He was your quintessential "quiet kid". One of the ones our youth program was really designed to help. Shy, timid, socially awkward.

Unsure of himself.

And allergic, it seemed, to almost everything. With an inhaler always at hand.

His parents enrolled him mostly for the socialization, it seemed. His mother never allowed him to participate in the outdoor activities the organization is so famous for.

His allergies, you know.

Within a year, he was falling behind the others in his age group. So many advancements depended on activities done at campouts.

She began to relent, letting him come along.

But only for a single day. Never overnight.

Finally, on one long weekend campout, his mother relented. Our leader convinced her he just had to come to keep up. A weekend mentioned in my archives somewhere. Many promises were made about what he would not be allowed to do.

They were not kept.

The inhaler was never needed. By Sunday he had hiked the woods, dug in dusty ground, built log structures, burned a flag or three, slept in a tent, zipped down a zipline, and swum in a freezing mountain stream.

She got a different young man back on Sunday. The one she had hoped we would give her.

Sorry Mom, but all we had to do was get him away from you for a few days.

Her protectiveness relaxed after that. Just as his confidence grew.

When the crew went to a camp out of state for a week of playing and learning on the water, he was one of them.

He was still the odd one, by choice. In a western town, he was the kid who went to school in a Jester's hat. Really. Who wore baggy pants with heavy chains, a yard-long chain attached to his wallet.

But he was confident now. Had friends, now. A lot.

Taylor was different, but Taylor was also cool.

He got other interests, and began missing meetings. His individuality was apparently quite attractive to the opposite sex. Being a small town, we still bumped into them often. He was always busy with something new. We got regular updates, as youngest son was close friends to the family, particularly one sister, and wife's Godson in the same classes and theater and choir.

Godson called the wife at work today.

There'd been an accident in town. Five high school kids racing down the main street at 50 miles an hour. Only the driver wearing a seatbelt.

Somehow they hit a lightpole.

They weren't sure Taylor was going to make it. He was LifeFlighted to Central City.

Godson called again a little after nine tonight. I handed the wife the phone. After only a brief conversation, she handed it back. He had other calls to make.

"Taylor didn't make it." is all she said.

And softly she began to cry.