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river rat: Leroy boy, you're my friend.
Man dies in accident at quarry
Philadelphia, PA - A Perry County man died yesterday afternoon after an accident at a Pennsy Supply quarry near Newville. James "Leroy" Kratzer, 42 of Buffalo Twp. died from a fall while working on a concrete batch plant that Pennsy Supply is building at its quarry operation on Jacobs Ridge Lane near Routes 11 and 233, officials said.
JAMES L. KRATZER
James Leroy Kratzer, 42, of Buffalo Twp., Newport, died Monday, May 8, 2006 after an accident at Pennsy Supply Quarry near Newville.
He was born Nov. 11, 1963, the son of Ernest Kratzer and the late Mabel (Harman) Kratzer of Millerstown.
He was employed by Pennsy Supply for more than 15 years as a concrete maintenance supervisor; a member of St. Paul's Lutheran Church, Newport, Slim Walley Rotten Gun Club and a life member of Newport Social Order of Owls; and a NASCAR and Richard Petty fan and enjoyed swimming, hunting and target shooting with his sons and working at his new home with his wife.
Surviving are his wife of 23 years, Tracy Serfass Kratzer; two sons, Travis, 22, and Cody, 20, both at home; a brother, John of Millerstown; five sisters, Audrey Renninger of Richfield and Nancy Schlegel, Sandra Hood, Linda Fleisher and Suzanne Farner, all of Millerstown; father- and mother-in-law, Daulton and Jane Serfass of Newport; four sisters- and brothers-in-law, Linda and Richard Lowe, Barb and Gary Korth, Deb and Wayne Campbell and Sandi and Tom Blair, all of Newport; 27 nieces and nephews; and nine great-nieces and nephews.
Services were held May 12 in Family Life Center, Newport, with the Rev. David Hefner officiating. Burial was in Wright's Cemetery, Perry Valley.
David M. Myers Funeral Home, Newport, handled arrangements.
On a recent trip home I asked one of my friends about Leroy and he told me that he'd died over a year ago. We were sitting having a picnic at my nutty cousin Jim's house-kids were playing in the yard and there was probably cheese from a burger on my face at the time. I cried openly, unprepared for tears in front of friends and relatives with whom I'd just been joking and acting out some fun but raunchy tough guy shit from high school-like we were still teenagers and everything was funny as shit and nothing mattered.
Leroy dropped out of high school after tenth grade. He eventually got his GED and went on to build and fix things and raise two boys with his loverly wife and super hottie Tracy. He was one of those friends I always imagined hooking up with again, maybe when we were retired or something. We rarely spoke after I moved away and for that I am sad. Here are some things I liked about him.
Leroy was funny. Funny, like funny as shit and make you snort food through your nose, but not funny sarcastic or snarky. Country funny.
Leroy and his family had a paved, banked 1/4 midget racing track in their front yard. Scale speeds in our little helmets and crash pads were over 120 miles an hour. We raced them into the night until there wasn't any more fuel on the property, often siphoning gas from his dad's car. That track was like cocaine and Leroy shared it as though everyone he knew owned it with him.
I once saw him push a guy a foot taller than him (that wanted to fight him) so hard the guy did a back somersault and then fell on his back, slumping against a locker. That was the end of the fight.
We were roommates at basketball camp and that was possibly the best part of my entire high school basketball career.
He was short, no more than 5' 6" and muscled like a pro wrestler.
On a field trip to Six Flags in 9th grade we both wore the same white painter's pants and red and white striped tank tops. That was a really strange thing to do, looking back on it now. It was like we were gay little mimes and for some reason no one gave us any shit for it.
We talked on the phone almost every night for hours until he dropped out of school and then he just disappeared into the world of adults the way a caterpillar is no longer on the ground with his buddies when he becomes a butterfly.
When he worked at a gas station nights and I'd stop by we'd talk until closing and then as I was leaving he'd say, totally without irony, the franchise's popular slogan "Happy Motorin'" and we wouldn't see each other again for another month or more. No matter what, years after he quit the station, he'd say Happy Motorin' and grin and I'd think of muggy nights driving away from the station, happy to have spent some time laughing and choking on bugs under yellow fluorescent lights.
I wish I'd called him.
