“We Had a Funeral for a Boot”

I was called into my supervisor’s office after a case conference, and shown an entry I had made into our recreation log. It listed the residents that had gone on recreation that past Sunday, noting that we had gone to Ulster Landing Park. Under activities I had written “We had a funeral for a boot.” I was asked for an explanation.

It had been “one of those” houses. We had only eight kids, but each had posed us with multiple challenges. The residents would not comply with the expectations of the program, they refused to do chores or follow the rules, and two had gone AWOL earlier in the week. They were constantly complaining about what was expected of them, had frequent outbursts of anger with much colorful language and punching of walls, and, worst of all, they were constantly bickering. We had had several close calls with physical confrontations between and among residents.

Our recreations on Friday night and Saturday afternoon were ended early, and during my break on Saturday night, the staff had opted to stay in.

On Sunday, the group was just about as sick of each other as they could be, and we had to get them out of the house, if only to give the doors a break from being slammed. We didn’t feel comfortable with them in a public setting, and decided to bring them to a park despite the chilly weather and overcast skies.

The kids were upset. There was “nothing to do”, no playground equipment, and no other people in the park. They were unwilling to use the balls or Frisbees we had brought. They were unimpressed by the Hudson River, the shore with its many unusual wash-ups, or the woods with its trails, and it was too cold to use the water. My shift partner and I were at a loss. “We want to go”, “You can’t make us stay” was the refrain.

One young man, fresh out of jail, YDP’d (Youth Diversion Program) to Family House took off his shoes, rolled up his pants, and waded into the water. “Ray!” (Not his real name) “It’s too cold to do that, there’s no lifeguard, you don’t have a change of clothes, get out of the water”, I shrieked in my most non-directive manner.

“I have to save him, he could still be alive” Ray said.

He pulled a waterlogged boot from the Mighty Hudson. Ray called a code blue and started to perform CPR on the boot, a Timberland men’s size 10, yelling out instructions to the others to get “filocaine”, and heart stimulants, to get the crash cart and call in other emergency services. Somebody brought some flat stones to use as cardio version paddles. Sticks were used as hypodermics inserted in the soggy boot’s eyelets. After a heroic effort, Ray pronounced the boot dead.

There was wailing and gnashing of teeth at our loss, and Ray started digging a hole to inter our late friend dubbed “Timmy”.

The other residents were starting to get interested in this ongoing project now that Timmy’s interment was underway. There were tons of broken bricks on the beach, and some gathered pieces to outline the “grave”. It grew into a pattern rather than just an outline. Others scrounged for small chips of brick and spelled out “Rest in Peace Timmy” on the site. One young man who had been particularly sullen, angry and withdrawn found sticks and pulled down vines to fashion the sticks into a cross for the final resting place of our dear departed. Ray started the eulogy. The puns were so bad I envied him.

One girl, our surliest and most ill tempered, approached me and said, ”I know you have no reason to trust me”, she had AWOL’d earlier in the week, “but I’d like to go up around that road, I promise I’ll be back. I can’t tell you why.” I consented not without trepidation. She returned with 30 feet of yellow caution tape. Our solemn grave site was turning into a crime scene. “Police line, Do Not Cross” was painstakingly lettered onto the seeming miles of yellow ribbon. Longer heavier sticks were broken off and buried deep enough to hold the tape in a cordon around the now protected area.

The investigation was started into Timmy’s demise. It was deduced that Timmy had been pushed off the boat in a fit of anger having something to do with jealousy over a rhinestone sandal. After much questioning of the suspects, it was determined that Ray had been the perpetrator. His knowledge of the crime, his discovery of the decedent and his contrition leading to his efforts to make amends gave him away. He was escorted off to Family House for the completion of his sentence.

Dinner, quiet time, free time and bed time were a pleasure that evening. Everyone got along, and there was much speculation about those, “maybe even the police”, that might find the site, and what they would imagine had happened. Ray had achieved what we could not, a sense of unity among the residents.

It was Timmy, though, that had made the ultimate sacrifice, giving his life, enduring postmortem indignities, and lying under the ground upon which he had once trod proudly, that had made the difference in our Sunday.

I remember him fondly. Timmy, God rest your sole.

Domnic Pidone, Case Manager, Family House