Clean your windshield!

Everyone called him "Okie."
James O'Connell was his given name and he was three years older than me. A large, burly young man, Okie was intimidating to a high school freshman. Brimming with bravado and moving with the easy grace of confidence, Okie was universally loved by his classmates. I'm pretty sure the staff thought alot of him as well. Okie wasn't a jock, was more than a gear-head and definitely not a burn-out. Although I never heard him referred to as geeky-smart, he had a tremendous amount of common sense for someone so young. He gave smiles away as easily as the sun shines and it was understood that if anyone needed a hand, Okie could be counted on to lend his.
And that's how Okie died.
It was so long ago that I don't remember the exact day. But every year when fall starts to slip into winter and frost begins to make its reappearances, I am reminded of Okie.
I remember being in Art class one bright, crisp morning when the news started to make its way around school that Okie was gone. Girls with red-rimmed eyes hugging each other and sharing the news with those that hadn't heard yet. Stunned zombie looking upper-classmen moving through the halls during period changes. Quiet so thick. As freshmen, we heard the news, but it was more than we could really assimilate. It was short of like watching your parents when they got bad news.
Okie had stopped to help someone that was having car trouble. He was less than a quarter mile from the school. So many others had just passed right by. Not Okie. He was leaning into the engine compartment of the car that morning, shortly after sunrise. The day was less than an hour old and the sun's rays were still screaming their arrival at a fierce angle. Route 189 comes into the center of Granby from the northwest and the stalled vehicle happened to be near the crest of a hill, on a turn. It was still on the upslope, pulled onto the shoulder. But the shoulder of roads in New England are usually no wider than a recliner, so about a quarter of the car was still on the pavement.
John Tepper was a little late for school that day. I have no idea what the ramifications of his tardiness would've been that day - detention was about as severe as the school had for punishment. There were no absence failures in those days.
John Tepper came up that hill, into the sun and slammed into the back of the stalled car. It moved forward and pinned Okie between the car and the only stone driveway marker in town. John's windshield still had frost on most of it. An eye hole had been scrapped in front of the driver, but when he turned the corner and aimed directly into the sun's rays, the glare had prevented him from noticing the disabled car protruding into his lane. Fortunately for John Tepper, he had been slowing to turn into the school when the collision occurred.
I hope the John Tepper has made peace with the horrible accident of that day. He was villified for a time as the "kid who killed Okie."
Me?
Well, whenever the first spider web of frost is on my windshield every year, I think of Okie. Then I get out and scrape my windshield from edge to edge, both in tribute and remembrance.