The Party

A recent weekend marked two significant events for my wife Sue and I. October 16th was my sixty-first birthday and of more personal signifigance, October 17th marked our fortieth wedding anniversary.

Overall, it's been an up and down year. My son James married his lovely wife Catherine on October 17th of last year. 8 months later, Sue was diagnosed with leukodystrophy, a skewed cousin of MS. Our dearest friend's son-in-law, Dave Taylor, died suddenly and tragically of an anuerism a mere 13 months after his marriage. We "rediscovered" two couples we'd been friends with over 30 years ago and found little had changed; we still adored them! While these happenstances are totally unrelated, they're a direct reflection of the incredulous joy and profound sadness possible within a minimal timeframe.

I considered our 40th anniversary special and I wanted to find something significantly romantic and enjoyable for both of us. Our eventual choice turned out to be one of our best ideas, ever.

We decided to rent a private room at Tom Goodchild's Moose Factory restaurant and treat a number of friends to dinner. When it came to choosing folks to attend, good luck won out over good planning. Quite by accident, the couples we asked represented every phase of our forty years together. We were a little worried as none of these couples knew each other but thankfully, our concerns were groundless. Everyone came together like they'd been friends forever, to our great delight.

In no particular order, the guest list:

Bryan Bury and Terry Nuthall:
Our closest friends over the past 15 years, we first met Bryan and Terry in a local Mill Woods bar, of all places. I'd never have imagined the magnitude of our eventual friendship.

As the years went by we developed a number of common interests. For example; Bryan and I like to golf, Sue and Terry like to drink beer and gossip. Eventually we became close with one another's immediate and extended families. After going on three wonderful vacations together, we realized we'd developed a lifelong relationship. Now we're as close as family and I've no idea how we'd survive without them. 

Bruce & Lynn Hamilton:

These two are simply terrific people, individually and as a couple.

Bruce is my youngest brother, mentor, confidant and best friend, all in one. Lynn is just about the sweetest person you'll ever know. My very first impression of her was, "C'mon, no-one's that nice." Within 5 minutes I knew I was wrong. As we came to know her family, it wasn't difficult to figure out the source of Lynn's lovely demeanour. Her entire family has the same quality!

Every so often you'll meet a couple and think, "They are perfect together!", only to learn later their so-called allegiance is contrived as a means of impressing people. Bruce and Lynn were hand picked by fate to be together and their "positive vibe" is as fresh and strong today as it was at the onset.

Bruce is composed, wickedly funny and intelligent. He also has excellent taste in women, obviously. Lynn is definitely a "girly-girl" but while her humour is gentle and tasteful, there's also a touch of zaniness, something you definitely don't see coming.

Bruce and Lynn present a sense of whimsical fun to any situation and once you've met them, the pleasantly indelible impression they leave stays with you always. They're a true joy.

Steve and Elaine Roebuck:

Steve and I worked together at TELUS and while we didn't do a lot of socializing outside the workplace, our pressure packed work environment somehow helped us to get along, not that we needed incentive.

One of the more effective ways to deal with pressure is to maintain a combination of professionalism and levity whenever possible; something Steve and I seemed to pick up on instinctively. Working with Steve was like spending every work day with a best buddy. I admired his abilities as a technician and leader while his self-effacing humour and sense of dedication to task made him one of the most interesting guys I've ever worked with.

Once I left TELUS, things got a little crazy and Steve and I lost touch. Years later we reacquainted through Facebook and eventually, we met Steve and his wife of 2 years, Elaine, for breakfast. Suffice to say, Steve got the marriage thing right. These two are a walking, talking contradiction of the axiom "opposites attract". Both are bubbly, cheery and they obviously adore one other . They couldn't be any less opposite yet meeting them is a little like reuniting with your first love, only with a lot more laughs!

Brooke and Lucy Rothwell:

These folks have been our next door neighbors for over 20 years and our friends for nearly as long.

The first two times I met Brooke, I knocked on his door to ask him for a ride back to a bar where I'd left my car the night before! Great first impression, right? As it turns out, the love of a cold beer was merely one of several things we had in common. While we often differ in opinion, we've a mutual love affair with just about anything involving sports. One major difference; Brooke happens to be a gifted athlete and I'm, well, not. Still, over time we've developed a rather complete sports ideology; a situation we like to explore at every opportunity.

Lucy is a rare, genuinely kind spirit. To me, it's as if she subconsiously assigns others a 10 out of 10 rating from the beginning, then gives them every possible opportunity to maintain that rating. It's very difficult to alienate Lucy, though God knows why you'd want to! Lucy and Sue are avid gardeners with a mutual appreciation for plants and flowers while Lucy and I prefer to simply gab over the back fence! Given either instance, Lucy easily ranks as our best neighbor ever.

Lucy and Brooke have two grown sons, Jamie and Joel. Both are outstanding young men and Sue and I have known them since their pre-school years. As kids, these two were real chatterboxes and we always knew a little more about the Rothwell family than either Brooke or Lucy may have appreciated!

Jim and Michelle Short:

Jim and I grew up together in the Avonmore area of south Edmonton. He was the neighbourhood jock, far and away the best athlete in the area but you'd never know it from the way he carried himself. The ultimate nice guy, Jim didn't have an enemy in the world and I still consider him one of my very best friends.

As often happens, time and circumstances interrupted our friendship but the death of my Mom brought us together again and over the past few years, we've re-established our relationship. It turns out the very things that made us friends so long ago remain unchanged.

Jim and Michelle have been together roughly 10 years but just as I'd expect, Michelle is one terrific lady, full of energy and enthusiasm, the perfect counterpoint for Jim, and Sue and I genuinely enjoy their company! 


So that, my friends, was our celebration. I've kept everyone's contact information handy in the almost certain event we repeat the party 10, then 20 years from now!

Memoirs of an Apprentice Nice Old Guy

Lately I've been hearing a lot about "aha moments". They seem to occur when life suddenly pops up and says, "Look here. Now." I've had a few in my time and recently I was hit with one that stuck.

While walking Dave the Dog, I came across a new neighbour struggling to get a large bag of cement from his mini-van to his backyard. I introduced myself and between neighbour Hal and I, we managed to haul the bag to it's destination.

As I was walking away, I overheard Hals wife ask who'd helped him. "It was that nice old guy from down the block".

Aha.

I was chuckling when I got home but still, I found myself peering at my reflection in the hall mirror. While the owlish, slightly sagging countenance staring back didn't look completely alien, it didn't look overly familiar either. I smiled. I grimaced. I opened my eyes as wide as I could, then I squinted. It was me of course, but oddly, it was like I was seeing me for the first time.

Later on I found myself musing about various nice old guys from my past. Of course my Dad came to mind immediately. A handsome, soft spoken man, Al Hamilton was a quiet, industrious guy with a wicked sense of humour. He loved golf and curling, and excelled at both. As National Retail Director for Holt Renfrew Canada, he was well respected and considered an over-achieivng yet personable man by employees, employers and competitors in "the rag business", as he referred to it. Above all, my Dad was a dedicated family man and in many ways, a model for how I've tried to live my life.

Through circumstances not of my choosing, I had to tell this beloved man that my Mom, Doris, his wife of 54 years, had passed away suddenly. In that instant, my Dad became an old man. His facial features caved, his shoulders drooped and a soft, low moan escaped from the depths of his chest, a sound I'd never heard before or since. He never fully recovered. Dad lived another three years but despite his and our best efforts, it was a sad, joyless existence. Looking back, I suppose this would qualify as yet another "aha moment".

Of course not all my "old guy" memories are sad. In fact, most are not. A prime example of an engaging memory concerns one Moe Love. Back in the TeleCom Canada days of the 1980's, Moe was the Broadcast Services account rep for Bell Ontario and I held a similar position for AGT. Though he was in his mid-sixties and I my thirties, we hit if off from the first time we met.

Reps from the various provincial telephone companies would meet once each year in a member city for a four day work session. The agendas were intense and the workload heavy, but at least one evening was reserved for socializing. My fondest memory of Moe involved a Toronto session. Though based out of Ottawa at the time, Moe was born, raised and had worked the majority of his life in downtown Toronto. He knew the area intimately. 

After a splendid dinner at his favourite noshery, Moe took four of us on a walking tour of his old stomping grounds; Bloor, Yonge and Dundas Streets. Amazingly, he knew most of the cops, street vendors and professional ladies (the older ones anyway) by name. The highlight of my evening came when we visited the Yonge Street "Sam The Record Man" store where Moe introduced us to his childhood pal, Sam Sniderman, the original "Sam"! We spent 20 minutes or more discussing every aspect of the recording industry. I'll never forget a moment of it.

We got back to our hotel just after one a.m. The bar was closing but of course, Moe knew the bartender so he and I were able to savour our last libation, on the house. Moe retired from Bell shortly after that session. I never saw him again but from what I've heard, he's into his nineties and still regaling people with wonderful stories of a downtown Toronto most have forgotten. Mr. Love was, and is, the quintessential "nice old guy".

Last year I wrote a piece about a favourite teacher of mine, Ivan Birdsell. He was in his early seventies when I took his summer school trigonometry course. He got me through a ball breaking regimen with his will and amazing teaching abilities but that was only part of the story. Ivan was just a shade over four feet tall and weighed roughly one hundred and forty pounds. He had a silver brush-cut and steel blue eyes. He was an outstanding golfer, a rabid Yankees fan and he loved jokes. "Groaners" and corny shaggy dog stories were his favourites. That said, Ivan detested crude or demeaning humour and he could be searingly clear with his objections.

We remained close, often meeting for lunch or coffee in the restaurant on the top floor of the Woodwards department store. Our conversations would revolve around family, sports (he had an amazing memory for jersey numbers!), music and yes, even mathematics! No subject was taboo and frankly, Ivan was probably the first true liberal I ever met. He was accepting of every social group, religious denomination, race or sexual orientation; an exceptionally rare quality for the times. This may have had something to do with his stature and his ability to live an equal life despite what he used to laughingly call his "shortcomings". At four feet tall, Ivan Birdsell was easily one of the biggest men I ever knew.

If I am very lucky, when it's my turn to take what Moe Love endearingly refers to as "the big dirt nap", someone, perhaps a number of people, will remember me as a nice old guy. Lord knows I'd be in excellent company.

Recalling Josephine

In the space of 5 minutes Josephine Wiltshire, my 82 year old mother-in-law, was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given 3 months to live. Rather than panic or grieve, Josie immediately began making plans to ensure she didn't waste a second. Her primary concern was to ensure she passed in her home and not in what she saw as an antiseptic mausoleum. With her sons, daughters and their spouses living in the general vicinity, it was relatively easy for our respective families to make the required arrangements.

My wife had a nursing background and I had built up some extra vacation time. We arranged for daily visits by a public health worker and twice weekly visits by her doctor. We worked out a shift schedule with the family, with each couple taking 12 hour shifts caring for Josie.

As time passed we began to fall into something of a routine. Josie did everything in her limited power to make things as pleasant as possible, despite the scenario. She asked us to "keep the conversation light" and not to be "morbid". For the most part, we were able to comply. Once the ongoing days and nights established their rhythm a certain normalcy was established, despite the tragic circumstances.

I pitched in by doing the laundry and a good share of the cooking and cleaning. I also spent time serenading Josie as she loved the guitar. She wasn't nearly as enamored with my vocal efforts, a fact she was only too happy to impart. Eventually, I stayed with the instrumentals pretty much exclusively.

Because Josie was as close to me as my own mother had been, I considered the opportunity to look after her a privilege, particularly since she'd spent the majority of her life looking after us. My one insistence was that I not be present when she actually died as I was certain I couldn't handle it. You can probably guess what happened next, but here it comes anyway.

My wife and her sister hadn't been out of the house for days. Josie had been sleeping a lot by this point, so I suggested they take a quick run to the mall, maybe grab lunch or do a little shopping. After much coaxing, they agreed.

I was sitting with Josie when I was suddenly overwhelmed with a need to play a song for her. It took mere seconds to retrieve my guitar from the next room but when I returned, Josie's eyes were closed and her breathing was labored. I held her hand until her breathing slowed then ceased and eventually, her heart stopped as well. The moment I'd dreaded my entire life was upon me.

Over time my faith had strengthened and my fear of death had eased, but only slightly, then I witnessed the sublime grace with which this beloved woman slipped away. Incredibly, I was overcome with a rush of love, peace and relief I never knew existed. Any fear of death I'd been harboring disappeared and truthfully, it's never returned.

In the end, Josie managed to present me with one last, profound gift; an opportunity to witness a rare glimpse of life, albeit at its cessation. If there was any way to ease the finality of her last moments, I should have known Josie would find it.

"When Santa Calls"

As a kid, I vividly recall snickering whenever one of my fellow eight or nine year olds would declare, "Ya know what? Santa's not real!"

I would chuckle quietly because I knew better. A select few of my friends knew better too because, like me, Santa phoned them personally every year. I figured if these other fools weren't being called, Santa must have had his reasons; the poor schmucks.

Two or three weeks before Christmas the phone would ring, my Dad would answer then turn to me and say, "Somebody wants to talk to you". I'd know immediately who it was. Even before I took the handset I'd hear a hearty "HO-HO-HO!" and I'd know beyond a doubt, Santa was right there on the other end!

The actual conversations were much the same every year. He'd ask if I'd been good and I'd slam him with the usual litany; I'd been keeping my grades up, going to church, keeping my room clean, listening to my folks and so on. At this point one of my older brothers would make a dramatic grab for the phone, hollering, "Hey! Let me talk to this guy!" Miraculously, they never managed to wrestle it away from me. Next would come, "What would you like for Christmas this year?" and I'd rattle off the years list by rote. This close to Christmas, it was etched into my brain like a tattoo.

Each year I'd drop Santa a line shortly after my mid-October birthday. I figured he'd have a ton of letters to go through before the big day and it was common knowledge that Santa's elves filled the orders as they came in. Because I'd mailed mine in October, I was certain it would be one of the first processed. It sounds greedy now but at the time, I considered it covering my bases.

When Santa called after my 10th birthday, he mentioned this would be the last one. He said the number of younger kids was increasing and his call list was getting a little hard to handle. All I needed to do was keep the letters coming and of course he had the whole "I'll know if you've been bad or good" thing going, so the process would continue as it always had. I was totally fine with his explanation.






By the time he stopped calling, I was into hockey, school was taking up a little more time and of course, there were girls. Slowly, thoughts of a magical old fat guy miraculously showing up each year with presents just... sort of ... faded away.

Flash forward to my early thirties. Dad called and asked if I'd attend a funeral with him. Twelve years older than my Dad, Jimmy Parsons served with him in the RCAF during WWII. He was also my Canadian Legion boxing coach for thirteen terrifying months. Coach Parsons was a fine man and I was honored to attend the services, particularly with my Dad.

There was a tea afterwards and Dad introduced me to Jim's widow, Alice. "Oh so you're the one", she gushed. "Jim asked me to give you this. Of all the kids he talked to, he always enjoyed your conversations the most. You were always such a polite, organized little guy!"

Clueless, I looked down at the tattered binder she'd handed me. Opening it, I found a list of 17 kids names, their ages, genders, likes and dislikes, phone numbers and the names of their Moms and Dads, all carefully hand-written in tidy columns. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Jim Parsons was Santa Claus! And I'd been given his "makin' a list and checkin' it twice" ledger, with nary an idea of exactly what to do with it!

The first year was an eye opener. I fully expected everything to go smoothly but instead, I received hands-on lessons in "management by crisis" and "scenario adaptability" within the first 3 calls.

The first roadblock I encountered was skepticism. "HO-HO-HO! THIS IS SANTA CALLING! WHO AM I SPEAKING TO?"

"You phoned me so you should know. You're not Santa! Who is this?!? MAAAAAAAA!!!!" shrieked little Dougie as the handset hit the floor.

Soon Mom came to the phone and we quickly developed a strategy. Once Mom had Dougie back on the line, I referred to the notes left by my predecessor and asked the little guy how his guitar lessons were going. He warmed right up, we had our little Q and A and young Doug hung up the phone, a very happy camper.

The next few calls went smoothly and my confidence slowly began to build. This Santa stuff was not only an effective way to get into the Christmas spirit and fun for the kids, it was easy! Then I called five year old Meredith.

We'd established what a good little girl she'd been; she'd even stopped tormenting her 8 year old brother. She began listing off what she wanted for Christmas. There were only 2 or 3 items on her list, and the last one went as follows. "My Daddy died at Easter but I want him to come for Christmas dinner then he can go back to stay at Jesus' house, okay?"

I heard Mom gasp in the background as I harrumphed and hemmed, struggling for an appropriate reply. Finally I rumbled in my best Santa voice, "I'm sorry honey, but I can't do that last one. Is that okay?"

"Okay", she replied. "Wanna talk to my Mom again? I'm goin' to Judy's house for spaghetti dinner, with really garlic toast!" As the years progressed, this would not be the only time I would marvel at a child's resiliance.

In the beginning I called the kids from the Coach's list exclusively but as each child approached his or her tenth birthday, the list diminished accordingly until there were virtually no children left.

I can't recall exactly who it was but someone I worked with suggested I approach my co-workers with an offer to have Santa contact their children. I floated the idea verbally to a number of people first, with positive results. Eventually I penned an internal memo and stated I knew Santa personally and if anyone was interested, I would ask him to call their children.

There were a lot of questions at first but a few people signed up and afterwards they told others how their kids had horoughly enjoyed the experience. The list soon expanded from 10 children to 25 or 30.

Over the next 15 years the list grew in numbers as well as company exposure. Each year it seemed another TELUS area would hear about this clown in Change Management playing Santa and sign their kids up. At the list's peak the number surpassed 250 children! Still, the program had it's growing pains:
Santa had to start specifying a preferred date and time for the call as a result of "missing" the odd child and having an irate parent on his butt the very next day.
Santa had to be certain every adult in the household was aware of his impending call after one unaware, seething Dad offered to kick Santa's "pervert ass" for him.

When submitting a child's name, many parents would ask Santa to tell the child he or she "wouldn't be getting anything at all" if they "didn't straighten out their act" or "get at least a C in math" or "stop talking back". I advised these well-meaning folks that mine was not a particularly vengeful, demanding Santa and would not operate in a threatening way.

Santa gained a ton of credibility when TELUS began changing my caller i.d. each October through January to read "Santa Claus - North Pole"!

TELUS gained a ton of credibility with Santa when they stepped up to cover the long distance fees for Santa's calls each year. (Note - Santa was not only relieved financially, this move also greatly decreased the lumps of coal he'd been delivering to TELUS executives).

Each New Year Santa would get at least one call or e-mail from a disgruntled parent of one of the 250+ kids who for some reason didn't get a call, didn't believe they were talking to Santa, thought Santa didn't "sound right" etc.

Each New Year Santa received dozens of e-mails and calls from grateful parents, often including requests for repeat calls the following Christmas.

Upon my retirement from TELUS, maintaining the list became extremely difficult and after two fumbling, operationaly difficult years, Santa regrettably discontinued the calls.

To this day he misses that rare child who'd drop the phone, unable to speak, then howl indignantly when Santa had no choice but to hang up after a few minutes of silence (worry not, Santa always called back).

He misses the repeat kids who, cool as cucumbers, would say breezily, "Oh hi Santa. How was your year? And Mrs Claus, how is she? Are Rudolph and the gang all rested up? If you're ready, my list is right here."

Finally, each year there would be at least one tiny kid who'd end his or her call with a whispered, "Santa.....I love you." With these, Santa would almost always have to wait a bit before moving on to his next call.

The Christmas season's still Santa's favorite, of course, but it will never be quite the same. I'm not certain but he may be waiting for another TELUS employee to pick up the challenge. Should that ever happen, I'd bet my life that person would begin re-experiencing Christmas with the same sense of wonder he remembers from his childhood.

"The Most Special Of Days"

"You're getting married where?"

"Canmore," responded our son James. "It's near Banff, Cat and I both love it. It's so beautiful, it'll be great!"

Sue and I were out for dinner with James and his fiance Catherine, a.k.a. Cat, and while we knew she'd said yes, this was our first discussion concerning actual wedding details.

They'd already touched our hearts by asking us for permission to "share" our 39th anniversary date of October 17, 2009. "That way," James explained, "your 40th will be on the same day as our 1st and maybe we'll be able to do something together, the four of us!"

Sue and I were elated at the prospect of this wedding, on our anniversary date or otherwise. Both Cat and James were deeply involved with theatre, they'd been together over 6 years and they obviously knew one another soul to soul. To us, the timing was ideal. Another impressive signal; their quiet air of mutual respect, admiration and love. Keenly aware of one another's feelings and presence, Cat and James were destined to be together and things were about move forward.

Still, Sue and I had serious misgivings about their venue choice. A prairie boy visualizing an outdoor service in the mountains of Alberta in mid-October, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed with one vision - blizzard! Alternately, the kids seemed to dismiss this possibility with a wave of their collective hand.

It was around then we began to realize they had a plan, an overwhelming faith in that plan and the moxy, the contacts and the imagination to pull it off. As the weeks and months went by the wedding details unfolded, in their vernacular, to rave reviews!

I'd never seen a "save-a-date" note before but one arrived three or four months before the ceremony. It was a cute, funny little card, designed and printed by Cat and James and they'd sent them to their invitees. The idea was to advise people of the wedding date and to let them know they'd be receiving a formal invitation later on.

The save-a-date note included the address of a wonderful little website, designed, maintained and routinely updated by Cat's brother Matt. The site provided details concerning the couple; where they met, how James proposed etc. There were pictures of the area surrounding Canmore, the town itself and the specific venue, the Nordic Center, as well as hotel suggestions and the times and places for the various events. I found the entire idea extremely thoughtful and we had more than a few compliments from other surprised and pleased recipients.

As other events unfolded, it became apparent this wedding would be a little different and a lot more fun than many others preceding it.

This next section may seem a little out of synch but fear not, it will transform into a necessary story component!

Unlike most teens, James displayed little or no interest in learning to drive. He kept his learner's permit current for identification purposes and while he made a few half-hearted attempts to get a full blown license over the years, he never seemed to feel an urgency to get it done. Then a little over a month before the wedding, James did a one-eighty, called me and asked if I'd help him pass his driver's test. I agreed immediately.

For the next few weeks I'd drive over to James' house just about every day and get him behind the wheel. Don't tell him I said this but frankly, he was a natural. We stuck pretty close to home the first day but within two subsequent days he was highway and freeway driving, taking on heavy city traffic during rush hour, parallel parking - the works. By the day he took his practical driving exam, he had it cold and passed with no problem, as I was certain he would. But that wasn't the exciting part!






Cat has a driver's license but she hadn't driven in years. The day after James passed his test, just two days before their wedding, he and Cat rented a car for the trip to Canmore. By 4:00 p.m. Friday, James was battling his way through Calgary rush hour, headed for the Banff highway. This was part of his first solo as a licensed driver, though from what I understand, Cat did a terrific job of riding shotgun.

Nobody will ever convince James he's a procrastinator. He has an uncanny sense of exactly when there's sufficient time to put things together and I have to say, he has a pretty good track record. Anyone who knows James Hamilton as an actor/writer/director has seen him pull off miracles in theatrical productions and he carries that magic into other aspects of his life. Sometimes.

To some folks, this whole learning to drive/rental car scenario is amusing enough as anecdotes go, but regardless, I was damned proud of James. This was only one example of his dogged determination to ensure their wedding would be as near to perfect as he and Cat could make it.

Cat's efforts mirrored James' as she planned, directed and enabled every detail for the wedding itself and the events leading up to it. From venues to menus, from registering to finding a gown, from helping bridesmaids to finding a Justice of the Peace, Cat had taken on the role of SUPER-BRIDE; ultra-efficient but far calmer and more beautiful than the oft mentioned, over-hyped "Bridezilla". She nimbly caught, juggled then resolved most every facet of the weekend. An example; in their wedding invitations Cat and James even included a separate one for my 60th birthday party, which they graciously hosted immediately after their rehearsal dinner!

While James and Cat needed to be in Canmore by Thursday to finalize a number or items, Sue and I were able to take things a bit slower and our presence wasn't actually needed until early Friday evening.

Once we were settled in and Dave the Dog had been familiarized with his hotel room and outdoor "facilities", we looked up Cat and James. Given the overall frantic nature of the past few days, I was expecting to find them frazzled, befuddled and in dire need of our help. I couldn't have been, as James often said as a tyke, "wronger".


They were all smiles and efficiency. Everything was either in place or very close and they appeared somehow relaxed yet excited, and very, very happy! As the weekend proceeded, their calm, almost whimsical demeanor seemed to place everyone around them in a similar state. When a potential "problem" arose, anyone involved with the wedding seemed to subconsciously slip into an idyllic state and quickly resolve the issue, often under everyone else's radar. Not to overstate, but this wedding was becoming something as close to perfect as any I've ever seen.

The rehearsal dinner provided the opportunity for us to meet Cat's family for the first time, just as it introduced Cat to a number of genetic skeletons from Sue's and my family closets too! We dined with her Mom and Dad and while there's always a bit of trepidation in these circumstances, once again the overall joy exuded by Cat and James erased any trace of awkwardness. The families had all but meshed as one before dessert!

After the festivities, Sue and I returned to the hotel to find towels stuffed under our door, from the outside. Apparently Dave the Dog had been very persistent in vocalizing his objections to being left alone. Within an hour the solution arrived in the form of our friend and neighbor Darlene and, of particular importance to Dave, her little Bichon, Chloe. These two have been best buds since they were puppies. At 12 and 11 years old respectively, they have a mutual calming effect and fortunately, there were no repeat performances for the duration of our stay. Like magic, the absentee barking problem was remedied.

That night as we were falling asleep, Sue realized it was now officially Saturday, our 39th anniversary. We've practiced a tradition for more years than we can remember and despite Darlene's and Chloe's presence in the adjacent bed, we decided to follow it. In a low, hushed tone we began singing the "Happy Anniversary Song" from the Flinstones: "Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, HAPPY Anniversary, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Anniversary" etc. Darlene laughed so hard I thought I may have to lend her one of my "Depends"!

Finally the big day arrived. The wedding service was outdoors, in an area adjacent to Canmore's Nordic Centre, home to Canada's Olympic Cross Country Ski Team. The weather was overcast, but warm and promising. Just before the service began there was slight misty rain in the air but less than two minutes in, it stopped.

The wedding procession remained consistent with the spirit of the entire event; very appropriate yet fun, light and just a little different. The guests were seated then Sue and I, along with Cat's Mom and Dad, proceeded down the aisle. Once we were seated, the groomsmen and the bridesmaids were next and finally, James, Cat and the Justice of the Peace brought up the rear together.

Cat and James had asked for a non-religious ceremony and the JP agreed, on one condition. With a mischievous wink he'd asked if he could keep the service details to himself until the actual ceremony. Incredibly, but not surprisingly, James and Cat agreed! I didn't learn of this until later but regardless, the agreement manifested itself in the sheer delight of the couple as the service progressed. They were absolutely beaming throughout and of course, their reaction was contagious. The JP had them kissing roughly every ninety seconds and by their fifth or sixth kiss, the congregation was in stitches!

I recall taking a few seconds during the service to marvel at the majestic mountains and the peaceful yet gleeful presence of the people around me. I was overtaken by a lightness, an all encompassing joy I'd experienced only once before; at James' birth. Sue and I agreed later, we were both aware of the presence of our departed parents, and their participation felt as natural and real as if they'd been in attendance. The wedding was indeed a wondrous event.

The reception was in the Nordic Centre and it started immediately following the service. Once again Cat's classy, simply perfect signature was as evident as it had been with each step leading to this fantastic culmination. The hall was immaculate with ceiling to floor windows and an inspirational view of the Three Sisters Mountains. As Cat and James entered, their joy was utterly tangible and the overall mixture of fun and wonder continued to fill everyone there. At one point I recall briefly scanning the room to see if I could find even one unsmiling face and not surprisingly, I could not. After all, I was grinning too.

The remainder of the reception was magical, a whirling blend of warmth and whimsy. The evening evolved into a blend of sumptuous food, drink, dancing, conversation, reunion, hilarious speeches and incredible fun. Even their guestbook was extraordinary! Cat and James had everyone fill out a form, including a hand-drawn self portrait and a request for marital advice. The results were entertaining beyond belief! The two families and all the couple's wonderful friends melded perfectly and for those few hours, none of us felt there was a care in the world, and we were right.

In my heart I hoped the evening would never end but of course, it did. Sue, Darlene and I returned to our hotel and after receiving a few friends and imbibing just a teeny bit more, we took the pups for a quick walk/pottie break. We then literally fell into our beds, exhausted.

Before falling to sleep, I recalled an encounter I'd had with a convenience store clerk the day before the wedding. She asked me what had brought us to Canmore. When I responded, "We're here for our son's wedding," she'd beamed and said, "A wedding! Ah yes, the most special of days!"

Who could have possibly foreseen just how true that ladies statement would become?

p.s.

There was one more element absolutely crucial to the success of the aforementioned celebration, particulary as it pertained to the groom. Her spirit, courage and willingness to do anything required utterly demands a future post on this blog dedicated to her alone; the woman, the Goddess, a genuine force of nature, the one, the only ELDA!!! So, who you were expecting? Mother Theresa? Elda did a better job, you'll see!

"Elda"

Her name is Elda Pinckney.

Now in her early thirties, Elda was introduced to our family by our son James roughly 15 years ago. She was one of James best friends from school. They had a mutual affection for theatre and shared a quirky sense of humor. A blend of beauty, wit, humor and intelligence, Elda was personable beyond her years.

That summer, she volunteered to tutor James in Biology 30 so he could matriculate, attend Red Deer College and enroll in their esteemed theatre arts program. She came over daily and while there was a degree of fun, her purpose was clear. She was there to work and an obviously grateful James was "into it" too.

Initially, I thought Elda might be one of James' prospective high school "conquests" and he was about to take a run at her. I couldn't have been more mistaken. I soon realized they'd established a platonic yet affectionate bond. They were very relaxed around one another and the depth of their friendship was obvious. I would soon see the protective aspect of this friendship firsthand!

Christine was a young lady James was seeing at the time, but he'd been struggling to find a way to break things off without hurting her. Elda sat through a number of fumbling, awkward phone conversations until finally, she'd had enough. "Gimme the phone," she snapped. "Christine? This is Elda. You and James are over, okay? What does he have to do before you get it, hit you with a board? Are we good now? Great. Bye."

James stood there, ashen-faced as Elda hung up the phone and said, "Look, I'm sorry but that had to be done. You were hurting her by trying to be the nice guy. Sometimes that doesn't work."

Earlier in the summer James had come through in a similar manner while in Ft. McMurray for their annual comedy festival. Elda, James, Collin Doyle and a few other pals had written, put together and were performing a number of skits. After a late performance, a friend of someone in the cast went to the hotel room shared by 6 or 7 cast members. He was looking for a spot to crash. After consuming way too many beers, he drunkenly crawled into bed with a sound asleep Elda and started groping her. At that moment, James entered the room.

Collin told me later, "James went postal. I knew he had a temper but... wow." The friend eventually sobered up, realized he'd made an idiotic move and apologized. All was forgiven by everyone, particularly Elda, by the time they left Fort Mac. Well, maybe not everyone. James doesn't discuss the incident and he can barely stomach the guy to this day.

These two events clearly illustrate how far James and Elda will go for one another. Platonic? Yes. Committed? Without question.

The summer progressed, as did James' biology knowledge, and their friendship deepened. As friends are apt to do, they commiserated over everything from their respective futures to relationships to pizza, often in the same sentence! While they discovered each other as kindred spirits, they also grew to know and embrace their differences.

From almost the first day, Elda addressed Sue and I as "Mom" and "Dad". This caught us off guard at first it soon became clear she meant it as a term of endearment. It felt a bit odd initially but we quickly came to accept and appreciate Elda as a family friend and in a way, a pseudo-daughter.

James eventually passed Biology, went on to Red Deer College and successfully completed their Theatre Arts program. This provided the foundation for an acting/writing/producing career that's alive and well to this day. Elda went on to the University of Alberta and despite the obvious distance issues, their friendship continued to flourish.


We all endure times when things go terribly wrong and of course, James and Elda were no different. Relatively commonplace events like breakups and lousy jobs were mixed with more dire scenarios. In James' case it was a life threatening illness and just before that, Elda went through a horrific house-fire and developed a serious illness of her own a few years later. The amazing thing about these two is their ability to be there for one another, regardless of distance, impact or the relativity of the event. No matter, their solid mutual support system remains a constant.

Upon completing school Elda moved to Vancouver while James spent his first post college year in Red Deer before eventually moving back to Edmonton. They each went through a few relationships but today, I'm happy to report that Elda has met and married a man she'll love and cherish forever. How do I know? Elda said so.

As written in my earlier post "The Most Special of Days," James met his forever love Catherine (Cat) 6 years ago and they were married in October of 2009. James asked Collin and Elda to be his "best men" and both readily accepted. Though Collin lives in Edmonton, he and Elda coordinated their roles perfectly, including the second most important ritual of the entire event, the infamous "Bachelor Party"! Within days of her recruitment Elda began gathering guest names and with Collin, planning the actual event. They decided to tell James there would be a "small event" on a predetermined evening to ensure his availability, but that was all.

In short, the party was epic. I'd planned to make an appearance, hand Elda some cover/gift money, wish everyone well and split. I had little interest in watching a bunch of guys get my son drunk and I wasn't much for peelers either. It's okay, you can say it; fuddy duddy!

There were about 15 guys involved and within 5 minutes of hearing the ENTIRE plan for the evening, I called Sue to let her know I wouldn't be drinking but I'd be sticking around. I wasn't about to miss this.

It started out with beers and eight ball in an old-style Whyte Avenue pool room, then once all were present and accounted for, we moved across the street to one of James' favorite eating spots, Chili's, for dinner. After a sumptuous meal, Elda led us to the alley adjacent to Chili's and there sat our evening's transportation; a pristine, white Hummer stretch limo! We all piled in, broke open a few "pops" and headed to a Celtic Pub downtown. Though he's six feet tall, he only weighs about a buck thirty and he has an oddly prodigious capacity for beer. After the pub visit, he was only showing a little wear. 

We piled into the limo again and we opened a few more pops and headed for our next stop, the peeler bar at the top of the Sherwood Park Freeway, of course! I'll spare the details but suffice to say, not much had changed in the 20+ years since my last visit and a good but not "stupid good" time was had by all, particularly the groom. There was one moment when James asked for my cell phone. He'd fallen in love with a 6 foot 3 inch amazon peeler and wanted to inform Cat, "The wedding's off!"

Once more into the limo, back to Whyte Avenue and within minutes we'd pulled up to James' favorite karaoke bar! This is when and where my brother Bruce and I opted for home but before I left, I gave Elda and Collin my sincere thanks for James' perfect evening. James called the next day and declared the event as "one of the best party nights of my life". With his best buddy Elda in charge, he should have expected little else.

As fate would have it, Elda's in Edmonton tonight for her annual Christmas visit with her amazing parents, Joyce and Bill. There will be a table groaning with trays of goodies, a fully stocked kitchen bar and a houseful of friends and relatives. I'll enjoy all that of course, but I know my heart will skip the same beat it always does whenever I see my beautiful, talented, joyous "dotter from anudder mudder", Elda.

(Please note. Elda lost her amazing mother Joyce in December of 2015 to cancer.)

"The Weight"

1967 is almost universally remembered as the "Summer of Love". According to lore, it touched the lives of most every conscious person between the ages of 14 and 24 years of age. The impact was profound for some, less so for others but most anyone who lived through it would agree; something happened.

Sue and I were 17 and 18 respectively. Far from true hippies, we were still in agreement with the principle of love as a plausible centre, or at least a starting point, in the movement away from ghastly hostilities such as Viet Nam and Grade 12 departmental examinations.

On a less cerebral note, in general terms we and our closer friends liked the music, the jeans, the pot, the longer hair, the slightly loosened morals (though they weren't anywhere near as loose as some might have you believe) and, uh, did I mention the pot?

Weekends that summer often brought something called "love-ins". More accurately, these gatherings usually morphed into smokin'-on-the-hillside concerts, complete with over-amplified, acid-fueled cover bands, 30 minute songs, 15 minute drum solos and hundreds of denim-clad, lurching, unbathed, acid/weed/wine-fueled overmedicated, eventually vomiting youths, posing as "flower children" or "hippies". In reality, I don't think we'd have recognized an actual hippie if one walked up and bit us.

Unbeknownst to our friends, Sue and I would occasionally take a clandestine departure from the "hippie entertainment" regime.

At the time Edmonton boasted a very chic, progressive nightclub, The Embers. This club was downtown, it didn't even open until 8:00 p.m. and catered to a more sophisticated crowd of twenty-something university students and junior executives. Their musical tastes swung from rhythm and blues to jazz and even country-rock. The genres of acid and hair rock were nowhere to be found and frankly, we appreciated the respite.

An adult club, the Embers did not serve underage patrons. With the drinking age set at 21, Sue and I went to great lengths to ensure we weren't "carded". This was the one time in my life I felt lucky to have a receding hairline. I would comb my hair straight back, wear a dark suit and shine my shoes until I could see my face in them. Sue would wear a dress, apply her makeup "grownup style" and wear her long red-blonde hair straight. We frequented the Embers twice that summer and escaped the dreaded "carding" both times.

Once inside, we were on our best behavior. We'd take a table out of the way, order simple drinks like rum and coke or rye and ginger and we'd be certain not to over-imbibe. By the time we'd nursed one or two drinks each and ordered the least expensive entree on the menu, we'd be looking at a week's salary each, but we knew it would be worth every cent.

Our last visit to the Embers was the final Saturday night of August, 1967. Rompin' Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks were the sole act on the bill. They blasted out a plethora of excellent rockabilly and we had a terrific time. Hawkins himself was something of a rock legend in North America. Like British blues man John Mayall who gave such guitar gods as Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page their start, Hawkins was known more for founding and expediting the careers of American and Canadian rock musicians than churning out hit records.

Just before 1 a.m. the Hawks finished their last set. Before leaving the stage, Hawkins addressed the 20 to 30 remaining patrons. He thanked us for our applause, briefly espoused the joys of playing in Edmonton and ended by asking us a favor.

"This'll be my last gig with this version of the Hawks. Startin' tomorrow, I'm takin' a few weeks off, then I'll put another group together and be back on tour next year. These boys here have decided to stay together and they've been workin' on some stuff of their own. I've heard their songs and I'll tell you what, they're pretty special. How about y'all stick around and give 'em a listen?"

With that Hawkins left the stage and a thin, handsome young man stepped up to the mike and rasped in a voice much older than his years, "Hello. My name is Robbie Robertson, we're The Band, and we'd like to start with a song called The Weight."

They played that song and two others, thanked us, then quietly started packing up their gear. We jumped from our chairs, applauded wildly, did everything but throw our undies at them, but they barely looked up.

Fast forward to a house party in Yellowknife, 2 or 3 years later. Our host Tony said, "Hey, you gotta hear these guys, The Band. They're amazing!"

As the lyric drifted through Tony's cozy, warm living room; "Pulled into Nazareth, I was feelin' 'bout half past dead", I smiled at Sue and said, "You're right, Tony. I like these guys."

"The Sweater"

Tragically, my Dad lost his parents to influenza just before his eighth birthday. Dad, his two sisters and his two brothers were immediately dispatched to their nearest living relative, a spinster aunt.

The children were transported from the rural community of Bashaw, Alberta to the relative metropolis of Edmonton, from the care of their parents to a woman they'd never met.

One of Dad's earliest memories involved the first time he met "Auntie", as the children came to address her. He recalled arriving in a very large automobile and being met by a diminutive yet imposing lady. She was dressed from head to toe in black, despite the oppressive summer heat.

The children were quickly introduced and the car left. They stood at the curb for a time, not sure what to do next, when the lady abruptly addressed her new charges. As Dad told me years later, she simply said, "Let's get on with it." The children meekly followed her into the house to begin their new lives.

Auntie had never married, worked in a bank and apart from teaching Sunday School, had little or no experience with children. Dad remembered her as kind, but efficient and a bit terse. Treating words like rare gems, she rarely spoke though when the occasion arose, the children most certainly listened.

As adults, Dad and his siblings seldom discussed their childhood but when they spoke of Auntie, they did so with reverence and admiration. They understood the sacrifices this virtual stranger made for them. Making the transition from a comfortable, insular existence to the totally alien world of child rearing was almost incomprehensible, even to the children. Yet somehow, not only did this tiny woman pull it off, she excelled at it.

Money was tight. Canada was in the throes of an economic depression and Dad marveled as Auntie somehow made things work every week. Her clerical salary was sparse. Though none of the children ever knew exactly how much money she had, Dad was aware they were barely scraping by. Still, thanks in small ways to the generosity of neighbors and the church, they rarely went without.

Anything other than food, shelter, clothing and minimal school expenses was considered superfluous and unnecessary. Birthdays and Christmas were barren affairs from a gift perspective but the occasions were avidly celebrated, with togetherness, food and fun as the primary components.

Once in high school, Dad found athletics to be a venue bereft of class distinction. On the gridiron, the ball diamond or the hockey rink you were judged on your performance, not your wardrobe. In his senior year Dad was awarded varsity letters for football, baseball and hockey. The custom was to purchase an official Strathcona High sweater on which to display your letters. Most of Dad's teammates purchased sweaters and wore them almost daily.

Dad couldn't afford a sweater. The few dollars he scraped together from odd jobs and delivering groceries went directly to Auntie and the household expenses. This was something Dad and his siblings did without forethought or compunction. It was simply required.

I recall Dad telling me about the day he graduated from high school. That morning he took extra time shining his shoes, making sure his tie was straight and adjusting his older brother's dress pants. They were a little big but with the belt cinched and the trouser legs turned under and ironed flat, Dad thought he looked pretty sharp. Standing quietly at the door was Auntie, her arms extended, a carton in her hands.

"Allan, this is for you," she said simply. With that, she was out the door and off to work.

Dad opened the carton and, to his utter amazement, discovered a magenta cardigan, complete with the gold wrist and neckband trim emblematic of Strathcona High. His precious letters were sewn firmly on the left breast.

Dad sensed this was no ordinary sweater. He found out later Auntie had asked a girlfriend from her bank to teach her how to knit, then she'd constructed this wondrous gift while avoiding detection from the entire family. Dad never did figure out where she found the time.

As he pulled the sweater over his head, Dad barely noticed that one arm was a tiny bit longer than the other, nor did he see the slightly crooked neck or the odd knots holding the garment together. Rather, he recognized the sweater for what it was; a tangible symbol of the effort, sacrifice and love this tiny woman so willingly provided.

He wore the sweater to his graduation and to every significant event for many years to come until it finally and literally fell to pieces. For him, there would never be a more appreciated gift.

"Big Rick"

Imagine spending your childhood in a subdivision with 25 to 30 other kids your age, a year younger or a year older, all living within a three block radius. That was my neighborhood, Avonmore in southeast Edmonton and for me at least, life couldn't have been better.


Combine the abundance of like minded, similar aged boys with immediate access to wide open athletic fields, community skating rinks and a wild but explorable ravine and you've created the perfect backdrop for a childhood full of activity and adventure.


There were always friends available to walk with you to school, hurl spit-balls at once you were there, hang out at recess and of utmost importance, take part in every kids game or sport known to man, along with a few we made up. To summarize, I had a terrific childhood.


While everyone played with everyone else, certain people connected with others to form friendships. There were two Ricks in our group; Rick Adams and Rick Cruickshank. As young Mr. Cruickshank was a fair bit larger than Mr. Adams, he quickly became known as "Big Rick"; a label he never cared for but voiced no objection to. In those days political correctness wasn't in anyone's vernacular but I know we tried not to be hurtful.

From the age of 9 or 10 right up to high school, we played sports all year long. There was hockey in the winter, field hockey with splintered sticks and tennis balls in the spring, then baseball and football through the summer and fall. This was strictly pick-up stuff; no parents, no coaches, just kids.

One year we all decided to ask our parents for a $5 Mill Creek Pool Summer Pass as a reward for getting promoted to the next grade. We spent every summer day at the pool. Monday through Sunday, rain or shine, we'd show up at 9:00 a.m. sharp, then swim and play until they vacated everyone to clean the pool and grounds at noon. We'd retire to the surrounding grounds, scarf down our bag lunches and be ready at 1:00 p.m. to repeat the activity until they threw us out again at 4:00. During one of these halcyon days, I bonded with "Big Rick".

We'd just returned from lunch when some big clown I'd never seen before decided I should go out on the pool deck "sans bathing suit". I fought the guy as best I could but a seventy pound eleven year old doesn't normally fare well against a fifteen year old weighing in around a buck forty. As I neared the door, I heard my friends yelling at this guy to stop, to let me go, but no-one moved. Under the circumstances, I couldn't blame them. Then I caught a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye.

I knew "Big Rick", everybody did, but we'd never had much to do with one another. Yet here he was, stepping right up into the face of this Neanderthal. Big guy or not, Rick was a few inches shorter than my tormenter. He was not, however, intimidated. Before I could blink, Rick slammed his knee into the guy's groin, the bully howled in pain and released me instantly. I somehow got my trunks on and we all scrambled out the door and into the pool before anyone could react. The bully appeared moments later but he limped past us with neither a look nor a word.

Several things happened that day. As this took place in front of at least 10 kids from our neighborhood, "Big Rick" attained instant legend status, deservedly so. The incident would be verbally described for years to come by people who were there, people who weren't and people who wished they had been. Next, he became my best friend. Finally, other than the occasional "push-me-pull-you" melee, that was the closest thing to a fight involving Rick any of us ever saw. Given his efficient yet vicious reaction to a dire situation, no-one was about to test him.

With his size and his ability to handle himself, it might have been easy for Rick to be a bully but as I'd discover, it simply wasn't in his character. Still, he was a very different kid. In many ways Rick was like a 40 year old man trapped in a 12 year old body. While I was a Gordon Lightfoot/Bob Dylan "folkie" and almost everyone else I knew was into rock music, Rick favored Percy Faith and his Orchestra and you'd often hear him humming "Theme From a Summer Place" or some Sinatra classic. We were all about white tees, sweatshirts and jeans. Rick preferred pleated khakis, sweaters and dress shirts with button-down collars. We wore ball caps while for years, Rick sported a god-awful plaid "tam-o-shanter" golf hat my Dad gave him!


Big Rick was an exceptional athlete, certainly more gifted than me, but he took part in our pickup baseball or football games only occasionally. You'd be more likely to see him hitting dead straight nine irons for hours at a time along the crest of Mill Creek ravine. I wanted to play in the CFL. Rick wanted to win the Masters. Neither of us knew why we were friends and neither did anyone else, but it just kind of happened.

Rick and his older brother Bob were both adopted and unfortunately, they never got along. They seldom fought but they barely acknowledged each other. Rick's Mom and Dad were gentle, soft spoken people. I particularly remember marveling at what a genuinely nice man Rick's Dad was. He treated us all with utmost respect, like we were "little adults" rather than kids. I loved spending time at their house.

Alternately, my house was a zoo. It was me, my "outspoken" Mom, my Dad and my baby brother Bruce at home. But I had three grown married brothers with 6 kids between them, and it seemed like some or all of them, including their wives, were either there or on their way over. I longed for Rick's peace and quiet while he absolutely reveled in my chaos.

Most kids were intimidated by my Mom. She seldom missed an opportunity to voice her opinion, in a loud and direct tone, solicited or otherwise, the recipients feelings be damned. For reasons I never understood and still don't actually, Rick adored her and Mom, along with my older brothers, their wives and even their kids, always had a soft spot for him too.

My Dad was a gifted golfer, Rick idolized him and his feelings were reciprocated. Dad openly admired Ricks smooth, unhurried golf swing. Selfishly, I was relieved because their common interest took pressure off me to learn a game I didn't understand or appreciate until I was into my fifties, unfortunately long after my Dad's passing.

We both enjoyed looking after Bruce. A "surprise" to my parents, he'd arrived with little preamble. I remember Rick was worried during my Moms pregnancy, given her age. We were both concerned about not being able to "do as much stuff" once the baby arrived. To our amazement, once he finally showed up we both loved toting the little guy everywhere we went. Bruce spent many afternoons bundled up in his stroller, watching Rick and I toss a football back and forth or hit pitching wedges toward one another.

We took him to his first "kiddie's matinee". We were delighted to introduce him to the world of Looney Tunes, Quick Draw McGraw and, God forgive us, the Three Stooges by taking him to the Palace Theatre on Whyte Avenue for the Saturday matinee. Rick genuinely cared about Bruce. He looked at Bruce as the little brother he never had.

We went through elementary and junior high together but while Rick attended Bonnie Doon Composite High School in south Edmonton, I opted for Alberta College, downtown. We tried staying in touch but differing priorities, social circles and scholastic goals soon got in the way and the contact slowly eased off.

I married at 21 and of course, Big Rick was my best man. We sensed this occasion would mark some sort of passage for us, and while we enjoyed ourselves and celebrated the moment, it did. Except for one uneventful evening visit three years later, we never spoke again.

I tried to contact him a few times. Eventually a close mutual friend told me Rick felt his childhood had been extremely unhappy, and in many ways, it had. Further, he'd told this friend he was determined to avoid contact with anyone from those days and, Rick being Rick, he's done his trademark thorough job of it.

I recently found Rick's daughter Therese via Facebook, and it upset me greatly to find my dear old friend in poor health. That said, I take comfort in knowing he's not alone. He still has his wife and his amazing daughter has moved back home to help care for him, and for that I'm thankful as well. I understand time spent with his granddaughter is doing wonders for him; no surprise there.

Theresa tells me after discussing my wish to see Rick once more, he still has no interest in contacting me or anyone else from his childhood and in all honesty, I'm fine with that. I respect his decision.

So old son, this one's for you. Thanks Big Rick, for memories of a simpler, easier time. I'l never forget you.