In Memorandum: My Cousin Earl

In Memorandum: My Cousin Earl

Today marks the day of the tragic, senseless and untimely demise of Earl Hogg, my cousin from west Texas who died at the age of 19. If he had lived he would be 53 years old.

Earl was a good old west Texas farm boy, not much brighter than a pumpkin in his father’s pumpkin patch, but still but still he was a hard working, kind-hearted young man. I’m not being judgmental saying he was not that smart, only providing the back story as to how he lost his life.

Earl was hitch hiking along the highway when an old pickup truck pulled over and the driver offered him a ride. The cab was filled with three good old boy farmers, including the driver, who looked like they had been drinking all day. Earl thought about turning down their offer, but it was a hot, muggy day and he said okay. So Earl opened the tailgate and climbed into the bed of the truck, carefully re-latching the tailgate, then pushed aside the dozens of empty Lone Star Beer cans before taking a seat on the rusty floorboard.

Ten miles down the road the truck approached the bridge that spanned the Brazos River. After heavy rains the night before the river was cresting to near overflowing and Earl felt blessed that he had decided to accept the ride after all. But halfway across the bridge the already inebriated driver swerved to miss an armadillo in his lane and the truck crashed through the guardrail and plunged into the raging water below.

The three rather drunk good old boys managed to open the doors to the cab and swim to safety. But pool Earl drowned because he panicked trying to figure out how to open the tailgate from inside the pickup truck bed.