Remembrances of a childhood friend

          My brother Scott is four years younger than me. When we were kids, his best friend was a boy his age named Mike Moran.

          We lived in a house located in a large cul-de-sac. Mike lived about a minute's bike ride from us in a home located about eight houses down from ours.

          Scott and his buddy Mike were together often. In fact, they were really inseparable. They would play baseball together in the cul-de-sac, participated on the same team in our Saturday morning bowling league, played board games together, and were even in the same classroom multiple times throughout elementary school.

          Since Mike was around our house often, I got to know him well. I learned early on that the only other male in his house was his father. Perhaps that's why Mike looked up to me. Over time, I willingly took on the role of his older brother. I recall coaching him on proper baseball techniques and giving him tips in bowling as well. He was smart, eager to learn, and genuinely fun to be around.

          Mike had two older sisters. Barb was a year older than me and attended East Aurora High as a junior, while Sandy went to Simmons Middle School. He'd express frustrations about his sisters on occasion, but they were just minor annoyances compared to the person who was unquestionably his biggest challenge to deal with in life.

That person would be his mother.

          Mrs. Moran was a former nurse who was now a stay at home Mom. She was also an angry, unhappy woman. One could hear her screaming from all parts of the neighborhood. Yelling is something she did quite frequently.

          She had lost one leg to diabetes, so she had a substitute leg in its place. I can still picture her hobbling about the kitchen, hollering for Mike to come up from the basement or leaning out the front door and shouting for her husband or one of the girls to come inside.

          She was also hard of hearing and by age 10 or so, Mike figured out that he could say things behind her back (literally) and get away with it. I recall him mocking her with head sways and goofy faces while standing directly behind her, as well as getting away with mumbling backtalk when standing within earshot, all the time knowing she wouldn't be able to hear him. It was unquestionably a household full of tension and one that saw every member of that family catching Mrs. Moran's wrath in some form on a regular basis.

          September 7th, 1982 was a Tuesday. It was the day after Labor Day, so it meant a return to school after the three day weekend. The school year was still young, with only a week or two in the books up until that point in time. I was a sophomore at East Aurora High School that year, while Scott and Mike were in the same sixth grade class at Hermes Elementary School.

          Since East High was a 45 minute walk from home and Hermes Elementary was in our neighborhood, the normal morning routine saw Mom drive me to school while my brother walked to class, usually with his friend Mike by his side. That's how this day began. Normal.

It would turn out to be a day that was anything but that.

          Around 10:30 that morning I was called out of class by an administrator. In the hallway, a gentleman who identified himself as a detective asked me how I had arrived at school that morning. I told him my mother had taken me, and he then asked if her driving me that day was unusual. I stated that it was not and shortly thereafter he abruptly ended the conversation by saying, 'Go back to class.' When I asked what was going on he repeated sternly, 'Go back to class.'

          I didn't think much about it for the rest of the day, and soon was walking to my grandparents' home after school, just as I did every other day. Usually my grandfather gave me a ride home but when I arrived at their house this time, I was surprised to find my Mom there. She was in the car, along with my brother and six year old sister. This was highly unusual and upon the sight of them parked in front of my grandparents' home, I was immediately confused.

          When I got in the car I asked Mom why they were there. At that moment my brother screamed, 'Because Mike's dead! They're all dead!' I looked at my mother and said, 'Tell him that's not funny.' She didn't reply. Rather, the look in her eyes gave me the answer.

It was true.

          After Mr. Moran went to work early that morning, Mrs. Moran drugged her three children and dragged them into the car, which was located in the closed garage. She sat down in the driver's seat, started the car, and all four eventually perished as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. 

         My brother stopped at Mike's house on his way to school so they could walk together. However, he heard the car running in the garage, figured Mike was getting a ride, and went to school without him.

          Mike's grandmother found them later that morning and called 911. Emergency personnel tried to revive Mike, but it was too late.

He was 11 years old.

          Three Chicago news crews came out to our suburb and reported from our block for their newscasts that evening. We watched ABC's 10 o'clock news as a family, and it was their lead story. They recanted the events that occurred on our block that day as we watched in silence. When they wrapped up the story, they posted a picture of Mike as they faded to commercial. The television in our living room went silent, but our house was now filled with the sounds that accompany incomprehensible sadness. When I looked at that picture it was the first time that it became real to me. I am in tears of sorrow once again while remembering that moment for this piece, these 32 years later.

          After the tragedy I learned that a few days before it occurred, Mrs. Moran had received word that she was going to lose her other leg as a result of diabetes. That may have been the trigger to her actions. The note she left behind was addressed directly to her husband. It was said the note was full of anger and delusion, and that it mentioned the impending removal of her leg. I don't know that the contents of the note really matter though. Barb, Sandy, and Mike were gone. All the notes in the world couldn't bring them back.

          Many people reading this have lost someone they love too. When we think of them, we remember the good times we had together, the things about them that made them so special, and we think about them at peace now, no longer tortured by illness or sadness or difficult life circumstances.

          When thoughts of Mike pop in my head these days, I try my best to focus on those good times. The smile that beamed from his face when he got a strike in bowling. The elation he felt when he smacked a baseball hard and far. The laughter he released when he heard a funny joke. The way he looked at me in such a studious fashion, wanting to absorb my tips on how to pick up a certain spare, how to maneuver his way out of a rundown.

          Over time I've come to the realization that I'll never understand why it all happened. The question of why can be asked time and again, but there really is no answer so I've stopped asking it. One answer I do have is the knowledge that my life was better because Mike Moran was in it, even if it was for far shorter of a time period than it ever should have been. Some of you reading this knew him. I wish all of you did. He was a special child.

          I love you Michael. If you're reading this from heaven, you can stop and go back to hitting home runs and bowling perfect games now. I hope to see you again one day.