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rockin' facebook posthumously
a little love for my friend, lennie jo
by dirk cotton

Lennie Jo Van Meter Roberts
1952 - 2011

So, Lennie Jo, you made your debut on FaceBook today. You weren’t on a first name basis with the Internet, but it worked out pretty well, don’t you think? Not technically a profile photo, but close enough. I just looked through our yearbooks and this one spoke to me. And did you see the amazing response from your classmates? As you can see, we adored you.

I remember riding my bike down your street in eighth grade and running into you and Susan Rogers. You both smiled and said, “Hey!” in that little two-syllable singsong way. I didn’t know whether it was cooler that you both said “hey!” when everyone else just said “hi!” or that you were both kind enough to say anything at all.

It was my first year in Elizabethtown and not everyone was as accepting of a new kid, though in fairness, most were. I remember walking past one of the girls in our class that year (I was delivering handbills, I think) and she looked right at me and said, “Is your name Dirk Cotton?”

I felt flattered. I smiled and said, “Yes. . .”, thinking she was going to say, “Well, hi! I’m. . .”

Instead, she just kept walking down the street, her question having been answered and having no need for any additional information, I suppose. Weird, huh?

It was great having you for a friend in high school and college. I thought we kept in touch pretty well after I graduated and moved to the east coast, but I wish I’d done better. We always wish we had done that better, don't we?

Remember the Neil Diamond concert in Louisville? We double-dated with Kenny Hatfield and Carol Eubank. I suppose Carol is one of the things we had in common, a shared best friend.

Anyway, we pulled into the rest stop on I-65 to use the restrooms on the way home. Carol somehow got her scooter skirt wet and Kenny and I could hear the two of you laughing manically through the concrete block wall. We were trying to figure out how a ladies room on the interstate could be that funny. (What exactly is a scooter skirt?)

We laughed a lot in Mr. Speck’s calculus class senior year, too. Granted, we did it more quietly. I sat sideways in my chair so I could whisper to you and Marta sitting behind me. Mr. Speck would tolerate it for a while and then call on me to explain what he had just said. I would, and I’d get it correct, so he would just keep lecturing. I guess he figured that as long as we were making good grades, somehow kept up with the lecture, and weren’t too distracting he’d leave us alone.

But you always gave me a perplexed look afterwards and asked, “How do you do that?”

Didn’t we start doing that sophomore year in Miss Winney’s plane geometry class? I guess that’s a second thing we had in common. We were both good students and ended up sitting together in the hardest classes. Lucky for me.

I had a blast taking you to the prom and on the Belle of Louisville trip senior year. Though neither of us were dating anyone seriously and we hung out together a lot, I remember that I was nonetheless pretty nervous about inviting you. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes. I felt especially presumptuous inviting you to both.

Your mother took that picture of us in your dining room before the prom with me in my burgundy tux. I keep that photo around in case my kids ever ask for proof that I was a dork in high school. (So far, they haven't needed much convincing.)

Did I teach you to drive my SS 396, or did you already know how to drive a 4-speed manual transmission? I can’t remember, but I do remember that you drove it well. I didn’t let many people drive my car, you know. (I let Huz drive it once, but only because I was playing basketball and he promised to bring me a hamburger.)

But there was that night freshman year at UK when you were driving us back to campus with Steve and Carol in the backseat. You turned the wrong way onto a one-way street and the cops saw it and pulled us over. You had left your drivers license at the dorm, so the cop wrote you a ticket. He explained that if you brought your license to court, the charges would be dropped, but you were really upset.

I felt awful about that and Carol and I drove you to court a few days later. They dropped the charges, of course, but I still felt like it was ultimately me who made you cry that night by asking you to drive my car.

While I’m apologizing for car stuff, I should mention the afternoon that you, Marta, Carol and I were out running around. Something happened and I accelerated very quickly. I never exceeded the speed limit, but I did reach it in a wink (that Chevelle could turn ‘em over pretty good) and it scared you.

The next day, you were very upset with me until math class, where I apologized profusely during Mr. Speck’s explanation of the second fundamental theorem of calculus and I swore I'd never do it again.

I thought you had overreacted, but you looked me in the eyes and told me that you were certain I was doing at least 90 mph. It was more like 55 or 60 mph, but I could see that you were truly frightened. That’s the kind of teenager you were, the kind I like to think my daughter is today, one who makes good decisions and insists that the kids around her do likewise.

Oh, and I suppose I should apologize for the time we were driving back to Elizabethtown after watching the Panthers play in the state baseball tournament in Lexington. We passed you slowly on the Bluegrass Parkway and my friend, Terry, mooned you and Carol from the backseat. I swear I didn’t know he was going to do it and I know you were appalled. I was appalled, too. I don’t know why I laughed about it then, or why I’m still laughing about it tonight. (Oops! Sorry.)

The thing I remember most about you, though, is that you were always laughing. We’d hang out with all our friends in Lexington, Carol, Steve, Huz, Stuart Davis, Julie and Trudy and the rest and cruise around listening to The Four Seasons Gold Vault of Hits on my 8-track. Good times, huh?

Speaking of laughing, remember me on the unicycle? Your little sister could ride to the grocery and bring back a loaf of bread under her arm on that thing as easily as I could ride a bicycle, but why did you think I could ride it? We were leaving for a date one night when you insisted that I try it. I fell off time and time again and you just sat there on your front steps laughing you butt off and begging me to try it one more time.

You had a bit of a naughty streak, too, as I recall. You may have come across as a goodie-two-shoes sometimes, but I remember you, Carol and Pat Eubank sneaking out of the dorm at night, running through the side door and waking everyone up when the alarm went off. Then you’d hide in that little sitting area with the benches until the watchman looked out the door and, seeing no one, closed it and went back to his station.

The last time I remember seeing you at UK, I was sitting in the open third-floor window of Pence Hall (the architecture building) listening to a reel-to-reel tape of the Beatles’ White Album on headphones. I looked down at the parking lot behind the Chemistry-Physics building and you and your boyfriend, whose name I can never remember, came strolling across on your way to class. You looked up at me and waved. I whistled (I whistle quite loudly; everyone on campus looked up at me) and he put his arm around you and smiled, in a “she’s mine” kind of gesture.

I felt that way, too. I thought that if someone as amazing as you would be my friend, I couldn’t possibly be the dorky loser I supposed myself to be.

Today, Carol Brown asked me to write something nice about you, as if writing when your heart is broken is something that you can just sit down and do. Earlier today I wasn’t sure when or even if I would be able to do that. I cried when I thought about you, but as the day wore on and I thought more about our friendship, I could only remember you smiling, so I started to smile, too. Turns out it’s hard to cry about someone who laughed and made you laugh all the time.

So, I went to bed tonight but couldn’t sleep. I found myself staring at a dark ceiling and talking to you. Finally I gave up and came down here to the office to write this, as I sit here at 3 a.m. in my boxers and a button-down collar oxford shirt I picked up off the floor (I know it’s not a pretty image, but I thought it might make you laugh—I don’t have a unicycle).

You won’t be forgotten. As Larry Walker so aptly put it this afternoon, “Lennie Jo was, and is, an important part of us.” In many ways, you were the best part of us, smart, caring, friendly and fun. A little bit shy, but inexplicably poised and self-confident at the same time.

Thanks for taking the time to have lunch with me this summer at Back Home. It couldn’t have been easy for you, but it meant an awful lot to me.

Lennie Jo, you will live on in my memories of the happiest days of high school and college. Always there, always smiling, always a friend.

Good night.


Dirk Cotton is a retired executive of a Fortune 500 Internet company who loves to spend time with his family, fly fish, shoot sporting clays, attend college baseball games, sail, follow the Wildcats, and write. Everything else he does is just for fun. A computer programmer-cum-marketing executive-cum-financial planner who now wants to be a writer, he apparently can't decide what he wants to be when he grows up. He and his family moved to The Southern Part of Heaven in 2005 and couldn't be happier with that decision.

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