Forty-eight years ago today, April 10, 1977, the morning started out peaceful and full of promise. The sun rose in a bright blue sky, casting a warm glow over our little part of the world. Everything felt normal—just like any other Sunday.
My sister Karen had to leave the house that morning for something—I can’t remember exactly what—and our mother, who worked as a waitress at the Holiday Inn in Hopkinsville, was already at work. Easter Sunday was always busy at the restaurant, with crowds coming in after church, so it was just me and my nine-year-old sister Kristy at home.
Later that morning, Kristy came to me and asked if I could help her get her pogo stick unstuck from the spokes of her bicycle. It had been tangled up like that for a few weeks, and she couldn’t ride until it was fixed. I was elbow-deep in working on my car, so I told her I’d get to it in a little while.
After lunch, I finally made my way to the bike and freed the pogo stick from the spokes. Not long after that, Kristy jumped on her bike and began riding up and down the road, full of joy, just enjoying the freedom of a sunny afternoon. I remember watching her briefly—her hair blowing in the breeze, her little world so full of light, unaware of how fragile it all was.
A little later, my buddy Donald Case pulled up and joined me by the car. We leaned against the fender, chatting like we always did. At one point, Donald looked up and said, “What’s wrong with your sister? Did she run out of gas or something?” I looked over and saw Kristy sitting quietly on the side of the road, her bike at a stop. I didn’t think much of it—just assumed she was taking a break, lost in whatever had her attention.We went back to talking, not realizing that just a few minutes later, everything would change.
About ten minutes passed. Donald and I kept talking—something about engines, maybe a carburetor issue I was dealing with. Just the usual back-and-forth between two guys who’d spent countless hours under the hood. We weren’t really paying attention to anything else—until the sudden screech of tires cut through the air like a knife.
I looked up just as a car hit Kristy. She had been turning around in the road to head back toward the house. I don’t even remember running. One second I was standing there, and the next, I was at her side. She was unconscious. I held her, hoping, praying, begging.
Within ten minutes, she was gone.
It was—and still is—a hard pill to swallow. A moment that changed everything.
It’s a memory that has never left me—a day that started with so much light and ended in heartbreak. Losing Kristy was a pain I never knew existed until that day, and even now, 48 years later, it’s still hard to put into words.
But I remember her smile. I remember the joy on her face as she rode her bike that day. And I hold onto that. That little girl, full of life, in the Easter sunshine.
Some moments never fade. They become part of who we are. And today, I remember Kristy—my little sister—with love, with sorrow, and with a heart that still misses her every single day.
