Parental Education Source

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Barton Under Needwood (aerial)


Image by Iain Tait
This is the small village where I grew up. I’ve not been back there for 15 years. But just seeing the road names, fields, etc. brought a whole load of memories flooding back.

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Ode to J.H.


Image by elefanterosado
J.H. was, by all descriptions, a sweet young man of 17. A senior in highschool enrolled in AP classes. A soccer star. A lover of animals, particularly a Blue Tick Coonhound Lab cross named Otto, who was his constant companion. He was also good neighbor. And he was the son of a hard-boiled father whose wrath he feared.

One night he and some highschool pals decided to light out for an old orchard, where boys could be boys and get high. His friend H.H., the son of a local restaurant owner, was game. So was a third friend. The hours waxed and waned away. The boys extinguished the joint and hopped back in J.H.’s car. Upon pulling away from the orchard, J.H. (by all accounts a terrible driver) caught sight of the orchard owner’s car in his rear view mirror. "S**t!" he exclaimed, stomping down hard on the accelerator and making fast tracks for the road home. Unbeknownst to him, the orchard owner was merely being neighborly by shadowing a high teenage boy-in-trouble home. But J.H. could only think of one thing: that once his dad caught wind of his escapades there was gonna be trouble. Big Trouble.

J.H. hit the tree going upwards of 70 miles of hour. His parents, who discovered the battered car en route to an evening out, were the first to arrive on the scene, by sheer accident. They arrived in time to watch their son die in their arms. H.H. died too. Only the third friend survived.

The dog Otto, who was continually chained outside after his young master’s death, howled the keening wail of a mourning hound on his line for a full year afterwards. He was allowed inside the house by J.H.’s parents only when temperatures outside reached 20 degrees or lower. The dog was a bitter and unwelcome reminder of the accident. His wail reminded them of what could have, what should have been. Yet something kept old J.H. senior, no great lover of animals, from shooting the dog dead. But he must have thought about it.

Otto’s fate improved when J.H.’s father, inconsolable at the loss of his youngest son, decided to sell out and get the hell out of Dodge. He didn’t want any more reminders of J.H.’s passing. He wanted to clear out. "They can have the dog if they want him," he told his realtor when the property sold.

The couple who bought the 500 square foot cabin and ten acres where J.H. had come of age wanted the hound the moment he licked their hands from his frozen line. And loved him. And kept him warm. And marveled at stories that he had turned into an ornery and dangerous dog after J.H.’s death. And cried when we buried him in our front yard. J.H.’s yard.

We miss Otto, just as he missed you, J.H.

Rest In Peace, sweet boys.

Westminster, Vermont.