note: this poem was written before we lost our "12th Man," Tim Kerlee.

Eleven Ags Cross the Tracks

In the late afternoon on November 17, 1999, an Aggie Cadet came back from class, threw his books on his bed, and began rummaging through all his belongings searching for his bonfire pot. He finally found it under the bed, hastily shoved there in anticipation of an inspection that day. He changed into his bonfire grodes and crammed his pot on down his head. Feeling good about where he was going, the Cadet quickly made his way down the quadrangle, through the arches and past the memorial on the plaza in honor of those whose lives had been taken in time of war.

On the other side of campus, another Ag shoved his heel into his work boots and hurriedly ran the laces through the eyelets, sending up a puff of dust and dirt that had accumulated from the prior day's work. He strode out the door and walked to the Memorial Student Center, where it is forbidden to walk across the grass out of respect for those who have passed on. Taking care of some last minute errands, the Ag headed out the front doors of the MSC across from the drill field, past the memorial at the entrance that honored still more who had fallen in defense of the nation. Upon reaching the edge of the drill field, he broke into a quick shuffle and decided to cut across the grass, which was respected but not as sacred as that surrounding the MSC, not half aware that to his left was yet another solitary, solemn memorial standing at the west entrance to campus. The day had only begun for this man who was on his way to bonfire.

After crossing the field, he walked diagonally across the street and down the sidewalk past the Academic Building, in which another good Ag sat in a classroom, staring out the window while the professor's words moved through the air. The words provoked little interest, causing her attentiveness to turn toward the statue of Sul Ross standing out in front of the building where Silver Taps was held each month. It was such a wonderful fall day outside. The leaves had turned brown and yellow and red. People were outside talking and smiling to each other, sitting on benches reading books or in the grass watching everyone else go by. She thought she would stand up and leave; she wanted to be out there where things were happening. And so
she did, without saying a word, while the professor simultaneously continued his lecture and tracked her with his eyes as she quietly walked out of the room. The young Ag walked outside and thought what a good idea it would be to go out to bonfire. That is where things were happening, she thought.

Hundreds of other Aggies went through similar routines that afternoon; determined, though unsuspecting of any catastrophic event and certainly not contemplating death, although they were surrounded by remembrances of those Aggies, young and old, whose lives had met this unfortunate certainty. There were Ags who, though no longer students, returned back to campus that day to simply participate in bonfire and maybe, even for a night, be what they once were. It was like any other day in Aggieland.

Everyone willing and able converged on the bonfire, drawing in deep breaths of air laced with the sweet smell of smoke from the post oak and cedar elm burning in the perimeter fires. They pulled on gloves and some put wads of cheap tobacco in their cheeks. Others grabbed food and water from the tables. They all worked and they all worked hard, past sunset and into the night. The soundtrack to "Patton" blared over the loudspeaker amid the ethereal glow of the flood lights and perimeter fires. Cranes grunted and heaved. People yelled at barked orders, signaling the cranes to move the logs a few feet, and then a fraction of an inch. Pliers snapped excess wire as each log was fastened into place. Hands were extended to pull relief workers up on to stack while good friends sat together on logs to rest and take stock of what they had done. People were covered in dirt and grime
and smoke and it was all good.

Then, without warning, there was an awful, horrific noise followed by a flash of white light.

Eleven Ags, men and women, were walking side by side in a confident, jocular gait. Some had their pots tilted back on their heads and others carried them under arm. No one was fully cognizant of the surroundings. Their loose strides changed to a slow march as they approached a distant figure sitting next to a gate. They stopped abruptly within a short distance from the figure and fixed their gazes upon him. Without saying a word, each one had realized that they were staring at St. Peter.

"Excuse me, Sir?" said one of the Aggies, stepping forward.

"Yes?" replied St. Peter.

"Were Aggies. We've been working on bonfire. You see, every year we build this huge fire,"
"I know," interrupted St. Peter with a warm smile. "We watch it from up here." St. Peter opened the gate and motioned them to go in, but everyone stood motionless.

"Why do you stall?" asked St. Peter.

The Aggie who had stepped forward looked down at his torn clothes and worn boots.

"It is by the grace of God that you enter these gates, and no other reason. Do not fret over what you wear, because those threads represent more virtue than most men's souls will ever know. Now, pass through the gate." They all walked through, arms around each other, laughing and smiling. One of the Aggies remarked, "You know, I didn't realize that this place was part of campus."

"I did," replied another Ag. "I always suspected that it was somewhere across the railroad tracks."

Mike Geeslin '91