Friend from college...

I met Les at Millersville State College, which we called Hootersville, in 1973. We became friends. We were two skinny, wiseass high school outcasts. We liked beer. We were not lady's men. Les at the time had hair down to the small of his back, though by the second semester he'd cut about half that off. With our other close friends we did all the usual crazy college hijinks. Later, for a year, we were roommates in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It was a good time to take a six pack and drive into the country with Les. Hiking Trout Run, Kelly Run, going to the Pinnacle overlooking the Susquehanna River, sitting on pine needles and talking . . . so many memories. I've enjoyed reading yours so much. The one's from his students, the one's from old friends. I visited Les twice in Sharon. I heard his father once say, "Hitler had some good ideas." (He meant making the trains run on time, I think). Les said, "No. Hitler didn't have any good ideas!" And yes, Les would laugh in your face if he thought you were full of shit. He laughed in mine more than once, rightly so. We drove to Sharon in a snow storm once, in a white out. I drove Les's VW. We were smoked up. I couldn't see the road to save my life. I screamed, "I can't see the road! I can't see the road!" Les laughed hysterically. A truck went by at 90 miles an hour and we followed the tracks. I liked seeing where Les grew up. The mills, the little valley where the town used to be before it burned down. Les was good about introducing me to his friends. Good guys, all. Once I was in Sharon and Les had just taken me to see his family doctor (swollen gland in my groin). We left the doctor's and someone on the road motioned us to go ahead and make our left. We did so and were clobbered by a barge of a car sailing along in the empty adjacent lane (I later learned this was legal in Sharon). Our car was pushed and compressed and Les's head went in slow motion into the rear view mirror. Blood spouted from his forehead. We were both out of the car, Les leaning foreward, walking like Groucho Marx so as not to get blood on his shoes.
"Les, are you all right?" I yelled. He stopped and turned on me. "What do you mean am I all right!?! I'm bleeding!" The driver of the other car, a large black woman, began yelling, "I hope you die! I hope you die!" I was in shock. Les stopped in his tracks and said, "Lady! What are you saying? It was an accident!" She shut up. Les walked on, I scrambled after him. The world was spinning.
I hollered, "Les, where's the hospital?"
"There!" he pointed. We were next to the front doors, about ten paces from the wreck. In a few minutes the doctor we'd just visited was shaving Les's head and sewing him up. I had a few crazy adventures with Les. I want to tell them all. I want to hear all yours. It's like, if we keep talking about him and dont' stop then he's not really gone. I had to call a college buddy today and talk to him to talk some of the sorrow away. I have not seen or talked to Les in over thirty years. Doesn't seem to matter.
Steve Dodson