I hadn’t gotten over the horrific images of corpses floating in New Orleans when I received word that Mrs. Hazel Hackett, my high school guidance counselor and homeroom teacher, had died at the age of 93 in Valley Springs, Calif. Then came the news that a close friend and classmate since elementary school, James Calvin Brown, had died in Chicago of a heart attack. And last week, funeral services for Vivian Malone, the first African-American to graduate from the University of Alabama, were held in Atlanta.

Each had ties to Tuscaloosa, Ala., my hometown. I have often written about Mom Hackett in my columns. She always said that of the thousands of students she had taught, Clifton Lewis, now a high school teacher in Nashville, and I were the most motivated. But that alone does not explain the confidence that she always expressed in me or her timely words of encouragement. I always reminded her that she had given me $25 to apply to college. And I am sure I wasn’t the only one she helped on her limited salary. Mom Hackett loved young people, though she never had kids of her own.

Every Mother’s Day, I ordered two dozen roses, one for my mother, Mrs. Martha L. Brownlee, and one for Mom Hackett. I had to struggle to get through her funeral in Tuscaloosa and I don’t know how I am going to react when Mother’s Day rolls around next year. I will adjust because I know that’s what Mom Hackett would want me to do. And I will not disappoint her even in death.

Calvin’s death was particularly hard to accept because it triggered memories of two other childhood buddies, Reginald Henderson and Peter Boyd. All of us grew up in McKenzie Courts, the housing project on the Black side of town. I lived in 52-B and Reginald lived in the unit directly behind our family. Calvin lived in the unit behind the Hendersons. Looking out of our back door, Peter lived in the unit to the right of Reginald. We were close geographically and as friends.

In elementary school, we would pick on Reginald out of sheer jealousy. Reginald was good looking, had curly hair, and all the girls liked him, which was reason enough in our young minds to punch him out. And we did. Fortunately, our strong friendship outlasted our silly childhood antics. Over the years, I would see Calvin from time to time when I visited Chicago; I’d see Reginald when I’d go back home but I only heard from Peter, who lived for a long period in Boston, indirectly. He had moved to the D.C. area and we were planning to get together when he died earlier this year of cancer.

Each of us was what adults called all-boy. That’s a polite way of saying we did boyish things, such as skip school a few times and be on the basketball court when our parents had instructed us not to leave the house. We shared a love for sports. I played football, Calvin was a superstar in basketball and Peter excelled in football, basketball and baseball. Reginald brought up the rear in sports. In football practice, I threw him a pass that dislocated one of his fingers and that marked the end to his playing days.

I have so many memories of those fellas. And I feel guilty that all of them died and I am still here. They died before reaching the age of 60. And if I had not undergone a triple bypass heart operation eight years ago, I’d probably be dead, too.

Obviously, Vivian Malone wasn’t one of the boys, but I also miss her. When Gov. George C. Wallace made his famous “Stand in the Schoolhouse Door” at the University of Alabama in opposition to desegregation, I was a sophomore at Druid High School. When he was ordered to step aside and allow Vivian Malone and James Hood to enter, a part of us walked into the University of Alabama with them.

In high school, I had a part-time job washing dishes at Vivian Malone’s dorm at the university. When she walked through the serving line, all of the Black employees working in the kitchen beamed with pride. She represented us with style, grace and courage.

I wish I could end this column by telling you that I’m doing a better job of handling the loss of my friends. But I am not. And I don’t know if or when I will. All I know is that I am sure going to miss them.