I just lost an old friend–by that, I mean he was old and he had been my friend for a long time, since grammar school, in fact. We grew up in Augusta, Arkansas, a small town on the White River, a tributary of the Mississippi that became rather infamous during the Clinton Administration. We went through grammar and high school all in one building and graduated together with about 40 others, and that was forty others from the whole county.
That was also about the end of my knowing Malcolm. He went west and I went east. Except for a few reunions, our paths didn’t cross through the years. I don’t know anything about his family, what he did for a living, what he liked . . . . . . . . . I do know that he had some rough times and later, he lost both his feet to diabetes and made news and You-Tube by jumping from a plane to call attention to a little girl who had disappeared. I thought that was very brave.
A friend sent me this picture of Malcolm. I see a weathered old man that I do not recognize, but I know he is part of who I am. You see, we grew up together in a small town in Arkansas on the White River.
Rest in Peace, Malcolm Lambert
