Date: Fri 19-Dec-1997

Publication: Bee

Author: CURT

Quick Words:

commentary-Krell-Vogel

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COMMENTARY: Lighting the way

By Eric Krell

A cherubic boy named Michael guided Rob Vogel and me through our childhood

Christmas seasons.

Michael was a character in an advent calendar, a 24-page wall-hanging that

appeared in the Krell and Vogel households every December 1. Michael spent the

next three and a half weeks searching for the Christmas star. On each page my

sister, Kirsten, and I flipped, Michael questioned another relative, neighbor

or shop-owner about the elusive star. On the bottom of each panel, the

illustrator had drawn a thin strip of Christmas tree; these strips stacked up

with each passing day to form a complete tree on Christmas Eve, the night

Michael took his final crack at solving the Christmas star mystery.

Although I was more interested in what the calendar's sprouting tree

portended, the idea of a Christmas star also captivated me: Is it real? Can

you see it on Christmas Eve? What if it's cloudy?

I took my questions to Rob, who at ten was a source of patient wisdom to the

seven-year-old across the street. Rob frowned at my question the way he did

when I requested clarification on new words ("I'll tell you what it means but

you have to promise me you won't let your parents hear you say it, ever," he'd

warn.) Rob explained that maybe the Christmas star wasn't as important as

Michael's search for it. He suggested that it might be a better idea to pay

attention to what Michael learns along the way.

Now it was my turn to frown. I wanted to know whether or not there would be a

gigantic star in the sky on December 24, and whether or not that star would

have Santa Claus, Jesus Christ or a Christmas tree in it. I liked it better

when I followed Rob into the pine tree grove at the edge of our neighborhood

so he could tell me what "damn" meant.

On Christmas Eve, our family would gather at the Vogels (or vice versa) after

our annual hikes up West Street to what my sister and I called the white

church (as opposed to the stone church across the street). After bidding

farewell to Rob and his family, Kir and I would sprint to our kitchen to

unveil the final panel of "Michael." There in blinding glory was the blazing

yellow star that I saw not once in any Christmas Eve sky.

Although Michael's allure dimmed as we grew older, Rob remained my confidant

on subjects best addressed away from the kitchen table. And though both of our

lives were busy with dreams and disappointments (Rob's was richer in both

categories), he never failed to answer my queries with thoughtful,

challenging, and at times infuriating advice. As long as I can remember, Rob

dreamed of flying. When we were younger, he'd continue piecing together

intricate airplane and helicopter models long after I obliterated my

snap-together racing cars with firecrackers.

Rob applied that same precision to his college preparation, which began when

most of his classmates were more concerned with skipping study hall or trying

out for teams. He set his sights on the armed services academies and

scrutinized their entrance requirements.

When I asked him about high school sports one fall, he shocked me. "I'm not

the best one to ask," he replied. "I'm going to stop playing soccer this

year." My jaw dropped; soccer was his sport, he'd been playing it since first

or second grade. "I know I won't be good enough for varsity in a couple of

years. I'm smaller and not as fast. Besides, I need more time to get my grades

up where they need to be." There were plenty of things I wasn't good enough

at, too, but I'd never admit it. I frowned once more. I seemed to understand

my mentor less and less as we grew older.

After high school, I began to see that Rob's decisions weren't so baffling. He

entered the Naval Academy on his second or third try (the admissions board was

won over by his work ethic and good grades at another university), and earned

his wings by overcoming numerous obstacles. He flew Navy helicopters until a

near-fatal auto accident. The doctors doubted Rob would walk again, never mind

fly. Of course, the doctors didn't fully understand him, either. Rob worked

through his rehabilitation with the same painstaking commitment he devoted to

his model-making, college preparation and flight training. Then he took to the

air once more.

I finished my fourth year of college while following Rob's flight assignments

in the Far East, Europe and the Mid East. Despite my experience and education,

I felt like I was only learning to crawl. I cautiously began to test my own

limits (the first step, Rob's adolescent advice returned to me now, toward

getting closer to my dreams) while working dozens of different jobs in a

half-dozen different places.

Rob was flying, doing what he loved, when he died two years ago during a

training mission off the coast of Virginia.

I think about Rob during the holiday season, especially when I return to

Newtown and to the kitchen where Michael once guided us through our Decembers.

When I hike up West Street, my mind now brimming with dreams and doubts, I

recall a ten-year-old's advice to pay more attention to the journey than the

destination. On the darkest stretches of road, when the doubts far outnumber

the dreams, I still look up to see if my old friend is nearby. And when I do,

I know exactly how Michael must have felt when he finally found his brilliant

star.

(Eric Krell now lives in Fort Collins, Colo., when he is a freelance writer.

He has written for magazines including Rolling Stone, Cooking Light, and Men's

Journal. )