having fun watching the movie Slap Shot about a minor league hockey team struggling to find its’ identity. John had already graduated high school and was way more experienced than his male running mate. He’d been around the block with a few girls prior to Michelle and was very confident around the ladies. I on the other hand, was a senior in high school and still a virgin. As uncomfortable as it was for me, I picked up my right arm, threw it over the nape of Margot’s neck and pulled her close. My Stevie Nicks lookalike was in my arms as the sounds of the authentic came out of the speakers. Up on the screen we watched in delight as the three fictitious hockey goons (the Hanson Brothers) made their way into movie lore. It was the fall of 1977 and at that moment I didn’t think life could get much better.
It was only 14 months after that magical night with our foursome in the cinema that John Ferrante died. He was asleep in the backseat of a car on his way back from a day on the ski slopes. One of our New Paltz high classmates lost control of the car and crashed into a tree. The driver, his brother Robbie, and the other passenger survived. The tragedy occurred on Thursday, January 18th1979. It was the next morning when a call came into my dorm’s pay phone. Ann Marie DeCapua was on the other end of the line and told me John was gone. I dropped to the floor and cried harder than I ever would again over a person’s passing, including my mother’s. It was a time in my life when I was running from ghosts, of my mind’s own creation.
John was my only New Paltz friend who would go out of his way to find me. He loved New Paltz and his family so much that in all probability, he would have continued to work on the family farm, married young, and been a father to a crop of children. He may have been the only person I maintained a friendship with from my high school days. Ironically, the first time I had slipped home from college I had talked to him about my yearning to break away from our hometown, leave the past behind and never look back. During that first semester break of 78-79, John found me parked in a precarious spot. He recognized my car and pulled up next to me. It was much easier to hide in the pre-computer, pre-cell phone world. I asked my traveling companion to excuse me as I turned the crank to roll down my window.
“Sorry John, I’ve been laying low. I’m headed back to school tomorrow.” John smirked and shook his head. “Still seeing ghosts, Hawk?”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t realize that I had just spoken the last words I ever would to John. I had no idea I was seeing his piercing brown eyes for the last time. Never again would I see the guy with the thick dark hair and thin black mustache. His last words to me proved prophetic.
“You can’t fly away from me, Hawk.”
I never uttered a proper goodbye that day. Then I heard he was gone.
In 1979, Pine’s Funeral Home was the only place in New Paltz offering services and final arrangements. I got back into town to go to the wake on Sunday. Pine’s was filled to capacity and the line to pay respects winded its’ way back to Main Street. I stood for over an hour and a half in the cold January air thinking about what it meant to die so young. I thought about the obligation I had to not waste time anymore. I needed to live my life the way I wanted to, without apologies. I concluded that it was my own conscience that would be my personal God, and that I would be my only judge. For the first time I began to realize that my years as an angry, young man prior to John’s death were without base. With John’s passing, my anger was validated and would propel me on a path that would not have been otherwise. I thought about what John had said to me only 30 days earlier. I couldn’t fly away from him, nor did I want to, and from that day forward I didn’t have to.
I reached the receiving line right around the time Dallas was kicking off to Pittsburgh for Super Bowl XIII. John’s parents and four brothers stood in front of an open casket. I was mesmerized by the sight of John – he didn’t look frail or injured. I’d seen John sleep through things that would wake the average person. So, for me, John looked peaceful, resting with a contented smile. I was only a few days shy of my 19th birthday but the full magnitude of John’s rest was very clear to me. Pete Jr., Robbie, Sande, and Timmy stood at attention like soldiers guarding their post. Pete Sr. and Carol Ferrante were arm in arm still shedding tears in attempt to cope with any parents worst nightmare – the loss of the a child.
Pete Jr. and John were toddlers when their parents came from New York City in 1960 and bought a piece of property in New Paltz. On their plot of land, the Ferrante’s built their family homestead and started farming on a parcel known as “The Flats”. From that moment on, the Ferrante family, and what would become Wallkill View Farms, became a large part of the fabric of the village. By the 1970’s, the farm had grown into a major agricultural business and all five boys worked the land. The family represented everything pure about small town America. Pete and Carol were seen everywhere from Little League Baseball games to Chez Joey’s Pizzeria to the Catholic festivals. They rarely ventured out of New Paltz as their five boys played football, wrestled and golfed. Three of them would marry local girls and raise families in their hometown. Only Robbie stayed a bachelor but always kept New Paltz as his address. There is little doubt John would have followed a similar path like his brothers.
I kneeled before the casket and took one last long look at John. I remember thinking what a great guy John was. He was loved and he had loved. He was a handsome and respected young man with a stellar reputation. I remember saying to myself “John was so much more.” I got up from my crouch and moved toward the silent gallery of fellow mourners having just paid their respects. During his brief life, John had been fortunate enough to be in love on three separate occasions. Jody Bivona had been his first love, and for whatever reason, I couldn’t find her at the service. Michelle Hoffay, his current girlfriend, sat in the front row sobbing alone. And then I saw Wendy Thompson and was transported right back to when the three of us used to hang out. She liked to tease me with the gibe of “three’s a crowd.” I shot Wendy a smile and pulled into the seat next to her. For two very outgoing teenagers, our lack of conversation and inability to express ourselves was awkward.
“I loved John very much; always will’’ were all the words I recall Wendy speaking that day.
Before I headed back to Allentown and the rest of my life, I stopped by Todd Krieg’s house to watch the Steelers hang on for a 35-31 victory over “America’s Team”. Right around the time Sunday turned to Monday, I was back in my room at Muhlenberg College. Even before John’s untimely passing, I had been trying to put my hometown in the rearview mirror. John’s death would surely put more space between me and what I had held on to so dearly during my adolescent years. I lay on my dorm bed that early Monday morning unable to sleep. Over my roommate’s snores, I stared at the ceiling.
I considered the times that John and I had spent together as teens. In the darkness my mind went back to that fall night and our double date at Slap Shot. The four of us were leaving the theater together. Behind us on the screen the credits were rolling. Maxine Nightingale was singing the movie’s theme song, “Ooh and it’s alright, an it’s coming on, we gotta get right back to where we started from.” John gave me a wink as he held hands with Michelle. As I had done before during the movie, I followed the lead of my more experienced friend and took a hold of Margot’s hand.
I whispered to my friend, “This is great, isn’t it John?”
“Yup, and believe me Hawk it’s only going to get better.”
More than one year from that night in the movies, and only a few days after we had lost John in the crash, far away from the town where I had come of age, in the midst of the cold Pennsylvania winter, I started to cry silent tears.
As each of the 37 years passed since John’s death, the thoughts of his words that day in the theater get less bitter for me. I’ve made sense of it now, and yes, John, you were right. It is better and continues to be.
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