http://www.wmbb.com/gulfcoastwest/mbb/news.apx.-content-articles-MBB-2007-10-16-0018.html

The following is a personal account from News 13's webmaster, Gene Hilsheimer:

The gray skies seemed appropriate as I drove north towards Blountstown this morning.  I was headed to the funeral of the only son of one of my best friends ever.  Even though we hadn’t seen each other in years, I still consider Janice Watson, Michael Guilford’s mother, one of my best ever friends.

All weekend, I’ve been trying to imagine the agony that Janice, Jerry, Michael’s father, and Jenny, his sister must have been going through.  My own tears came easy this past weekend.  More than just once or twice.

The new blacktop under my truck made this an easier drive than I had anticipated.  Highway 71 between Wewa to Blountstown hasn’t been the smoothest stretch of highway in these parts for many years and I was relieved that at least this part of my morning was a little better than expected.

I arrived nearly an hour early at the First Baptist Church of Blountstown this morning and already, its parking lot and many of the side streets in the neighborhood were filled with vehicles.  There were literally hundreds of people milling around in front of, beside and behind the church.  Most were headed for the church’s auxiliary building because the church itself has already been filled to capacity.

After signing the guestbook at the bottom of the steps of the church, I was directed to the church annex on the street behind where I quickly and quietly found an aisle seat where I could clearly see the rather large projection TV screen that had been set up for this overflow crowd.

I felt kind of strange because I didn’t know a single soul in the building but I did understand that we were all there for the same purpose...  to honor a wonderful child and grieve along with a wonderful family.

For what seemed like hours, people of all ages quietly entered the annex and found their seats.  Some visitors stopped to greet old friends they hadn’t seen in a while, and some just silently reflecting on the gravity of the day.  There was a hum in there air as people whispered and visited reverently.  Old-timers, college students, high school students, moms and dads, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas… we all knew we were here to morn our loss but it also seemed like we were the to celebrate the opportunity we had to know this boy.

The service was a celebration of a short life, ended too soon.

Coach Bobby Jones, Michael’s high school football coach, spoke gently about the life and the spirit that Michael had and how he was amazed at Michael’s overt care and compassion for everyone he came into contact with.  He spoke of the normalcy of seeing Michael, one of the most popular young students at Blountstown High School, taking the time to stop and talk to the adults he came into contact with on his trips in and around Blountstown or finding him playing catch with an 8-year-old boy he may or may not have known personally.  Coach Jones told of Michael’s impish grin that always let him know that he had been up to something.  The Coach emphasized Michael’s unselfish spirit that always put the team, his coach and his school first.  Tears were shed and the Coach had a battle to maintain composure during his words, but he succeeded.

Coach Urban Meyer from the University of Florida also addressed the gathering.  He spoke oh so eloquently about the impact that Michael had not only on his fellow Gators, but on himself and his own family.  Coach Urban flat stated that Michael would have started as a Gator very soon… and even though he hadn’t played a down on the field yet, he was still a Gator, a National Champion Gator, he would always be a Gator and he was an inspiration to all who knew him. 

Coach Meyer said that every now and then, he’d meet a young man who had “it”.  Michael was one of them.  He saw it when he first scouted Michael and all was confirmed beyond a doubt when he met Michael.  Michael had “it”.

Coach Meyer’s wife encouraged him to read the poem that he read the night before at a memorial service in Gainesville.  It’s called “The Dash”

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning...to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth...
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars....the house...the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard...
are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
(You could be at "dash midrange.")

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what's true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile...
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy's being read
with your life's actions to rehash...
would you be proud of the things they
say about how you spend your dash?

Author Linda Ellis

Coach Myers said that Michael’s “dash” was only 19-years-long but it was full to the brim with what we all would be proud of for our own dash to have.

Following the Coach’s words, Michael’s minister related several anecdotes about Michael’s rambunctious life as a Blountstown boy.  Several had the congregation giggling, if not out right laughing.  It was welcome relief and gave us all more insight to the kid we knew and loved.

I personally remember a trip to Pittsburgh that Michael and his mother made back when his sister Jenny and my daughter, Sarah had spent the summer in a dance program there.  The fun we all had those two short days before we all headed or separate ways back south to Florida are just unforgettable.  I have this snapshot in my head of Michael impishly smiling after doing something comical… He was only 7 or 8 at the time… but that is the snapshot my brain has always carried around with me.  I see Michael’s picture now, all grown up with long blonde hair and I can’t seem to compute it… I can’t seem to update my own brain.  Michael will always be that grinning little monster from my trip to Pittsburgh.  It is a warm memory for me… Thank you Michael.

After the services were over and although there abounded sadness – there was also a sea of smiles and warmth in the crowd of mourners.  We all understood that we were all better people for our opportunity of knowing Michael and his family.  If only we could have the same impact on other peoples’ lives as Michael had on ours, we’d have a great “dash” to look forward to.

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