A bigger man...

“Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to

die even the undertaker will be sorry.”

–  Mark Twain

“Hi Ted just got a valid number for you, and I want to reach out and tell you I'm sorry for being a jerk the last time I saw you...hardly a month goes by that I think about the good times we had...you're still a dear friend…”

The last time we saw each other was forty-one years ago. I felt a mixture of appreciation, relief and a tinge of haunting guilt. I had been sitting on Art’s number for better than a year.

The 1975 – that was then.

There was nothing I could say to change Art's mind. In fact, he was right. I watched as he and Dave got on their motorcycles and headed out.

___

After the Vietnam war, several us returned to Fort Rucker, Alabama. We were air traffic controllers and finished our last year of military service controlling helicopter pilots. Next stop for them was the foreign land we had most recently vacated. 

During this time Art and I became friends. He lived with a fellow named Jerry, and I lived a guy named Dave. When we weren't working, we spent our time hanging out, listening to music and partying together.

We all separated from the military, and after several months, I found myself back in university, where I stayed through graduate school in Missouri. One year during that time, I took a summer job in Chicopee, Massachusetts and organic chemistry at the University in Amherst. Art lived in the New England area.

We kept in touch, and during that summer he came a time or two. We had some adventures, most notably a bicycle ride in Nova Scotia after taking an overnight Ferry from Bar Harbor, Maine.

___

The next year, Art and Dave, took a cross-country motorcycle trip with a plan to stop in Canada at my family’s cottage. We coordinated calendars, and one day the two of them rolled in on their bikes.

Construction – destruction…

The story, and "…the best-laid plans of mice and men…," gets complicated here.

That summer, I had plans to build a family dock during my time at the cottage. I had been on a summer crew one year that had put docks in around the lakes. I was a gofer, so as a carpenter, I was a pretty good graduate student.

The project involved felling trees, stripping their branches and sawing them into ten-foot lengths. These were spiked together into a square; each new layer nailed to the one below. Because of the weight of the wood, the structure was built in the water, its buoyancy keeping the structure floating with the top of the latest layer just above the water line. This process was continued until the bottom layer rested on the bottom of the lake. The assembly was called a ‘crib’ with the appearance poorly constructed underwater long cabin. Once completed, 6" x 8"  (15 x 20 cm) beams were fastened to the top, and wooden decking laid.

I had been working alone with a couple of kids from around the bay helping from time to time. The only thought in my mind? Get the cribs in!

Complicating matters, some unexpected company had come for a visit – a common occurrence over the decades of summering at the cottage. The timing was not good because it was a huge distraction from the work. They left just as the boys got there, leaving me considerably behind schedule with school looming on the horizon.

Man, am I glad these guys are here. I thought They can help me finish this thing before I have to leave.

You know what it is like when your peripheral vision disappears because of focusing on things in the moment?  My Army buddies had just gotten to our place after riding hard. Instead of hanging out, telling stories and enjoying each other’s company, they entered Ted’s labor camp.

A couple or three days in, Art exploded. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he had come to visit a friend, NOT join an unrelenting work detail from dawn to nearly dark. He was leaving, and that was all there was to it.

His anger and impending departure brought clarity, but too late. Try as I could, there was nothing I could say or do to convince him to stay. He was furious, and rightfully so. He and the Dave got on their bikes, and that was the last I saw of Art. 

I got the cribs finished on the last day before heading I headed back to school. The truth is, without their help, it wouldn’t have gotten done – BUT at what cost??

Decades passed…

A couple of summers ago, I returned to West Virginia for my fiftieth high school reunion in Fairmont. Dave and I kept in touch off and on over the years. He was from Charleston, West Virginia, and by now was in the process of retiring from practicing medicine.

I came in early and drove to Charleston to see this fellow for whom I felt, and feel the greatest affection. It turns out he and Art had kept in touch over the years. I confessed how bad I felt about the whole deal. In his own no-nonsense and thoughtful way, he said, "I'll send you Art's phone number. You should give him a call."

“Yeah,” I said. “I really should do that.”

The number came, and for two or three weeks, I put Art's name on my calendar to call. It didn’t happen. Each day it got a little easier NOT to make the call – I mean, what was I going to say? Dave reminded me a couple of times via email and text, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.

Then this week out of the blue, my phone pinged. A text and photo appeared on the screen. It was Art...

“Hi Ted just got a valid number for you, and I want to reach…you’re still a dear friend…”

It is hard to express how I was touched. I thought about this old friend who had the courage – courage I didn’t have – to bury a hatchet and heal a self-inflicted wound – mine.

I returned a text along with a picture of Molly. As I hit the send button, the desert air smelled a little sweeter, and the sun seemed to shine a little brighter…

- ted