Eddie, 50 Years Ago Today

My mother passed away in December 2022 and we held her viewing at Soderstrum’s funeral home in Story City, Iowa. It was a beautiful service and so many from Story City came to show their love and condolences. 

It was comforting to be back at Soderstrum’s. I had grown up in Story City and had played with the Soderstrum boys in their house many times when we were young. It was a familiar place.

As I grieved the passing of my mother, I was suddenly struck with the memory of the first time I went to a viewing at the same funeral home.

I suddenly remembered Eddie, and a flood of thoughts and feelings entered my being.

February 21, 1973, 50 years ago today, my childhood friend Eddie Pruismann died. 

It was a Wednesday.

Eddie was just 10 years old.

I was 9.

Eddie and I weren’t the closest of friends, but his family lived next door to my grandparents in my hometown of Story City and I would often go over to play with Eddie when visiting my grandparents.

Eddie was a year older than me. We did little-town Iowa stuff. We rode our bikes. We dug up stuff. We threw rocks at things. Eddie had a BB gun and we would shoot at pop bottles and beer cans we found around. We did things to pass the time.

Farmers would leave big piles of feed corn in a lot up the street from Eddie’s house behind the grocery store parking lot. These piles of corn became part of our adventures, especially in the winter as the piles would freeze and we could climb on them and stand high above everything around us. 

The piles of corn looked like giant igloos and we would sometimes dig at the bottom of a pile to make a tunnel inside the pile of corn.

On February 21, 1973, Eddie woke up, had breakfast and went to school. He had lunch. He had recess. After school he and another friend played outside across the street at the corn piles. The story I heard was that the other boy went home for supper and that Eddie and his little dog stayed to play a bit longer, digging inside one of the piles of frozen corn.

Then the pile of corn collapsed on top of Eddie, crushing him. The story was that his little dog tried and tried to pull Eddie’s body out from underneath the corn and stayed with him. 

But Eddie was gone. He was 10 years old.

The next morning my mother gently told me the news that my friend Eddie had died.

I remember being in disbelief. How could he be dead? I had just played with his a few days ago. I had just seen him on the playground yesterday at school. She told me how he died. Again, I thought, “Eddie and I had played on those same piles of corn. How could corn kill someone?”

Going to school that Thursday was surreal. I remember feeling numb. My body felt different. My breathing was different. I know now that I was in shock. We all were, I suppose. It was cold and gray out. I remember many of us just stood outside the front door of the school and sort of looked at each other, not knowing what to say or feel.

“You hear about Eddie?”

“Yeah…”

Silence. 

It felt like the entire town was numb. I’d never experienced anything like it. Our entire little city was in shock.

The following week was the viewing and funeral. My mom asked me if I wanted to go. I did, but I was nervous. She gently described to me what the viewing would be like. She told me it might not be easy to see my friend laying there and that his body had been crushed, so he might not look like he did before. She told me that she would be there with me.

I remember getting dressed up and going to the funeral home with my mom. Other kids and their parents were there. School teachers were there. Eddie’s family was there. And again, there was this strange, thick cloud of numbness all around. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. It was like time stood still and the air had a tummy ache.

I was 9. I saw the casket in the viewing room. I was familiar with the funeral home but this time it wasn’t for play. The home had a different feel to it. Stillness. Sadness. Sacredness.

I held my mother’s hand and bravely looked inside the casket. I don’t know what I was expecting. I wasn’t scared but it was surreal seeing Eddie’s life-less body. He was so small. He was in a suit. I don’t think I’d ever seen him in a suit before. He looked like Eddie. I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him and held my mom’s hand. The funeral home was so amazingly quiet.

I was sad. I was confused. None of it made sense. How could he be dead? 

Kids don’t die.

Old people do.

I remember, even at 9 that I didn’t want anyone to see me cry. I am sure I wiped away some tears, but I didn’t have a real cry until I was alone in my room, back home. The worst thing in the world for a 9 year-old boy was to appear “weak” in front of other kids, and crying was the biggest sign of weakness. But I’m sure we all cried about Eddie dying.

I remember how different Story City was when Eddie died. Even at 9 I could tell people were a bit more tender, more kind to one another. There was a quietness I had never experienced before. There was a sense of unity from this tragedy. There was a kind of limbo that bathed over the little farm town, at least for a while.

Like with any death, there is a stark reality that happens. The little petty things in life like what’s on TV don’t matter so much. And the things that do matter are all so much clearer. Things like holding hands, a cool drink of water, and people who love you matter so much more.

I remember going to my grandparents home after Eddie dying, knowing I wouldn’t go over to play with Eddie anymore. It felt weird. I don’t remember saying anything to his family other than maybe, “Hi” from my grandpa’s yard. I was 9. I felt bad for them. 

Today I am honoring the memory of my childhood friend, Eddie Pruismann.

Eddie was only 10.

This is a reminder for me to be kind and gentle with myself and everyone I meet. 

We never know what anyone is going through or if we will ever see them again.

Life is short and it is sometimes far to short for some.

As the Dalai Lama has said: “Whenever possible, be kind. And it is always possible.”

Blessings to Eddie.

Blessings to his family.

Blessings to those around us be they strangers, friends or family.

We are all here together, right now.

Your friend,

Ronnie