by James C. Stephens


 

October 6, 1975

File1183

Life. Live. Breathe. Feel. Destiny. Easygoing. Or. Struggling Decision? Expression. Depressed. Or. Depths of human life. To share. NOW! My Best of Friends is no longer around. A brother he was. Died a death I shall never forget. A person. A honorary Bodhisattva in my book. He did not begrudge his life for a moment. An old lady being beaten by who knows who. His action of Jihi. To help. A stabbing, not New York. MAPPO. Senseless waste of a gallant YMD. My brother I pledge to take care of your,  nay our family. Francis, Dick and Sister Karen.



Paul was a strong Christian that I grew up with in Polson, Montana. His mother Francis is Chinese American from San Francisco. She treated me like one of her sons. I spent many joyful hours as a young boy, playing with spud guns, learning how to play California Canasta, Monopoly, Life and other board games. We sledded down the driveway and played army in the ditches. We attended the local Presbyterian Church Sunday School across the street from Lincoln elementary school.

I recall one day, we shot a sparrow with a slingshot and tried to nurse it back to health. Paul’s father Dick was very angry and said, “Never shot anything unless you plan on eating it.”  We ended  up burying it in a shoebox. It was a sad, but important lesson.

The terrible crime took place at Gonzaga University.

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