A Tale of Then and Now

Part 2 - There's More

Talk about the dark side of serendipity. With my visit to the cemetery over, it was time to go home. I was in a super good mood, finally having resolved my memorial issue, knowing my saying, "It was a great life" succinctly summed up what I wanted etched into my stone. It was time to move on. I waited and waited to get onto the highway, watching the cars stream by from both directions, idly wondering where the hell everyone was driving too; probably on their way home from work to family and loved ones, most of them were, I figured. My mind started wandering to tonight with Annie and celebrating my decision, and then to tomorrow with chores in the yard that needed to be done, and then to the next day going to my son's house to take care of my grandkids... and I pulled it back, forcing myself to focus, eager to get back to my favorite place to be - the home Annie and had shared for so many years.

            When a break in the traffic finally appeared, I pulled onto the highway, squinting against the glaring headlights coming at me, and accelerated my little Ford Fiesta down the long decline, shifting through the gears as I built up speed. The city lights of Long Lake shone in the distance, a mile away, reflecting off some low clouds that had moved in. I checked the clock on the dash panel:  8:47. Good, I thought to myself. I had plenty of time to get to store and buy some ice cream: a pint of licorice for Annie (her favorite) and a pint of salty caramel (my favorite) for me. The last thing I did was turn up the volume of the CD in the player. It was a local punk rock band the daughter of a friend played in. He'd given us a sample of a couple of songs they'd be recording next month and I loved them both - listening to them over and over again anytime I drove anywhere. Annie, loved them too. "I'm Still Stuck On You" was playing and I was enjoying his daughter's lead guitar part - glad, in retrospect, it was the last sound I ever heard. Check that - the second to last sound.

            As my speed increased down the hill my car was suddenly flooded from behind with light. My eyes flicked quickly to the review mirror. Way too fast, a huge bank of headlights was speeding at me, approaching full tilt like an out of control, fully loaded semi (which it was.) In a panic I jammed my accelerator to the floor. The engine revved to over six thousand rpm but nothing happened. My car seemed to float. Time went into slow motion. In an instant a wave of intense brightness overtook me, running right up and over me, blinding me and filling the inside of my car with exploding, brilliant light. The last sound I heard, drowning out the song, was a sustained air-horn blasting and blaring, filling my ears with unrelenting noise until my eardrums burst; then a cacophony of metal whining and twisting and crunching along with windows exploding and glass shattering as the huge semi ran right over my car, crushing it and me. Then there was merciful darkness.

            A deep, endless void of nothingness.

            For a long time.

The next awareness you have is that the darkness starts to swirl and take form, like some scientists think the earth came together back in the dawn of time. Then, out of that inky black night, white and gray clouds take shape, slowly floating and undulating. Then blinking flashes of light start to irregularly pulsate(kind of like heat lightening) before becoming more and more regular, persistent and intense. Eventually, out of the spinning, morphing, flashing ether, shapes begin taking form, irregular at first and indescribable. This goes on and on and on and you have no idea what's happening. Now clue at all. In reality, though, it's really a long preparation for what comes next - the next stage.

            Eventually, the first scene comes into view. For me it was my granddaughter's soccer game. She and her team were dressed in red and black jerseys and shorts and knee high socks and were playing on a lush, green grass field with yellow cones marking the boundaries. I could tell it was fall because the trees in the background were changing colors; the orange and red leaves were brilliant under a bright sun shining warmly in a robin's egg blue sky. In the scene she looks to be six years old, a year after my car accident and death.

            She must have been thinking of me. That's how the memory recall works. It's a give and take kind of thing. If she thinks of me I can appear to her in her memory. And the cool thing is that it really is me. Seriously. In the world I left behind, I always thought that my memory was just that - a recall of a loved one, person, place or whatever, and it's really just an image in your mind. But I'm here to tell you that it's much, much more than that. I'm out there all of the time (for eternity, actually) existing in a sort of dream like state. You know how sometimes you're lying in bed half awake and half asleep? That's how it is where I am now. When you think of me, I can almost materialize there beside you. Almost is the key word here. When you think you feel the presence of a loved one who has passed over (that's what we say here, passed over) it's a true fact because we are right there, but in a dimension just outside the reach of you guys. I know it sounds crazy, and you probably think I'm nuts, but it's true. Believe me. Just read on before you chalk it all up to the ravings of a delusional nutcase.

            The next time it happened was when there was a special dinner for my son's promotion to regional manager for the company where he worked. His wife organized it and his family were all gathered in the dining room of their lovely new home with my granddaughter and grandson along with his wife's mom and dad, brothers and sisters and their kids - it was a real party. Good food, high spirits, great times and lots of wonderful family camaraderie. The promotion was a very big deal for my son and I got to be right there with him (and his family, too) for the celebration because he was thinking of me at the time, wishing I was there to share it with him. He didn't know it, but I was there. The way it works is that your thought or memory of me opens a door and lets me in. Because, like I said, I'm there anyway.

            Let me tell you, this whole thing took some getting used to. I had no idea what 'life after death' would be like and, to be frank, didn't really plan on anything thing happening at all. One day I'm here and the next day I'm gone was the rather cavalier attitude I took most of my life, and it certainly was the opinion I carried with me the night of my fatal crash. Boy was I ever wrong!

             It works the other way too, just not as often because it's something hard for me to do. (I'm still learning how to do it - it's pretty complicated.) Sometimes I can interrupt (that's what I call it) someone's thoughts and move right in there to be with them. I have to be careful with this. I might want to see a loved one, say my wife, but it might not be convenient for her to see me (say she's out to lunch with one or all of her sons. Interrupting her might take away from her time being with her boys, so I try to respect that.) The best time to come to her is when she's home in her favorite chair, working on an embroidery project or doing some quiet reading. Her mind is free and open then. It's a perfect time for us to be together. Or when she's relaxing after she's built a fire in the fireplace like we used to do, that's a good time, too.

            Here's another example: Once, my son was at a crucial point interacting back and forth with a customer during an important sale, talking to the person, listening and responding to the client's questions - those kinds of things. Well, I certainly wouldn't want to interrupt him then, right? He might lose his concentration and miss out on making a sale. It might be better to wait until he's driving home before I make my appearance. Then we can have time together that's uninterrupted. (As long as he pays attention to his driving!). An even better time would be when he's out for a long run by himself on a trail in the park near his home; that would work really well and be way less likely to cause an accident. Like I said, I'm still learning how to do this.

            Another thing I've learned is that if you don't use it, you lose it. I should probably explain. Again, I'm around all the time. If you think about me more, then I'm there with you more. It's pretty simple, really. My wife, my kids, my grandkids and my brothers, even old friends, they're all right up there on the top of my list of who I'm with the most. Other people, not so much. My best example is an past friend of mine who was planning on seeing me at my (our) fiftieth year high school class reunion. Well, by the time the reunion rolled around I'd been gone from this good earth for a nearly year, so...no Ronnie at the festivities, I'm afraid. As the years have gone by, I've haven't popped up in his memory much, so...Sayonara old friend. Fade to black, as they say.

            And this brings up a really good point, one that took me a long time to get a grip on: this afterlife is not linear at all. Not...at...all. Which is really pretty crazy and takes a lot of getting used to. One minute I might be hanging out with my brother as he hikes up to Table Top in the mountains of Arizona and remembers when we did that same hike together in the winter of 2016, and the next moment I'm with my youngest son when he's remembering us riding our bikes together on a bicycle trip we took down to Le Sueur County when he was ten back in 1984. I can go from a birthday party for my grandson's tenth birthday, to a walk with my wife around the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum in the blink of an eye. I can be with someone in an old memory of us together in the past when I was still alive, or a new future memory when someone is thinking about me after I've been gone 'X' number of years.

            The best example of this was me traveling with my wife and her sister to England three years after my death. It was a trip Annie and I had spent years putting all the pieces together for, and we were finally at the point where could actually get on an airplane and go. But I was killed before we could pull it off. Fortunately she was able to still fulfill that dream with her sister. They flew to England, landed in London and then took a train through the Cotswold's where they dined in quaint little pubs, stayed in lovely little cottages and hiked on winding paths through woodlands, fields and hillsides. After twelve glorious days they took another train out to the Cornwall coast and to sightsee and visit the town where a favorite PBS show of ours was filmed. All of it unfolded just like we had planned. They were gone nearly three weeks, had loads of fun, and I was with them almost the whole time. It was a blast. (Thanks, for thinking of me, honey!).         

            So, even though you may think I'm not there, I am, as long as you take a moment and remember me. When you do, I get to be right there with you and it's really pretty fun for me. The only negative thing is that the connection isn't quite what I'd like it to be. I'm there, but I'm not. I see you, I know what is happening, but it's all like watching a movie with the sound turned off. There are no voices. I can't hear laughter, or music and anything. I can't smell fresh air, or hear gulls squawking or birds singing or sandhill cranes calling. It takes some getting used to.

            Also, it's kind of lonely. I see the person who has remembered me, but I can't touch them or talk to them or have any physical contact. Like I said, I'm just there. Which is good, in and of itself, and way, way better than the alternative, which is endless nothingness. And it's also a start. I've witnessed firsthand others who have learned how to interact between our world in this dimension we're in and with people in the physical world we left behind. It's pretty amazing, when you think about it, and hard to explain. But I will tell you something: it's not like phenomena experienced with people who call themselves 'spiritualists' at all. It's way more complicated than that. But it's something to aspire to, that's for sure; something I'm currently working on. In fact, I have to tell you, there's a lot to this afterlife thing that is still unknown to me that I'm continually learning about. Hopefully, I can keep you posted on my progress.

            Another totally unexpected experience is probably one of the most fantastic things of all - I can actually be with my loved ones who have already passed on. I knew people when I was alive in the previous life who believed that this would happen, but I really never did. I was very skeptical and, I guess, had too much of the rational scientist in me. Boy was I ever wrong. I'm here to tell you that it's true, which is, frankly...what? Amazing? Wonderful? I don't know. Nothing can adequately describe the experience, really. I certainly can't find the words. But it's a fact. I can be with Mom, Dad, my grandparents, my beloved Aunt and Uncle and others -  anyone previously close to me who is now gone. Notice I say 'Be with'. That's the key couple of words here. I can't talk to them, can't hug them or anything like that, just be with them. But, I'll tell you, that's...just...fine...with...me.

            A really good example is with my dad. When I was alive, I had wonderful memories of visiting him and walking with him on his favorite ocean beach off the Olympic Peninsula in northwest Washington State. We had only a few years of doing this before he died. I found my first sand dollar walking there with him. Those times were very special to me. When I was alive, I often thought back to when we would sit together in a cove of windswept sand as we talked and talked, something we didn't do too often when he and Mom were married - back when he lived with me and my brothers in Minnesota. But we sure talked during those times, on that ocean beach, while gulls circled above calling and soaring on the wind, and sandpipers ran along the shore, dodging the waves that crashed nearby. He was relaxed and happy and so was I, and it was times like those I really treasured. After he died and was gone, all I had were those memories, which were good, believe me, and I certainly made the most of them because they were all I had. Now, though, we can get together and walk on that beach and see the ocean and be with each other and it's fun. I'm never lonely, then. We can't talk, of course, but being together with him is just as good as it was back when we were both alive. It's excellent, in fact.

            Which brings me to something  else. You may be wondering how people look 'on the other side'. Would it surprise you if I told you they look exactly like they look in your memory of them? Well, they do. When I'm with my mom, let's say, riding horses at the ranch in Montana we used to go to on family vacations, Mom is like she was then, happy, healthy and vibrant. Fifty years later, when she's at the cafe where my brother and I used to play guitars and sing, she's like she was at that time, older, of course, and grayer, but smiling and still happy. It's pretty nice, actually, and I've learned to appreciate that no matter what the age is of the loved one or friend you are with, the thing is that you are there, together. It's the most important thing, actually.

            I think what I was most happy about, when I figured out how to 'come back', if that's the way to put it, was that I could see how my family and loved ones were doing with their lives - how they were getting on after I was gone. I've been able to see my sons grow into fatherhood, find good jobs and become wonderful parents as well as loving husbands and partners. I've been able to see my grandkids grow up and become happy and successful in their own unique ways. I've been with my brothers as they have lived out their very full lives. I've been with my wife for the amazingly creative final chapter of her life and even seen her publish two books: one on having to do with childhood memories of her grandmother called, "Winters On the Prairie," and another about an unsolved murder that took place on a farm down in Martin County in the 1900's called, "The Drainage Ditch Murders." (It was one we were both interested in.) Check them out sometime if you get a chance.

            I couldn't ask for anything more, and it's way beyond what I could ever have expected.

            Oh, I almost forgot. You're probably wondering how I could write this if I'm gone from your physical world. I have to say that it's a really good question, and I wish I had an answer for you. But I don't. It's a mystery to me, but I'm glad I can do it, though, aren't you? I will say that I'm awfully new at this; it's the first time I've attempted connecting like this with the life I left behind. I think it's worked out pretty well. I might write more in the future. In fact, I'm pretty sure I will, so look for more to come, Ok?

            The last thing I want to mention is this: You know that inscription on my memorial stone? That's how this whole thing started, remember, and I was killed on the way home before I got a chance to tell Annie what I wanted, right? Well, after I was able to come back and be with my loved ones, I was with Annie one day when she went to Lakeview Cemetery. I remember it well. She got a ride from a friend who left her in the parking lot alone so she could have some time to herself. Remember how I had picked out a spot?  Well, talk about mental telepathy or whatever you want to call it, but Annie picked out a spot for my stone right in the same area. Not exactly where I had lain in the grass that October evening and relived my life through my memories, but close enough. She had it engraved and placed in the ground just a few weeks after I died.

            On that particular day it was spring and seven months after my death, the day of my birthday, in fact. The sky was bright blue, and there was a nice breeze out of the south. The trees were just starting to bud out and Long Lake was clear of ice. There were still small patches of snow in protected areas but birds were returning from wintering in warmer climates and you could tell a change was on its way; a song sparrow was perched on a branch, joyfully pointing its head to the sun, early wildflowers were blooming blue and white, and a loon floated on the lake, occasionally diving and playing in the fresh, clean water. Winter was over. The day had a look of fresh, new rebirth, just the kind of day Annie would love. And she did. She made her way from the parking area to my stone and paused looking at it, remembering... She lay a bouquet of colorful tulips on the ground, reading the stone as she did. It was then I saw what she had come up with (probably with input from my sons) for the inscription. Remember what I had decided? It was a great life. Well she went in a completely different direction. I read with her, He was a good man. Well, that was sure a wonderful testimonial, don't you think? It never once dawned on me to use something like that when I was alive. I have to admit, I kind of liked it. It was really quite sweet, all things considered, and thoughtful, too. Thanks, Annie and thanks also to my boys. It works for me.

            Oh, Ok, wait a minute... I hate to cut this short, but I've got to get going. One of my sons is at a youth hockey game with his boy. The game is about to begin and my son is up in the stands getting ready to watch. He's thinking of me and that's all I need to be right there with him. I haven't watched a hockey game for a long time so thanks for remembering me, buddy. I'm right here beside you.

            I have to tell you that this is what I live for now, if that's the right way to put it - the chance to still be with my family and loved ones and share their lives with them. Remember when I said the more you remember me, the more I'm with you? Well being at the hockey game now is one of those times and this is going to be fun. Could it be better? Sure. I wish I was really right there. I wish I could touch my son and laugh out loud and cheer when my grandson scores a goal, smell the leather of the skates and feel the cold air of the arena. In short, interact with life. But I can't. I'm there in one sense but not in another. But at least I'm am with him. It's better than nothing and that's good enough for me. It really is.

            So this is it and I promise I'm going now. When I was alive I never thought much about what happens after a person was gone. I really had no reason to, other than idle speculation mostly for the heck of it. But now I have plenty of time and I'm kind of into it. Figuring out how things work here is a great experience. And I'm still learning. There's a lot to find out about, I know that for sure. But I do know one thing: there's a whole other world out here beyond what I used to think of as the physical world. It's taking me some time to get used to it, to understand it, and, I guess this is the way to put it - to live in it. But, hey, I've got eternity (as we say) to figure it out and that's just fine with me. So remember - when you're finding yourself missing me, just think of me and don't worry about a thing. I'll be there, right beside you. There's no place I'd rather be. You can bet your life on it. I sure do.

            Until next time, then...

            I'll see you around.

            

A Tale of Then and Now

Part 1 - It Was A Great Life

The phone rings in the kitchen.

            "You'd better answer it Ronnie," Annie, my wife, says, "It's probably the funeral home."

            I run from the living room where we're reading. Through a west facing window, the late afternoon sun catches my eye, temporarily blinding me. I stub my toe on a table leg and stumble into the kitchen where I pick up the phone. God, that hurt! I sometimes get gout in that toe and it's really susceptible to pain...which is big time right now.

            "Hello, this is Ron," I say, gritting my teeth, panting a little.

            "Hi Ron, this is Martin Freeborn from Sorenson's Funeral Home, returning your call. Sorry it's taken so long to get back to you. It's been pretty busy around here the last week or so."

            He sounds perky and cheerful, not at all like the dour, businesslike person I'd been prepared for. The pain in my toe immediately vanishes as I focus my attention. What do you say to a statement like that? He's talking about dying and death here. In my mind I see dead bodies stacked up in a back room somewhere waiting for whatever's in store for them. I want to be polite, but congratulating him on a flurry of business is a little out of my comfort zone. I quickly rack my brain, trying to come up with an appropriate comment while also trying to remember if I'd heard or read about anyone around town who has died recently. I come up empty on both counts.

            Martin interrupts my thoughts, "Your message said you were interested in a plot up at Lakeview?"

            Whew. He lets me off the hook. "Yes," I say, recovering, "Thank you so much for calling me back." I hear the formality in my voice. Am I really talking about this? A last resting place? I clear my throat and try to speak normally, "Yeah," I say." There that sounds better, "The cemetery just down the highway. Overlooking the lake?"

            I can actually hear him grinning, "Yes, Ron, I know it well. It's the only one in town."

            God, I'm coming across like a complete idiot. I take a deep breath and muddle on, "Do you have any spots up there for..." I was going to stay new tenant, but stop myself. It doesn't sound right, somehow. "Are there any plots available?" There. That sounds better.

            I hear some papers rustling. I imagine Martin checking an ancient, couple hundred years old, map of the cemetery, thin as parchment and folded into sections. He's carefully opening it up to look over locations for what's available. (In reality, it's probably a newspaper he's putting away. I'm sure all their records are on the computer, but then again, what do I know?) "We have a number of spaces, Ron. Do you have any family buried there? Someone you want to be next to?"

            What an odd way of putting it. I'm taken aback. Is this some kind of trick question? Do they only allow people in who have relatives? I didn't think this conversation was going to be so hard. Or unsettling. "Um, I have a few acquaintances there," I say (well, two, actually) and proceed to tell him about Annie's friend for one and her cousin, for the other. I know I'm stretching the facts and, truth be told, I didn't know either of them very well at all, but I do want a plot there.

            "That's excellent. Do you want a space near them?"

            Not really. "No, that's Ok. Any place will do." Why am I starting to perspire? I rack my brain and quickly I add, "Maybe up on the hill, overlooking the lake?"

            "Excellent choice," Martin says, "We have lots of spaces up there." I make a mental note that the correct term is space not plot or spot or location. I, apparently, have a lot to learn when it comes to the correct vernacular regarding cemeteries.

            He pauses, waiting, I think, for me to say something. Suddenly I'm at a loss for words. This is really happening. I'm talking to a guy about my final resting place. Do I really want to call it that? Man, so many questions start popping up that all of a sudden that my mind goes totally blank.

             After another beat he continues, apparently choosing to ignore the poor soul on the other end of the line, "Well anyway, Ron, why don't you go up and look around and decide where you want to be. You have been up there before, haven't you?" he asks, with the emphasis on have. Do I detect the slightest bit of condescension in his voice? Naw...It's probably just my overactive imagination.

            I nod my head for a few moments before I think to answer, "Yeah, sure, lots of times," then immediately regret my answer. I can picture Martin thinking what a strange man he is talking to right now. One who not only has trouble talking on the phone, but who also enjoys spending his free time wandering around in cemeteries, looking at gravestones and contemplating death. I suddenly wonder if he might alert the local police to me. I'm really perspiring now. Man, why am I so paranoid all of a sudden?

            "It's good you've been to it," he says, allaying my concerns somewhat. "Take a little drive over there, look around and check on few head stones near where you want to be. Call me back with a general location and we'll get you set all up."

            What an odd way of putting it. "So there's space available?" I ask, feeling rather smug that I'm now using the correct term.

            For the first time during our conversation he chuckles, which, I have to say, given the circumstances, is a little disconcerting. "Yes, we do, Ron. We have lots of spaces," he pauses and then chuckles again, "Unless, of course," he adds, "we have a run like this past week."

            Geez!

            He quickly quotes me a price and we both hang up. I wipe the sweat from my brow and wish I still smoked and drank. I could use a little of each right now. Maybe a lot.

            Annie comes in and rubs my shoulder, "How'd it go, big fella?"

            I'm grateful for her touch and human contact. "Fine," I say, "Good. The guy at Sorenson's wants me to head up to the cemetery and pick out a spot, I mean space." I clear my throat, "Want to come along?"

            Annie averts her eyes for a moment, thinking, and then looks at me with loving concern, "Do you want me to?"

            Her mom and dad have passed away within the past year. This whole cemetery and burial plot thing for me is a little close to home for her. I don't want to drag her up to Lakeview unless she wants to go and I tell her that, "It's not that big a deal, Annie. I can do it myself."

            She hugs me, "Why don't you go ahead? Call me when you start home and I'll make some tea for us to have when you get back."

            I'm so grateful for her. "Sounds good," I tell her, giving her a tight hug back. Then I grab the keys to my car and head out the door, "I'll be back in a while."

            Lakeview Cemetery is located a mile outside of town, off highway 112, on the south shore of Long Lake, the lake our town is named after. The cemetery's been there for nearly a hundred and fifty years. Martin told me there are over three hundred people buried there and room (as he put it) for over a hundred more. "Plenty of space for you, Ron," he told me, laughing a little, "In fact, more than enough for you to choose from." (I can't begin to imagine what his dinner table conversations are like.)

            I take a left off the highway at the entrance, drive a hundred feet in and up a slight rise to a roughed out parking area, roll to a stop, turn the key off and get out. I'm the only car there. It's early October and just after six at night. Since I started thinking about doing this, I've kept coming up with reasons not to. Now, I just want to get it over with and not put it off another day. I'm a little wired and force myself to take a minute to try and calm down.

            Lakeview is the exact opposite of the pampered cemeteries with trim bushes, pretty gardens and manicured lawns that most cities have. This one is more on the shaggy side, only lightly maintained, with long grass and overgrown shrubs thriving beneath tall, shady trees. It's definitely not formal at all and, to tell the truth, I like the casual feel to it. The sun is low to the west, casting shadows through the graveyard. The air is cool and crisp and the trees in the area have started to change colors. Looking across the lake I see rolling hills of oaks and maples turning red, yellow and orange with myriads of hues in between. Low sunlight filters through the colorful leaves above me and adds to the mellow feel of the place. All things considered, it's a beautiful time of year to be checking out burial plots, I mean spaces. I like being outside anyway, and there's a nice, outdoorsy vibe to the area. I'm calming down and feel myself getting into the mood to look around.

            I should be clear here. I'm really not going to be buried at Lakeview. When I'm gone, I'm going to be cremated and want my ashes scattered on Long Lake; I just want a location (space!) for a stone for sort of a memorial marker. What do I mean, sort of? I - want - a - stone - for - a - memorial - marker. There, that's better; nice and definite. I learning to accept what I'm doing; planning for the end of my life, and I'm starting to get my head wrapped around it. I want something that says that I was here. I was on this earth. I lived and died and now I'm gone, but once I was here. Sound weird? Well maybe...but it makes sense to me and I'll tell you why: throughout the twenty one years of our marriage, Annie and I have done a lot of family ancestry research. One thing we found was that it helps to track relatives if there's a burial marker of some sort. That's why I'm doing this. Since my ashes are going to be scattered, I figured a stone for a memorial was the next best thing. The idea is to leave a foot print behind;  something for later generations to see. I explained all this to Martin while we were talking and I got the distinct impression he could have cared less. In fact, I thought I detected his finger tips tapping away on his desk as I blathered on and on.  When I finished all he asked is how I wanted to pay for everything.

            Walking around the cemetery is...how can I put this? Different? Well, of course. Strange? No, that's really not it. Interesting? Maybe that's it - but not interesting like watching a special on climate change on PBS is interesting. (At least it is to me.) No, this is like trying to tap into some inner connection between yourself and the land you are walking on. Some would call it getting a feel for the place and that would be as accurate as I could put it. Standing next to my car and looking toward the lake, the land slopes away to the left. There are a lot of headstones there and I walk down and wander around, idly looking at names and dates of births and deaths. Annie's friend is buried down here. So is her cousin. I check out both their stones. Someone's left a bouquet of flowers for her friend. Who could have done that? I don't have a clue. To my right, hidden in a grove of trees near the lake, a group of what looks to be high school kids are sitting on the ground talking quietly. I like the fact that they respect that they are in a cemetery and are being mindful of the dead. Then I catch of whiff of marijuana. Hmm... Well, maybe mindful is not the correct word.

            I turn and make my way back up the hill and stroll past my car over to the other half of the cemetery. The ground is nice and level here. My boots are shuffling through tallish grass and fallen leaves, and the swishing sound is relaxing to my state of mind. To my right the highway noise is muted by trees and underbrush, all turning to vibrant fall colors. The burgundy red and blaze orange of the sumac is especially pretty.

            I'm feeling calmer, now, wandering around. It's not so bad being here. In fact the more I walk, the more I feel outside noises and distractions disappearing.  My attention begins to focus on my task - looking for my space. Some of the headstones here are very old, crumbling a little, covered in gray and green lichen, and dating back to the 1870's. The oldest one Annie and I have found up here is from 1859. The name is illegible and we can just make out the date, but the interesting fact is that the person was buried one year after Minnesota became a state. I think it's pretty amazing to have a grave here that old.

            But that's not why I said it was interesting being here. I guess what I was trying to get at was that being here really is different. It's not the way I normally would choose to spend my free time. Thinking about death and a final resting place is not something one does every day. But here I am, doing just that. Interesting, different...you can add weird to that, too, I guess. Anyway, call it what you will, I'm here and I am coping with it just fine. It's something I want to do.

            At the far end of the cemetery to my left and overlooking the lake is an open area. I don't know why there are no grave stones here, but it's open and empty and might work for me. I walk over and stand in the middle of the space. It's about ten feet from some brushy, shrubby overgrowth and a line of tall maple trees that mark the edge of the cemetery. Just beyond the vegetation there's a steep cliff cut in the hillside leading down to the lake. It's the highest point around - about forty feet above the shoreline, and seems like a good spot. I turn in a circle a few times, looking around, getting a feel for things. Then I look up - tree tops bend over the space and their branches form a canopy above me. Through them, high in the sky, I can just make out a wavering flock of birds flying, probably geese. There is no wind and the air has the feel of fall to it. Somewhere, someone is burning leaves and the scent fills me with a vivid happy memory of my childhood when Dad and I burned piles of leaves I'd helped him rake. In the underbrush a chickadee calls, then a nuthatch. There is a calm and a peacefulness right here that I haven't felt anywhere else in my meandering around. I suddenly just know that this is the place I want to be. The connection is strong. It feels perfect.

            I sit down and look around, soaking in the atmosphere of the place. Faraway, down to my left I can just make out a burst of laughter from the kids which quickly fades into the growing twilight. An owl hoots on the far side of the lake, it's haunting voice fading into the stillness. Then nothing. The birds nearby have gone quiet. Silence settles in. The sun has dropped below the horizon and the air is still. It's so peaceful and quiet...I lay back and look through the woven branches of trees into a sky turning to a soft mauve. I close my eyes and let the stillness take me away.

            One thing Martin wanted to know was about my grave stone. (I prefer to call it my memorial stone.)

            "Want do you want to put on it?" he asked me.

            Well, now that was a good question. What does on put on the stone that will mark their place on earth for eternity...or at least the next one hundred or two hundred years or so. I'd thought about it a lot since I'd first committed to doing this but so far had come up empty. I told him I hadn't decided and that I'd get back to him on it.

            As I lay on my space, (I'm starting to get comfortable thinking about it like that) I start to focus my attention and think; what do I want on my memorial stone? A few days earlier I looked up a site on the internet that listed possible headstone inscriptions. If you want to make yourself nuts in a hurry, check it out. (No, I'm not going to give out the address. It's easy to find.) Trust me, though, there were pages and pages of them: short ones like, "Dearly Beloved" or " So Loved." Longer ones like, "And The Beauty Of The Soul Revealed" or "Our Love Is A Love Always Remembered." Sayings by famous people, "Death is the key that opens the place of Eternity - Milton" or "We all shine on...- John Lennon." And, of course, there were religious ones, "Forever to dwell in the House of the Lord" and "I sought the Lord and He heard me and delivered me from all my fears." And, finally, non-religious ones: "Too Well Loved Ever To Be Forgotten" and "His life was like music, a song written on the wind."

            Actually, I made that last one up, but, trust me, there were a lot of them. Funny ones, sad ones and everything in between. Frankly, it was kind of mind boggling. After I'd looked them over for fifteen minutes (which, believe me, was a lot longer than it sounds), I shut down the computer and went to my file drawer. In it I keep a bunch of old comic books I'd bought at antique stores and on eBay to share with my grandkids. I selected a Looney Tunes and opened it up and read for a while about Bugs Bunny driving Elmer Fudd nuts and Daffy Duck just being Daffy, to clear my head. I have to say, it took a couple of stories of being entertained by their antics before my mind was back to normal.

            Putting thoughts of comic books aside, I lay on the fragrant grass in the growing twilight of the early fall evening and let my thoughts wander. I wanted to see what would happen - to see if somehow a saying would come to me, a saying that would make sense; one I could use to mark my place on this earth forever.

            What happened next was unexpected, but actually quite pleasant. Out of the blue, memories of my life started running through my brain like old film on a movie reel. I thought I'd share some with you: the day my youngest brother was born (my first memory), the day my best friend knocked me out with one swing of his brand new #32 Louisville Slugger, warm twilight nights as a youngster playing hide-and-go-seek with friends in my old neighborhood, the scent of a fresh mown lawn, learning to skate and play hockey at the rink down on the corner, Dad falling off a ladder onto the driveway and surviving, my first orange tabby cat, me forgetting Mom's 33rd birthday when I was seven, summers at the cabin up north, Dad and his friends listening to jazz in our living room, fishing with my uncle, Mom's portrait on the wall in the dining room painted by her friend, my aunt teaching me how to play solitaire, Mom and Dad having cocktails and listening to Benny Goodman records in the living room, my best friend in our new neighborhood and I building a mini-bike, Mom teaching me how to play cribbage, a friend who died of leukemia, early doo-wop and Motown, failing English in seventh grade, Buddy Holly, the first girl I kissed, Dion and the Belmont's, my first car (a little red Triumph Tr-3), Friday night football games, the perfume my high school girl friend wore, 'The Sounds of Silence', landscape paintings with cows in pastures, getting an A in English in twelfth grade, 'Like A Rolling Stone', working at Swant's Service and Gas Station, Mom and Dad getting divorced, the summer of 1969, the pacific ocean with Dad, stargazing in the Rocky Mountains, my first born child, my second born child, Bruce Springsteen and 'Darkness On the Edge of Town', Lake George, leatherwork, Drew Avenue South, the guys in Hop the Train, sandhill cranes on the Platte River, watching the snow fall at night, Christmas lights, the uninhibited laughter of my grandchildren (and seeing them grow), molten orange sunsets, hiking in the desert, bike riding, walking anywhere and anytime, bird watching, the job I held for twenty years, the soft light of dawn, working at two different garden centers, Lake Constance, blues guitar, sobriety, winter night fires by the fireplace, Hayseed Cree, working in the garden, soft rainfall, talking with Mom anytime, Manitobagifts, reading books, my last home (our little bungalow), bluebirds nesting in the front yard, my wife for all these years.

            And that's just the preverbal tip of the iceberg.

            I could take each statement and write about it for days, but I don't want to belabor the point. Suffice it to say that each memory is a thread woven into a rich and colorful tapestry made up of family, friends and events that have enriched my life and made my time here on earth the wonderful journey it's been. One I wouldn't trade for anything.

            But how to sum it up into a short, all encompassing saying that I can put on my memorial stone? I mean that's the whole point of this, right? A simple statement that says something about me and about my life; something that people who have known me can look at and nod in agreement (hopefully), and people in some far off future can look at and get a feel for the person who was me. As I write this I'm thinking: Is this too vain? Is this too over the top? I don't know. I don't want it to be. I just want to do it. Sort of a 'leave behind' marking the end of my life and my time here. It's been a good life, of that I have no doubt. Why not commemorate somehow?

            And then it comes to me. It has been a good life. In fact, it's been a wonderful life. Wait, that's already a movie title. That's Ok, it's not really what I wanted, anyway.

            Restless, I get up and walk through the grass to the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake. I must have lain on my spot for a long time. I'm a little stiff and I swing my arms to loosen up. The water is mirror smooth, and there's a reflection of a nearly full moon rising in the east  glowing on the lake's surface. The scent of burning leaves is lingering in the air. The kids down the hill to the left are still there. I hear their  muffled laughter and it makes me smile to hear them happy. I look up and see the stars, stars I've watched and felt connected to my entire life. Letting my mind go to be free to play back memories of my life was fun and has left me uplifted. It occurs to me just how happy I am. Like a kid I shuffle around through the fallen leaves, enjoying the feel of them beneath my boots. I feel excited with what my memories have shown me. It's been better than a good life, it's been a great one. I walk in a little circle, scattering more leaves, enjoying playing in them. And then it dawns on me. What a perfect saying. I smile to myself and feel a sense of relief (a sure sign it's the right thing to do.) I decide that I'm not going to worry myself about it anymore. I've thought about it long enough. Simple sometimes really is the best. I've got my saying for my memorial stone: "It's Been A Great Life". Five simple words that say it all.

            Finally. What a relief!

            Feeling a slightly euphoric, I carefully make my way through the dark cemetery to my car, open the door and sit in the driver's seat. The interior light is the only light around and I blink as my eyes adjust. I take out my phone. I'm relieved and happy and want to share it with Annie.

            "Hey, there. Just wanted to let you know I'm on my way home," I say, after ringing her up.

            "It's kind of late. I was getting worried. Are you Ok?" she asks.

            I try to allay the concern in her voice. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm doing fine." I check the time. It's just after 8:30. I've been here for over two hours. The interior light has gone out and I sit back and stare into the darkness. A burden has been lifted and I'm feeling both mellow and jubilant, two entirely different feelings that, interestingly, work well together.

            She's quiet for a moment and finally decides to believe me. "I'm glad. You sound good. Calm."

            "I am. I'm really good," I want to tell her everything, but decide to wait until I get home. "I'm leaving right now. I just wanted you to know I've decided on a space and what to put on my stone. I think you'll like them both."

            "That's good, Honey, really good. Do you want to tell me now or when you get home?"

            "How about if I wait until I get home? There's a bit of a story that goes along with it," I tell her. I'm thinking of all those memories.

            "Sounds good." She pauses and then asks, "Not to change the subject, but..." I grin. We've been together for a long time. I can picture what's coming, "Can you do me a really big favor?"

            "Absolutely."

            "I'm in the mood for a treat."

            A new shop called The Dairy Store has opened in town specializing in homemade ice cream. We go there a lot. "Let me guess, licorice?"

            I can see her smiling on the phone, "You guessed it, Ronnie."

            "A pint of licorice it is."

            "Get something for yourself, too, Ok? Well celebrate."

            She doesn't have to twist my arm. I can see a pint of salty caramel in my future. "Will do. Anything else?"

            "No. Just hurry home, Ok? I've missed you."

            I check the car's clock: 8:42. The ice cream shop is open until 9:00. "I'll be home soon."

            "See you, Sport."

            "Love you, Babe."

            "Love you, too."

            I start the car, turn on the headlights, pop in a CD, turn around, and inch out to the highway where I put my foot on the brake and stop. It's pitch dark out and the high beams from the cars coming from both directions temporarily blind me. I blink to clear my vision and wait a minute for a break in the traffic, listening to the music and taping my finger on the steering wheel. After a minute there's finally an opening. I turn to the right and start shifting through the gears, accelerating down the hill toward town. Low level clouds have moved in and the lights on the buildings reflect a soft glow in the sky. There's a feeling of calm to the night. Annie's waiting for me and I'll be with her in no time. I can't wait. Those memories start playing in my head again, a lovely movie rolling on and on and on. It really has been a great life, one I wouldn't trade for anything. And you know what another great thing is? There are lots more memories to be made, of that I'm sure. I'm looking forward to all of them. I shift into top gear and whistle a little under my breath, smiling as I head for home.

(To be continued...)

What Larry Wanted

Dedicated to friends, past, present and future.

I'm thinking, Man, what am I getting myself into?  It's a warm Saturday afternoon in early September and I'm driving into Long Lake to the Bad Billy Goat, a bar and restaurant just off Hwy 112, the main drag through town.  My best friend when I worked at Northland Controls had called two nights earlier, wondering if we could get together.

            "Danny Boy," Larry Underwood greeted when I picked up the phone, "How are you doing, man? It's been a while."

            Talk about out of the blue. "Yeah, it has been," I stammered, slightly stunned, totally at a loss for words.

            I'd been laid off five years earlier and moved on with my life, finding a job with Jorgensen Electric, a small family owned business right here in Long Lake, the small town me and Lynn had moved to after being let go, or 'downsized', as my boss had so kindly put it. Lynn continued to work at North Memorial Hospital in administration. Our twenty-nine year marriage is strong. Our three girls are grown and on their own. Life is pretty good. Uncomplicated. Uncomplicated that was until Larry called and wanted to meet.

            "What do you think it's all about?" Lynn asked after I'd hung up.

            "Damned if I know. Probably something to do with money. Larry was always looking to make an easy buck."

            My wife looked at me skeptically, "You're not going to lend him anything, are you? We don't have a lot to play around with here, you know." She swirled a tea bag in her mug and gave me a look - a look I knew only too well. Lynn is the brains of the family and I had learned over the years it didn't pay to argue. She knows what she's doing, running the finances and pretty much everything else when it comes to the household. She's good at it. Me...well, it's best to probably not go there.

            "No, never, babe," I said, hoping I sounded convincing. If I was going to piss off anyone, it'd have to be Larry. I'd learned the hard way that that it didn't pay to go up against my strong willed, confident wife.

            I stood up, suddenly restless, "I think I'll go out for a smoke."

            She shook her head at me, disappointed that all of the arguments she'd been making over the years were still falling on deaf ears, "Another nail in your coffin, pal. I'm telling you, those things are going to kill you"

            "Yeah, probably...," which was about as witty as I was going to get, given the circumstances. I was a bit pre-occupied and had some thinking to do.

            I went out back, stood on our deck and lit up. Larry and I had worked together for twenty two years, both of us having been hired within a few weeks of each other when Northland was going through a companywide growth spurt. We were engineers, fresh out of college and eager to prove ourselves.  Even though initially we had been assigned to different projects, we became friendly when we started talking outside during smoke breaks.

            We had a lot in common: he had kids roughly the same age as mine, our wives both worked, we liked sports and we both took time to coach our kids soccer and hockey teams; those kinds of things. After a few months of getting to know each other, we introduced our wives and they hit it off instantly. Eventually me and Lynn and Larry and his wife, Jessie, became friendly enough to go for an occasional drink or two once a month or so and hang out, relax and listen to live music. We all became pretty friendly.

            But that was then and this was now. Although we had worked together and been close (as much as you could be) during those twenty two years, since I'd been laid off I hadn't really been in touch with him much; well, not at all, actually. I knew he'd been let go less than a year after I had but that was it. All I knew from our catch up conversation was that in the ensuing four plus years, Larry had gone on to do the generically vague other things that people tell you when they haven't been doing much, or at least doing much that they want to tell you about. He did, however, offer that he'd been doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that, which wasn't really anymore helpful.(When I asked him about it later he told me that he just didn't want to go into at the time. "There were other things more important that I needed to talk to you about," he'd said. Well, he was right about that.)

            I remembered Larry as a tall, thin, clean shaven man with a quick mind who was excellent at computer aided design. He had the lean look of a marathoner but he wasn't a runner at all, preferring to go for walks or bicycle rides with Jessie, instead. I remembered their relationship as a loving one; they were devoted parents and totally committed to raising their three boys. Their home was a happy place to be.

            But my comment about Larry always looking to make a buck was accurate. He willingly 'invested', as he called it, in schemes that, on the surface sounded legitimate, but often where a bit shady. Schemes where you could double or triple your money in less than a year - that kind of thing. All you had to do was fork over 'X' amount of cash up front and you'd be rich (or richer) in no time. There was a retirement community in Arizona that turned out to be nothing but desert. Then there was the land acquisition in Northern Minnesota for a gated community that fell through. And the last one I had heard about, just before being laid off, was fronting an upstart drilling company speculating for oil in the newly discovered oil fields in western North Dakota. I'd heard it had fallen through also.

            The only thing Larry made any money at was when he sold the burial plots he'd bought when he and Jessie were first married.

            "We didn't need them anymore," he told me once out of the blue, one cold winter day when we were shivering our asses off outside having a smoke break. This was maybe ten years ago, back when things at work were going fine and no one even considered that they'd be let go. "We've been talking about it for a few weeks and finally decided to opt for cremation. I sold them and got four times what I'd originally paid."

            I was incredulous. It was February and we were standing outside Northland with our backs to the north wind, surface snow whipping past our legs, the dull sun offering absolutely no warmth at all. My fingers were freezing. I was silently berating my addiction, seeing Lynn in my mind nodding, I told you so, but I was still mule headed enough to not give it up. I was glad that the conversation was distracting me from how cold I was, "Man, where were they? The White House lawn?"

            He chuckled, "Lakewood. Two plots. Under a big maple tree."

            Well, that explained it. Lakewood is a nearly two hundred year old cemetery on 250 acres of prime land in Minneapolis between Lake Calhoun and Lake Harriet. I'd always admired the property for it's beautiful gardens, manicured lawns, rolling hills and mature hardwood and pine trees. It's a perfect place for a cemetery, if your mind runs to that kind of thing. It's considered 'The Place To Be'. Lots of famous Minnesotans are buried there, the most notable probably is Hubert H. Humphrey.

            At the time he sold them, Larry had speculated out loud that maybe he should start buying up grave sites around the country, hold on to them for a number of years and then sell them.

            "I could make a killing," he said, "no pun intended."

            I laughed, coughing out a cloud of smoke into the icy air, but didn't tell him I thought the whole thing was nuts, if not a little macabre. I quickly changed the subject. Like most people, I didn't like talking about death and dying all that much. Back then we had both been in our late thirties; too young, in my mind, to be thinking about such things.

            But now we're both around fifty, so...Geez, what am I thinking about? I crush out my cigarette and go back inside. If it's money that he wants...No, that can't be it, can it? I tell myself it's probably nothing. Larry was a good guy back then and I had liked him a lot. We had become pretty good friends before we drifted apart. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt - he only wants to catch up, I finally convince myself. Nothing wrong with that.

            I find Lynn inside and we sit down in the living room to watch some television, thinking that I'm definitely (well, probably) blowing the whole thing up in my mind.

            "Maybe he just wants to touch base and re-connect," I say to her during a commercial break.

            "You think?" she asks, giving me a look like she was about one tenth of one-percent confident in my assessment. "Why now, then, after all this time?"

            "I don't know." She, as usual, makes a good point. My confidence level starts dropping toward her one-percent. I rally, "Besides, what have I got to lose?"

            "Oh, I don't know, Sport," she says, muting our program and turning to face me. Usually not a good sign." How about like...A lot!"

            She gets up and goes into the kitchen. I heard her running water to make more tea. She puts the kettle on the stove and then joins me on the couch. I can tell she has given the matter some thought and is willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. At least for a while. "Anyway, you do what you have to. Just don't lend him any money until you talk to me. Ok?" She makes eye contact, eyeball to eyeball. I pay attention.

            "I get it," I say. After all these years of marriage and more than I few miscues on my part, I really did. Get it, that is.

            So now it's two days later and time to meet Larry. I pull into the parking lot, get out of my car and immediately light up a smoke. In the reflection on the glass of the bar I see myself, bald and twenty pounds heavier than my doctor wants me to be for my six foot frame. I grew my beard out four years ago and keep it neatly trimmed. I like how it looks and think of it as mostly silver with a little chestnut mixed in. Lynn calls it dull gray with a hint of muddy brown. I'm wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans and work boots and I look kind of like a small town lumberjack, a source of never ending jokes from Lynn. But I'm an engineer by trade, not a woodsman, although if push came to shove I could build a deck or frame a garage, both of which I've actually done. Woodworking is a hobby of mine.

            I take off my Minnesota Wild baseball hat and scratch my head. I'm still getting used to being bald even though it's been a few years since I finally lost the last of my hair. I'm sweating a little. Eighty degrees is warm for the first week of September. I'm actually looking forward to fall and cooler weather setting in. Even the first snow.

            Being at the bar is weird. In the five years since last seeing Larry I'd quit drinking, preferring, instead, to spend my free time developing my woodworking hobby and being in my little work shop out in the garage. It's a lot better than hanging out in a bar somewhere downing beer and shots of Jack Daniels like I was starting to do too much of. Besides, Lynn's happy with my decision, and when she's happy, I'm happy.

            A toot on a horn catches my attention and I turn. Pulling into the parking lot is a two or three year old, sage green Prius. Larry's driving . He rolls down his window and waves. He looks a little different. Older, perhaps. That's a surprise, it's only been five years. I wonder if I look that much different. Then I think about the gray (silver) in my bead and lack of hair on my head. Hmm. I guess time is marching on.

            "Hey, man, good to see you," he says as he drives by, slows down and angles into a parking spot, adding, "You should quit smoking those things, you know. They'll kill you."

            I laugh it off good-naturedly, seeing Lynn in my mind, nodding in agreement. I'll bet Larry's quit smoking. (I find out later he has.) I crush out my cigarette and walk over to greet my old friend. I have to say, just seeing him drive up re-kindles some really good past memories. My nervousness disappears and I find, suddenly, that I'm looking forward to seeing him. "Hey there buddy! Long time no see. How's life?"

            Larry gets out of the car and grabs me in a big 'Bro' hug. (He does look older.) "Danny boy! Man, are you a sight for sore eyes." We stand locked together for a few moments. I catch a whiff of after shave, maybe Aqua Velva Musk. Just before I start to get uncomfortable Larry breaks the embrace and holds me out at arm's length, looking me over with obvious affection. I'm happy to see him, too. Then he grabs me in another hug. This is starting to get a little uncomfortable. Then I catch myself. I feel Larry shaking. My old friend is starting to cry.

            I quickly take him through the parking lot and we go indoors. I opt for the restaurant side of the bar. It's just after the noontime rush, but the place is still crowded. And noisy. The waitress takes one look at the two of us (Larry is wiping tears from his eyes) and says, "Back booth boys?"

            I nod gratefully and she takes us to a corner that's furthest from the front door. She settles us in, drops off a couple of menus and leaves us with two glasses of water, getting the vibe that we need to be alone.

            Well, what do you say in a situation like this? I've always been a bit of a smart-aleck. Lynn is eagerly happy to point out at any given time that my sense of humor is juvenile at best, and the rest of the time just plain stupid and embarrassing. My three girls were my biggest fans until they got into first or second grade when they became old enough to know better. Touchy feely I'm not.

            But Larry is definitely hurting and I feel my heart going out to him. He seems spent and exhausted. He's hung his head and his arms are limp on the table.  I reach over and take hold of the left one with my right hand and give him a little 'I'm there for you' squeeze. The contact jolts him and he looks up at me, "God, Dan, I don't know what I'm going to do." The momentary joy we felt reconnecting in the parking lot is replaced by something darker; something more ominous and foreboding. 

            "What's going on?" I ask. This is no 'let's get caught up' meeting. Now I'm really curious, in addition to being a little unsure of my ability to handle what he might say.

            When I worked with him, Larry was a good looking guy (ask Lynn) and always meticulously dressed: pressed slacks in various subdued hues of dark blue, brown and tan, freshly ironed dress shirts, usually white or blue, ties that were expensive, yet understated, leather belts and sharp looking dress shoes. Even his socks (I'd guess) were ironed and top quality. Right now he looks awful. His poor face is splotched from crying and his red rimmed eyes are sunk into their sockets so deep they are painful to look at. I can tell he made an effort to shave today but he was unsuccessful, missing a good half the hairs on his face. His beard has turned gray, like his hair, which is matted and oily and looks like he cut it himself. He's lost at least ten pounds and is unhealthily gaunt. He's dressed in baggy blue jeans, a worn pair of running shoes and a dark maroon cotton sweater that's blown out at the neck and has a few food stains on the front.

             It dawns on me that maybe the reason he wants to see me is that there is something physically wrong with him. I have no idea what I could do to help, but...I have to ask, "Are you Ok, buddy? I mean, are you feeling alright?" How do I ask him if he's sick? Just do it? Wouldn't that be prying? I'm in uncharted territory here. In the past we usually talked about sports, kids and family. I have no idea what the protocol is, if there is any.

            Larry takes a drink of water and pats my hand signaling that I can remove it. I do. He looks me straight in the eye, "I'm doing fine," he says and in my mind I'm quick to disagree, but he continues, "It's Jessie," he says and I watch the tears welling up again. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, "She's sick, Dan. Really sick."

            My heart drops out of my chest, my stomach flips over and I feel my insides start to quake. Jessie and Larry have been married nearly as long as Lynn and me - twenty eight years if I remember correctly. "Tell me..." I encourage him, my voice has dropped to a whisper.

            "She's got cancer, Dan. Ovarian. It runs in her mom's side of the family." He stops talking and takes a another sip of water. His hand is shaking.

            I take a nervous drink out of my glass, too, and notice my hand is also shaking. I came into this meeting thinking, at the worst, he might hit me up for some money. This is the last thing I expected - that Larry's healthy, happy , fun-loving wife is now in a battle for her life. Their world must be turned upside down. It feels like my world, too, has shifted somehow. My mom died when I was in my early thirties. We were close and when she passed on I felt like a part of me had also died. It took a long time to recover. In some ways I still am.

            I feel that way now with Larry - a bit adrift and way out of my comfort zone. Even though we'd been out of touch, I always felt like we were still friends - like I could call him anytime to talk and we'd immediately fall into our old, familiar groove. I just hadn't taken the time or worked up the gumption to do it. My mind flashes to the past when Lynn and I had been together with Larry and Jessie. Back then the four of us had had great times being with each other. But now those times are blurring, getting lost in the urgency of what Larry is telling me. Life is changing right before my eyes. I have the feeling it will never be the same again.

            "God, man, I am so sorry," I feel like giving him a hug but don't want to make a scene. My heart goes out to the guy.

            "I know you are," Larry says, giving me a grateful look. "Thanks. I appreciate it. I just needed to talk to someone and you were the first person I thought of. Even though it's been a while."

            "Too long," I say, meaning it, telling myself what a fool I'd been to let our friendship slide. But even though it's been nearly five years since we last talked, we're starting to fall right back into what we'd had.

            He tells me that they've only known for a few days. "She'd been feeling good and healthy right up until a couple of weeks ago when she went in for her yearly check up."

            Jessie teaches third grade at Jefferson Elementary in Minneapolis. She's been at the same school for nearly twenty five years and is highly respected by her students and fellow teachers, having narrowly missed out on winning the Minnesota Teacher of the Year Award two times (that I knew of). She's a devoted mother to her and Larry's three sons, Sam, Ron and Larry Jr. All three are good kids. In the disjointed conversation that follows the news about Jessie, Larry tells me Ron and Larry Jr. both still live at home and commute to the University of Minnesota and Sam has a job working for the Minnesota DNR out of Bemidji in northern Minnesota. Jessie's parents are still alive and live in Eagan, only a forty minute drive from where Larry and Jessie live in Minneapolis. The point I'm trying to make is that they have a good support network in place, with her parents, the kids and lots of friends Jessie has made over the years with her teaching.

            "How can I help?" I finally ask.

            The waitress had taken our orders while we'd been talking. She comes back, sets our plates down and leaves, giving Larry a sympathetic look. She looks at me, too, like Is everything Ok? and I nod Yes, even though it's not. Not by a long shot.

            I push my burger and onion rings aside, appetite gone. Larry picks up a carrot stick and nibbles on it. Behind me I can hear some patrons in the bar laughing. I have a sick feeling in my stomach and feel numb all over. I can only begin to imagine how Larry feels.

            "Do you still do your woodworking?" he asks. I'm thankful that's he's interrupted my thoughts, which are flying all over the place. It's good to focus.

            "Sure," I answer. Larry remembered that I had started toying around with it toward the end of my time at Northland. Then I get an idea, "Say, why don't you come over to our place after lunch. We're only a mile away. You can check out our home. I can show you my workshop. Lynn would love to see you and I can show you the garage and deck I built." 

            "Thanks, but I'm not really up for it..." he says, rubbing his eyes, "...you know, visiting and all. I've got to get back to Jessie."

            What an idiot I am! Larry's life is not normal anymore and he can't drop everything, just like that, and head off for a casual visit on a sunny afternoon to reminisce with a long lost friend. I have a lot to learn about how much Larry's and Jessie's life has changed. If the tables were turned and it was Lynn...Man, I'd be a mess and that would be putting it mildly.

            He straightens up, blinks a few times and looks right at me, "But I will take you up on your offer to help out."               

            "Great. Anything I can do I will," I say, meaning it.

            "I'd like you to make a container for Jessie's ashes. Out of wood."

            He looks at me and then sets his carrot stick on the plate. His Cobb salad, like my burger, is going untouched. I watch him sigh and take another sip of water. He looks into the corner of the booth like he wants to hide from the world. He is literally folding in on himself. I've never seen a more shattered human being in my life.

            When he'd called me two days ago, all I could think of was what scheme he was planning and how he was going to try and borrow money from me or whatever. In short, take advantage of me and the friendship we'd had. But all of that has changed now. I realize that he is really the only adult male friend I truly have ever had. I didn't want to lose that friendship. This is a chance to make up for my neglect.

            "Sure," I say, "I'll be happy to do it." Then I quickly augment my statement, "I'd be honored to do it," I add, feeling a little uncomfortable at how sappy I sound. What the hell, I take a moment to berate myself, and then move on. This really isn't about me, is it?

            Larry straightens himself up and rubs his cheeks with both hands. His eyes are wet and glistening, but there's a brightness to them I haven't seen since we've been together. He looks relieved and just the tiniest bit rejuvenated, like a weight has been lifted ,"Thanks so much, man," he says, gratefully, "I knew I could count on you."

            Well, that's a glowing testimony if there ever was one, considering the fact that we've been out of touch all these years. But I appreciate what he is saying and take it in the spirit intended. I'm glad that I can help him. He has always been a good guy and the longer we're together today, the more I realize how much I've missed our friendship. It's good to be back in contact again.

            I make a little smart aleck comment to ease the tension, "It'll be a piece of cake."

            He breaks into a relieved smile, which is good to see. I don't tell him I have no idea how I'm going to make what he'd asked me to make.

            Back home I fill Lynn in on our conversation as best I can. Truth be told, I'm still rattled. I'm can't stop myself from personalizing the situation and imaging how I would feel if the roles were reversed. If Lynn was gravely ill, like Jessie, I wouldn't know what to do. I'd be in shambles, that's for sure; a complete mess. The whole experience is freaking me out, and I'm close to losing it. But Lynn is an incredibly strong person. Of course, upon first hearing it from me, she was shocked but then quickly recovered, putting it all into perspective with the simple statement, "We've got to help them."

            Exactly. I needed to hear her words and they got me out of my head. She was right. I had to focus on what I could do to help my friend. "We are going to help," I tell her, "Larry wants me to make a container for Jessie's ashes." Saying it out loud like that brought home the gravity of the situation again, and we were both quiet for a minute.

            Lynn gets it together first, "That's good," she says, "Excellent. What are her chances for recovery?" She's pacing back and forth, a little wired.

            "I guess the five year survival rate is forty or fifty percent in Jessie's case. Something like that. The cancer's pretty advanced."

            She gets a little pissed, "Well, what is it exactly? That's a ten percent swing."

            I rack my brain, "Um, forty-six percent is I'm pretty sure what Larry said. (And it was. I checked later online.)

            Lynn likes to have as much information as she can get on anything. That's part of what makes her a good administrator. She already knew more about ovarian cancer than the average layperson since she worked at North Memorial, but I knew she'd research the hell out of it later. It'd probably would take her less than a day to become an expert and be able to easily and confidently discuss ovarian cancer's causes, treatment and survival rate. All I could add was what I remembered Larry telling me, "I guess it's the fifth leading cause of death in women."

            "I'm going to call her right now. It's been too god-damn long." She grabs her phone, but doesn't make the call, instead turns it nervously over and over in her hands.

            She, like me, is feeling guilty that we've let the relationship with our old friends slip so badly. We'd all been close at one time. "That's good, babe," I tell her, "Me and Larry are going to try to get together at least once a week. We'll talk on the phone in between times."

            "How's he doing, anyway?" Lynn asks, compassionately, still holding her phone, "Him and the boys?"

            I fill her in as best I can. While I talk, I feel something happening between us - a growing connection of sorts. Even though we're both feeling guilty about not staying in better touch with Larry and Jessie, we seem to be building a resolve to work together at making up for lost time with our neglected friends. In other words, to try and put the past behind us and move ahead. It's apparent it's something we both want to do.

            "What's Jessie's prognosis? Does anyone know how much time she has?" Her voice is quiet. She's asked the hardest question of all. Larry's already told me.

            "The first thing is surgery. It's scheduled in about two weeks. After that, there's recovery both in the hospital and at home. That can take up to a month. Then three or four sessions of chemotherapy. The doctors will keep monitoring her. Ovarian cancer is tough. They just have to take it a day at a time. The fact of the matter is, no one really knows."                      

            And with that last bit of news, we both break down and fall into each other's arms. We stay that way for a long time.

            Later that night we go for a walk. We raised our three girls, Alyssa, Joanna, and Kim in Minneapolis but we now live about thirty miles west of there. In Minneapolis our home was on a small lot that had a few large trees, one of which we lost in the '90's to Dutch Elm Disease. Lynn planted a small flower garden in front yard for some extra color in the summer. We loved the house and the neighborhood - it was close to the kid's school and the chain of lakes Minneapolis is known for. We never planned on leaving. Getting the boot from my job was the last thing I ever imaged would happen. But it did. We couldn't afford the mortgage anymore and didn't want to dig into our savings, so we decided to move out to Long Lake where houses cost less. I learned that life went on. It was a good move on our part.

            As we walk, Lynn slips her arm into mine. Long Lake is a blue collar town with a population of just under three thousand. There is so little traffic on the residential streets we can walk down the middle without fear of getting run over. We wave the occasional friendly Hello to our neighbors as we walk by and they wave back. Our home is a cozy story and a half bungalow built in the '30's and it sits on a lot that's larger than the one he had in Minneapolis. We've planted flower and vegetable gardens in the front and back, and passersby often stop to comment on how pretty everything looks. The town is a pleasant, comfortable place to live and we plan to be there for the rest of our days.

            Jessie's pending death is making us appreciate our life. We are talking more, expressing our feelings more (which is hard for me), and I can feel us drawing closer together. Maybe that occurs in situations like we now find ourselves. I don't know, but it's happening and it feels good.

            The next night when we go for a walk Lynn brings up something I've been thinking about since my lunch with Larry the day before, "So what are you going to do about what Larry asked?"

            When it came right down to it, there was only one thing I could do, "I'm going to call Dad."

            Lynn stops walking and turns to me, "Call your dad? That's, ah...That's something, isn't it?" She's rarely at a loss for words, but she is now. I didn't blame her.

            My dad and I were not exactly estranged, we just weren't very close. It wasn't always that way, but sixteen years ago, after my mom died, he withdrew from me and my two younger brothers, and, after a few weak attempts on my part that went nowhere, I've made cursory attempts since then to stay in touch. Same with my two brothers. In hindsight, it's pretty ridiculous, I know, but there's no need to belabor the point. I've been learning over the last few days that it takes two-to-tango, so to speak. Like I had dropped the ball with Larry, I had also dropped the ball with my dad.

             "Yeah, it's time I got back in touch with him," I say. There's the slightest hint of trepidation in my statement and I wonder if I'm really up for it.

            Dad actually is a woodsman. After Mom died he moved from his home (and the home where me and my brothers grew up) in south Minneapolis to the forty acres of rural land he had purchased in the early 70's in north central Minnesota near the town of Battle Lake. The property was nestled into the rolling hills left behind by the fourth and last glacier to visit the state. It had an big open field full of native wildflowers and grasses, a little pond that muskrats and ducks frequented and a nice woodlot full of mixed oaks and maples. Nearly every season a family of sandhill cranes nested in the area. Also, much to the joy of me and my two brothers when we were young, it had two hundred feet of shoreline on a midsized lake known for its  hungry pan fish and small mouth bass. Dad put a small camper on the property and took us boys and mom up there to live on the land and hike in the woods and fish in the lake. This worked great when me and my brothers were rowdy and rambunctious young kids, but by the time we grew into our early teens, the thrill was fading away; we'd moved on to girls, friends, cars and whatnot. Dad held onto the land, though, he and Mom using it to get away to whenever they felt like it, which was a lot, actually. They both loved being 'Up in the woods' as they called it. If Mom had lived long enough I'm sure she would have moved up there with Dad and they would have enjoyed their retirement years in the peace of quiet of Dad's forty acres, or 'Little slice of heaven', as Mom sometimes put it. But that dream wasn't meant to be. Congestive heart failure took her from us at the age of sixty one, way too young in my selfish opinion.

            Dad worked for MNDOT (Minnesota Department of Transportation) as a mechanic. His specialty was welding, but he was excellent with his hands and could build anything. When Mom died, he took early retirement, sold the Minneapolis house, and moved to the property permanently. He also did something he'd always wanted to do: he built a log home.

            Living up north turned out to be good for him. He was busy and active and had entered a new phase of his life. I was happy for him. He had his health, his hobbies and I really didn't have to worry about him. The years sort of got away from me, though, and we drifted apart. Were we ever close? Of all of his sons, I was probably the one who was closest to him, but the honest fact of the matter was...not really; he was my dad and there were feelings, just not a lot of affection. Mom was the glue that held the family together and all of us boys loved her dearly. She was easy to talk to, and let us know she loved and cared about us. Dad was quiet and what you would call introverted. It was just the way he was. And that was fine because we always had Mom to talk to - especially when we were growing up. After she died, though, the glue of the family loosened, and the men in the family went their separate ways. Were Dad and I mad at each other or anything like that? I wouldn't say so. When it came right down to it, I guess we were just out of touch. I hoped that's all it was.

            I swallowed whatever discomfort I might have had, called him the next day and explained my situation. I got the feeling he was happy to hear from me. I finished my story with, "I need a lathe, dad. Can you help me out?"

            To his credit, he put the years behind him and didn't hesitate, "Come on up, son," he told me, "It's been too long."

            That's how I've ended up on I-94 a few days later, heading north for a weekend at my dad's log cabin - a cabin I had never seen, I'm embarrassed to say.

            Of the many lessons I learned helping Larry come to terms with Jessie's illness, one of them was: If you're thinking of holding a grudge, don't! Life is too short. I wouldn't have blamed Dad for being put out with me for not making more of an effort to stay in touch with him. But he wasn't put out one bit. Not at all. In fact, he couldn't have been more gracious toward me when I called. After he agreed to help me with my project for Larry, we stayed on the phone talking, longer than I believe I'd ever talked to him before. Needless to say, we had a lot of catching up to do.

            I arrive in the darkness Friday night after a nearly four hour drive. Thank god for the GPS on my Ford or I might still be driving around on the country roads up there. I'd been away for so many years that I'd completely forgotten how to find his property. But I make it just fine. As I pull into the road leading to his log cabin, (he told me on the phone that's what he still calls it), memories of being up there as a kid flood over me - it's a big, soaking, tidal wave of nostalgia (kind of like when I first was back in contact with Larry) that, in spite of being a little unsettling, I have to admit, feels pretty good. I'm finding that sometimes new and unsettling can be a good thing.

            Dad comes out to greet me as I pull up and park next to an old, but well maintained early1950's Chevy pick-up that sits next to what looks like a garage (remember, I've not been to the property in over sixteen years). He's smiling as he walks across a tidy little lawn illuminated by an outdoor floodlight.

            I get out to greet him. I'm smiling, happy to be here and to see him, hoping I'm not jumping the gun by feeling right at home. Turns out I'm not.

            "Hey son," Dad says, reaching out to shake my hand, "It's been too long."

            I agree. The years have been good to him. He's slightly stooped, a little shorter than me, but other than that he's tan, fit and healthy looking. He's wearing an old Twins baseball hat and has let his white hair grow so it curls over the collar of his blue flannel shirt. Like father like son; the shirt part, not the hair. Mine is long gone. He's smiling a welcome that is generous, considering how out of touch I've been. I appreciate it.

            Man, it dawns on me that it really has been a long time. I can't tell you how much like a fool I feel. When he first moved up north, Dad would occasionally come down to the city and spend Christmas with me and Lynn and the girls and my two brothers and their wives and kids, but only once every two or three years. However, those visits petered out over time as he built a new life up north. I didn't do anything to help the situation, telling myself I was too busy with work and family to bother trying to stay more connected. Pretty lame, all things considered. Of course he'd invite my family up to visit, but I'd always blow him off. (Like I said, fool!). I decide, like I've done with Larry, there's no time like the present to make up for how poorly I've treated him.

            I ignore the hand shake and go straight for The Hug. If it surprises him, he doesn't let on, and just lets me do my thing as he would say, and hugs me back. "Great to see you dad," I say, holding him close, meaning every word. He feels good and even smells good, a mixture of the khaki work clothes wears, wood smoke and sweet perspiration, reminding me of when I was a kid. I'm doubly glad I came.

            And the weekend goes well. I'm starting to understand that even though I've dropped the ball relationship wise with both Larry and Dad, I can at least make an attempt to try and make up for lost time. Like with Larry, Dad seems to appreciate the effort.

            That first night he takes me inside and shows me the cabin he's built. It's a pleasing contrast of solid and quaint and bigger than it looks from the outside. It actually looks like a home. He explains that he drew up the plans himself and sent them to a company in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They manufactured the logs, built the home on their site, disassembled it and shipped it, marked log by log, back to Dad. He then reassembled it, "With help, of course," he tells me, grinning, giving me a hard time. Back then he'd asked if I'd wanted to come up and be a part of the project, adding extra labor and muscle, but I kept putting him off, saying I couldn't get time off from work. Honestly, I don't know why I didn't take him up on his offer. I see now that it would have been both fun and a great experience. Like I've said before, I'm not the brightest bulb in the pack.

            The time with him went by quickly and by late Sunday afternoon I'm on my way home. Two things about the trip stick out in my mind: One, Dad is a great teacher. On Saturday morning took me to his workshop attached to the back of the garage and showed me his lathe and how to work it. He let me practice on scrap pieces of wood and then turned me loose to make the container I wanted to make for Larry for Jessie. I ended up using a burl from an oak tree that was left over from firewood he had cut. "It's been seasoning for five years," he told me, "It'll be perfect for you."

            And it was. With Dad's supervision and encouragement I turned it out on the lathe like I knew what I was doing. I ended up making a container that was shaped like a chalice, with a flared base and a removable top with a knurl on it to make it easy to lift, big enough to hold all the ashes. We sanded it smooth with three grades of sandpaper and rubbed it down with linseed oil, bringing out the grain, letting the wood talk to us as Dad put it. When we finished, I have to say, it was a work of art - dark wood with curving grain and swirls of color through it like caramel and honey. I know Larry is going to love it, but I couldn't have even come close to making something so beautiful without dad's help.

            The other thing that sticks in my mind is Dad's lady friend as he calls her. I met her that first night. "Dan I want you to met Helen," he introduces us when we first go inside.

             I am shocked to say the least, but quickly recover, "Really? Cool. Great. Really great. Super nice to meet you," I say, all in a rush. See how glib I can be? Well, maybe not. I shuffle my feet around, feeling embarrassed, "So how'd you guys meet?" I finally think to ask, trying to relax and recover, thinking I sound just like I sounded like with my daughters and the numerous guys I had questioned them on over the years.

            Dad tells me the story: there was a young man on the crew he hired to help with the construction of the cabin whose name was Zak. Helen is his grandmother. "She works at 'The Sunset Diner' in Dent. She's a fantastic cook," he smiles at her with affection, "Zak helps out around here when I need the extra muscle."

            Note to myself: Don't just say I'm going to stay in touch with Dad. Do it!

            "Cool," I remark, scrambling for something to say, "So you guys are...?"

            "Yes, dear," Helen tells me, smiling, "We are a couple, aren't we honey?" She gives dad a little squeeze around the waist. She's not only mercifully ignoring my discomfort, she is making me feel right at home. Plus, she is utterly charming.

            But for me? Awkward! I watch them for a few moments. There's an obvious affection between them. What the hell. I decide to try and be happy for them. After all, I've the one who's been out of the loop."Well, congratulations, I guess," I say, trying to sound enthusiastic, but I'm afraid I am unable to keep the picture of my mom out of my head or my voice.

            Helen, to her credit, ignores my skeptical tone, understanding the fact that I'm slightly ill at ease. "See, sweetie," she says to my dad, frowning and placing her hand on his shoulder, "you should have told him about us on the phone." She looks at me, her expression softening, "We've been together for nearly ten years."

            Yes, definitely, Stay...in...touch...with...dad.

            On Saturday night we are all sitting outside on the deck Dad has built off the back . I look up mesmerized. I have forgotten how stunningly magnificent the sky can be out away from the city. Back home you can only see a couple of constellations with a few bright stars tossed in. Up here in the north country, incandescent lights are few and far between. The night sky is inky black and stretches to eternity. Above us the Milky Way white washes the sky with stars too numerous to comprehend.

            "God, dad, it's beautiful up here."

            "I know, son, it's one reason I love it so much." He's silent for a minute, comfortable and happy. He'd offered me a cigar earlier and we are both puffing away, enjoying them. He'd quit smoking, he told me, at Helen's insistence nine years ago. "I agreed to do it," he said, "to keep peace in the family," he chuckles and looks over at her, "Helen still lets me have one of these every now and then," he adds, "on special occasions."

            "And this is one of those," she adds, good naturedly waving a cloud of cigar smoke away. I realize how rude we are being, but she seriously doesn't seem to mind."Plus, it keeps the bugs away," she points out. Well, that makes sense and she's right. There are zero misquotes around. Dad smiles affectionately back at her.

            By this time I am comfortable with them together. She's a nice lady and they are very happy with each other. Who am I to argue with that?

            "Yeah, I've kind of quit, too," I say. I hadn't had a cigarette since the parking lot of the Bad Billy Goat.

            "That's good to hear, son."

            We are all quiet for a time, enjoying the night and each other's company. I don't know why I had not done more to stay in touch with Dad. He's welcomed me with open arms. He hasn't given me a hard time about ignoring him and falling out of touch with him. And...he'd helped me with my project for Larry without batting an eye. I couldn't have asked for more.

            I try to tell him all that later after Helen has gone in, but he blows me off with a wave of his hand, "Don't worry about it. Those things happen. Just don't be a stranger anymore, Ok?"

            "I don't intend to be," I say. And I mean it. I really do.

Back home on Sunday night, sitting in the kitchen, both of us having tea, Lynn wants to know about Helen, "What's she like?"

            I fill her in as best I can, knowing that Lynn is mentally tallying up my observation skills. "Let's see, Dad's seventy seven. I'd guess Helen's maybe seventy. Turns out Zak is her only grandson and they're really close. He's probably thirty. She's short, about five feet I guess. Stocky. Solid. Long hair tied up in a braid. Mostly gray with some black in it. She wears blue jeans and sweatshirts a lot. She has a little purplish-red birthmark on her neck. The right side, I'm pretty sure. I think she's part Native American. Ojibwa, maybe. And she's a good cook. A really good cook." I finish my assessment by rubbing my stomach and grinning, proud of how much I'd noticed.

            "God, Daniel, you are such an idiot!" Lynn explodes. Or maybe not. It's never good when she addresses me by my given name.

            "What?" Now what'd I do? "I told you what I saw, what she looks like and stuff,"

            "Who cares about what she looks like! How did she and your dad get along? Are they happy together? Are they nice to each other? Those are the important things."

            Oh, yeah. I guess there was that. "Fine," I say, "They get along fine," I add, stalling for time, trying to think of something to add. But, in the end, I can't. Low marks on my observation skills from Lynn now, for sure, I'm guessing.

            She gets up and takes her mug (rather haughtily, it seems to me) into the living room, shaking her head in disappointment. Then she turns and gives me my orders, setting her mug down and ticking her demands off on her fingers, "Get on the phone first thing tomorrow. Invite your dad and Helen for Christmas. Both of them and Zak, too. I want to see your dad again, and meet Helen and her grandson. This crap has gone on too long. They sound like good people and I want to get to know them and I want them to feel welcome in our home. Ok?"

            "Sure, no problem," I say. "That's exactly what I was thinking of doing." Well maybe not quite in those words, but...I'm with her on this and have to admit, she always makes sense. "I'll do it in the morning."

            "Good," she says, "That's real good."

            Whew!

            For the two nights I was gone, Lynn had our youngest daughter, Kim, stay with her. A weekend slumber party, was how she put it. They rented movies both nights, went shopping and out to lunch on Saturday, and ate whatever they felt like eating in between. They'd had a riot. After our daughter left on Sunday, and before I'd gotten home, Jessie had called and asked if Lynn could come over. She did and after I told her about my trip up north, she told me about seeing Jessie. Like with me and Larry, it had been nearly five years since Lynn and Jessie had seen each other.

            "Dan, she's so fragile looking. I was afraid to hold her too tight, thinking I might break her."

            We are sitting at the kitchen table having a treat from up north. Helen had sent me home with some fresh cornbread muffins and homemade wild black berry jam. God, they're good. Lynn has made some more tea and we were enjoying a late evening snack.

             "Was Larry there?"

            "Yeah, but he kept in the background. He's not looking too good, is he?"

            "I know. Remember what I told you?"

            "Yeah, but now that I've seen it...Geez. Jessie told me he's helping out with a lot of the cooking and cleaning and everything. Her mom can't do it all. Plus he's still going to work."

            I nod in agreement and slather up another muffin, stuffing half of it in my mouth. "How's the house look?" I ask, voice muffled by my chewing. I can't help it. I think they may be the best muffins and jam I've ever tasted.

            Larry and Jessie live about two miles from where we used to live, over past the east side of Lake Harriet in a neighborhood of quaint homes and tree lined streets. Theirs was a small, two story, white stucco with wood trim painted brick red. It had always been neat and tidy, both inside and out.

            "Not looking too good," Lynn offers, "The yard is neglected. The boys are helping out, but...Larry's doing the best he can. It's a good thing Jessie's mom comes over. She's there nearly every day." She stops talking and looks at me. She's only nibbled at part of her muffin. "Daniel, it's really sad." I quit eating and wipe my hands and mouth on a napkin. She's calling me by my given name again. I know she's not angry. She's sad and her point is well taken.

            "Let's figure out what all we can do to help," I say.

            For the first time since I've been home, Lynn smiles, "I was hoping you'd say that."

            For the rest of the fall, we dedicate ourselves to doing as much for Larry and Jessie as we can. I'm not sure how much, in the end, we really did help, or if we made any difference at all, but one good thing came out of it: the friendship we'd had with Larry and Jessie and had let slip over the years, not only was rekindled, but it flourished.

            I make good on my promise to see Larry every week, usually on Saturday's. He and Jessie had amazing support from their family and friends, people were always stopping by to give Jessie moral support and do what they could to help out. So why did he want to hang around with me?

            As he put it once, rather kindly I thought at the time, "It's just nice to get away from it all for a while. Even an hour or two is nice. I can clear my mind and recharge." Pretty simple and understandable, if you ask me, so I did what I could.

            Remember that Larry was an engineer? Well, after he was let go from Northland he did a complete reversal in his career. While looking for a new job in the engineering field, he started donating time to a Somali refugee center in downtown Minneapolis. He confided that it was actually Jessie's idea. There were a lot of young Somalis at her school and she knew that the issues facing newly arrived families were many and daunting. Larry was a good people person anyway, rare for an engineer, and he thrived, helping families get set up in housing, schools, jobs and everything else required for them to make a successful transition into their new life.  At first he just volunteered while looking for work, but the people at the center liked him and after a few months offered him a full time job. He took it.

            "I made a lot of mistakes in my life, Danny boy," he told me once. We were having lunch at The Malt Shop, a friendly, low key family oriented restaurant in southwest Minneapolis, near to where Larry and Jessie lived. "I feel good trying to help others and give something back."

            Man had I underestimated this guy, I thought to myself, remembering back to that first night he called, thinking he was going to hit me up for money. And I told him that, "Yeah, man you've really surprised me. What you're doing now is fantastic."

            Larry grinned back at me, something he'd rarely done that fall, and took a bite out of his veggie burger. He didn't say anything, just chewed contemplatively. Sometimes he was hard to read, but who wouldn't be, given what he was dealing with? I left him alone with his thoughts, happy just to be with him and give him the companionship he needed.

            Guys in my generation are not very good expressing feelings toward one another. Look around. Books have been written on the subject. Movies have been made. Countless jokes have been told. We are constant fodder for our wives to make fun of (you can include Lynn here big time.) Thinking back, I seriously believe that the time at the Bad Billy Goat when I touched Larry's arm was the first time I'd ever purposely touched a man to show affection in my life. It's just not done.

            I hope it's obvious by now that I honestly feel for Larry and what he's going through. I try hard to show him through my actions. Going to lunch on Saturdays turned out to be a good idea. It's worked for us. We make it a point to try different places every weekend and it's ended up being fun. Larry appreciates the weekly break and the chance to talk about whatever is on his mind, and I like building the friendship.

            In October I suggest going on what I call Little Outings. We go to the Minneapolis Institute of Art a few times, taking an hour or so each visit to explore the various displays in the cavernous two floors of exhibits. (We both liked the Impressionists best, with a show of Paul Allen's collection of nature paintings coming in a close second.) We go for walks around the city's lakes, liking Lake of the Isles with its quiet, meandering path, located a few miles north and west of Larry's house, the best. One time I take him on a forty-five minute drive west of the city to the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum and we spend an entire afternoon in the country wandering around, strolling through rolling hills, forest woodlots and lovely landscaped gardens.

            One week we carve pumpkins for the hell of it for Halloween. The next week I help him  and his two boys with yard work and we get his lawn and gardens looking good and cared for, and, as I called it, put to bed for winter. By the middle of November we have forged a strong bond - a kind of brotherly closeness that began at the Bad Billy Goat and has grown as the weeks have gone by.

            Lynn has been doing the same thing with Jessie, who's taken a leave of absence from teaching. She's in close contact, staying in touch on the phone and going to her home to visit, have coffee and to do any cleaning or cooking that needs to be done. Like I said earlier, Jessie has a strong network of family and friends, and Lynn fits in easily; everyone is helping out the best they can.

            Ten days after Larry and I first had lunch and shortly after I had returned with the wooden chalice from up north, Jessie had her operation to remove her ovaries. The surgeon took both of them and told the family that she would have to move on to the next step which was a round of four chemotherapy treatments. They wanted to make sure the cancer wouldn't come back.

            "There are no guarantees," Larry told me at the time. "We just need to do everything we can and doing the chemo is one of those things."

            The treatments wore Jessie out and it took her nearly a week to recover after each one. By the middle of November she was done with them. She would have a final assessment test the middle of December and we all looked to that day as sort of a bench mark regarding her health and recovery. Larry and Jessie were told they'd have the results a few days before Christmas.

            "Hell of a Christmas present," Larry tells me the weekend before Thanksgiving. We are walking around the Kenwood neighborhood, a few blocks from Lake of the Isles. The day is crisp, around thirty degrees with a hint of snow. The sky's a leaden gray and it seems to weigh down upon us, making us bend emotionally under its weight. All the leaves are off the trees and we shuffle through clumps of them on the sidewalk. The air is still, not a bit of a breeze, and smells like ice. It's so quiet, we almost whisper.

            We are struggling up a long hill, the old, well kept up homes in the area keeping us company, our breath turning to vapor in the cold. No one is outside, everyone either driving in their heated cars running errands or snuggled up indoors by a Saturday afternoon fire watching college football. I am at a loss for words. Larry and I have been in constant contact for the over two months since he first called me. I look over at him. He's not quite as gaunt as he had been back then. Maybe our little outings are helping. He's dressed in a red puffy insulated jacket, fresh blue jeans, new hiking boots and wears a black watch cap beanie. He's clean shaven and his eyes are bright. I have the feeling he's doing as good as can be expected given the situation.

            "It's going to be Ok," I tell him finally, just to say something. "Jessie's a strong woman, she's gotten through the operation and the chemo. She's got her family and her friends to help." I pause and kick a few leaves out of the way, "Plus," I add, "She's got you, you know, for better or worse." Listening to myself, I grimace...me and my feeble attempt at humor.

            By this time Larry is used to it. He smiles, "Yeah, I get it. Thanks."

            We are nearing the top of the hill and I feel I should do something more. I put my arm around his shoulder as we get to the top and round the corner and give him a little 'Bro' squeeze - holding on for just a second longer than I need to before I let go. I don't look at him but he doesn't pull away, so maybe it's the right thing to do. I just want him to understand I'm there for him. I'm pretty sure he knows that I am.

            We are on Mount Curve, and the neighborhood is one of the oldest in Minneapolis. The streets here are known for their individually designed homes, most of which were built over a hundred years ago. Some of them are positioned so they have an unobstructed view of downtown, only a mile away. Walking the sidewalks is like going back in time. We stroll along for another half an hour, exploring streets we've never been on before, admiring the Tudor and Victorian homes, enjoying the quiet of the day, not saying much, just being together. Larry seems to enjoy the company. I know I do. It's one of those days I will remember, I think, as being remarkable for how unremarkable it is. We are relaxed and we are together, secure in our renewed friendship. Simple things really are, sometimes, the best, I'm finding.

            Later that afternoon, after we say good bye and I drop Larry off, I drive around the corner, out of sight from his home, park the car and turn the engine off. It's late afternoon. The temperature has dropped and light is fading from the sky. Snow flurries are in the air and they collect and melt on the windshield. I have stopped the car because my eyes are watering. It's not from the cold. My heart is aching for my friend and his family and I am trying to think of what more I can do for them. I'm at a loss. I sit there long enough for the car to cool. I can see my breath as I sigh. I'm frustrated and I lay my head on the steering wheel and close my eyes. I can't think of what else I can do. I start the car, hit the wipers to clear the snow off and head home to Lynn. In a month Jessie will get her test results and we will all know what's in store for her for the future. For Larry and her family's future, too. Does it sound stupid to say that I drove all the way home with my fingers crossed? Well, I did.

            On December fourteenth Jessie goes in for the series of tests that will give her physicians an indication of whether or not the chemo has worked to eradicate the cancer. The doctors are cautiously optimistic. They'll have the results on December twenty second.

            On the twenty first, a Wednesday, I take Larry to the Patisserie, a coffee shop that specializes in bakery items, having won 'Best of the Twin Cities' awards at least five times in the past. We have tea and each of us selects one of their award winning pastries. Lynn and I come here often and like to sit outside when we can. Right now it's snowing, so...no sitting outside today.

            "You doing all right?" I ask my friend.

            "Yeah. Jessie's got her mom and some friends with her now. I guess Lynn is coming over later to help with dinner."

            "Yeah, she told me she's going to be there. She's glad to help, man," I tell him. "We all are."

            Larry takes a sip of his tea. He has a blueberry scone next to him that he hasn't touched. I notice his hand is shaking a little but he's hanging in there. I've noticed him getting stronger since we'd first gotten together. He looks at me, "I want to thank you for all you've done, man. I don't know what I'd have done without you."

            Ops. Feelings! This getting a little uncomfortable. I break off part of the flourless fudge cookie I've ordered and put a chunk in my mouth and chew on it and swallow, giving myself time to think. "Hey buddy, it's the least I could do," I respond, not feeling as quite awkward as I might have three months earlier. But still...

            Larry grins at me and takes a bite of his scone. He seems to understand my slight uneasiness. Then he sets it down he grabs my hand and gives it a little squeeze and laughs, "Well, thanks anyway...," and then releases it.

            Whew. He's way better at this show of affection thing than I am. But I get what he's saying. He'd been through an emotional roller coaster of epic proportions since Jessie had been diagnosed. We are less than twenty four hours away from knowing what the future is going to have in store for my friend and his wife and their family. For my part, I'm glad to have been there to help out. In whatever way possible.

            It's pleasant and comfortable for us in the cafe. We stay for another hour talking, drinking tea, making tentative plans for New Years Eve and trying to ignore the fact that the next day Jessie will get her test results back. I don't think it's too dramatic to point out that tomorrow will chart the course for the rest of their life. Well, maybe it is dramatic, but what the hell, it's the truth.

Ten days later, Lynn yells down from upstairs, "Dan, are you ready?"

            "Yeah, just give me a second, will you?" I'm in the kitchen looking through a drawer.

            "You're not going out for a smoke are you?"

            Geez, I think to myself. No rest for the wicked, "Hey, it's been over three months. Why would I start up now?"

            "Knowing you, I can only guess at what hare-brained excuse you could come up with."

            "Funny," I yell back. I find what I'm looking for and put a few in my pocket. Then think about it for second...what the heck, and put a few more in.

            It's New Year's Eve and we're going to downtown Minneapolis to St. Anthony Main, a renovated series of shops and restaurants in two blocks of old warehouse buildings along the Mississippi riverfront. Larry and Jessie have rented a banquet room from the Riverview Restaurant and we're all going to have a celebration bash.

            Lynn comes downstairs and gives me a hug. She looks great, dressed in tight black jeans and an aqua, pink and lavender stripped sweater. Her hair is pulled up and she's wrapped a dark blue, floral print silk scarf around her head in solidarity with Jessie (she lost her hair during chemo.) "Ready?"

            She's in a hurry to leave but I hold our embrace for an extra couple of seconds. To her credit she lets me and only seems the tiniest little bit perturbed.

            I let go and reach for the keys on the key holder hook by the back door. Lynn puts on her favorite black and red cowboy boots (I've opted for my work boots) and we go outside. It's been snowing off and on all day, but has stopped in time for me to shovel out the walk way to the garage and also the entire driveway. It's six at night and we have an hour to get into town. Should be no problem.

            "Quite the year," I say as I drive us down our snowy street and out to the highway that will take us into Minneapolis.

            "You can say that again, Sport," Lynn says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek before settling back in her seat and making herself comfortable, tightening her seatbelt. Then she quickly puts out her hand on the dash to brace herself as the car skids just a bit, "Just pay attention to your driving, OK?"

            Jessie's tests came back as good as could be expected. Her doctors told her that the cancer seemed to be in remission (Yea!) and they would monitor her closely for the rest of her life. Remember I said that only forty-six percent of patients make it five years? Well, if she makes it past five years, the chances of her making a full recovery go up significantly to ninety-five percent. We all have our fingers crossed.

            I called the next day after my visit up north like I said I would and invited Dad and Helen and Zak down for Christmas and it went really well. We had our girls over on Christmas Eve and they each brought the guys they were currently with and we all had a good time. Lynn and I were finally able to exhale, relax and kick back a little with the good news of the test results. Dad and Helen and Zak stayed for four nights. Lynn and I took them sight-seeing around our area and we even went into Minneapolis one day and had lunch at the same Malt Shop restaurant Larry and I had begun frequenting. At night we played rotating four-handed cribbage and had fires in the fireplace. Dad wants us to come up to visit them at his place as soon as we can and we definitely will. I'm thinking of seeing if Larry and Jessie want to join us. I think they'd really enjoy it.

            As I drive us to downtown I think a lot about how the last four months have played out. Larry's call to me jumped started something I'd neglected for a number a years - our friendship. He made me realize the frailty of our lives and how important it was to treat each day as a day special and unique unto itself. In other words, make the most of each day. In re-reading this I know I sound like a Hallmark Card or commercial or something and I don't mean to, but, being a guy, it's sometimes hard to express what I'm truly feeling. But there it is. Friendship is something never to take for granted. Either is family. If I've learned anything from this experience it's that I let a lot of things slip over the past years, both with Larry and my dad. I'm planning to not let that happen again. I'm committed to doing it, but, as I've learned, actions speak louder than words.

            Which brings me to the container for Jessie's ashes that Larry asked me to make. I showed it to him just after I returned from that visit to my dad's and he loved it. He took it from me and cradled it in his hands, rubbing the surface and breathing in the fresh, woody aroma.

            "Man," he told me, "this is beautiful." He admired it for a good five minutes, turning it every which way. He even held it up to the light to get the full effect. I had given it to him when we were in one of the new restaurants we were trying out and people were starting to look at us. After a few more minutes of holding it (almost lovingly, I thought), he handed it back. "I really like it, man, but will you do me a favor? Will you hold onto it for me? Just in case?"

            Meaning, just in case Jessie makes it through chemo alright and the cancer goes into remission, which, of course it did. But back then we still only could hope. I told him I'd be glad to do whatever he wanted.

            And I still have it. Lynn thought it was really nice, too (not quite as enthusiastic as Larry, but at least she told me she liked it. That meant something.) Anyway, after Jessie's good report from the doctor she asked me if she could do something with it.

            "Sure," I told her, then thought to ask, "Wait a minute. Like what?"

            Now I know it sounds strange, but she thought it would look nice up on the mantle above our fireplace. She has the top off and the bowl filled with some dried flowers and herbs from our garden - like a little potpourri container. The top rests next to it. I have to admit the entire effect isn't bad. Hopefully it will stay there for a long, long time.

            We make it down to St. Anthony Main and pull into the parking lot for the restaurant. Downtown Minneapolis is packed with people. There's going to be fireworks at midnight on the Stone Arch Bridge - an old bridge over the river that's been restored for pedestrians and bicyclists only. It's only a few blocks from where we'll be and chances are excellent Lynn and I will be standing outside watching. Larry and Jessie will be there too, along with everyone else who was with them during the past months. They've all been invited for the festivities: Jessie's and Larry's three boys and their girlfriends will be there, Jessie's mom and dad, friends of Jessie's from her school and even some of Larry's Somali friends from his work, and lots of other friends and acquaintances - all celebrating Jessie's life. It'll be fun. For our part, Lynn and I have never celebrated New Year's in downtown Minneapolis before. Even when we lived here. It's going to be a new experience, capping off four months of new experiences, and we are both looking forward to it.

            We get out of the car and make our way through the crowds already out for the evening. People are milling around and bundled up against the cold, but there's excited laughter in the air. Spirits are high and infectious. I reach to my pocket and take out one of what I'd been looking for in the kitchen. A tootsie roll pop. Dad has his cigars. I've got my candy (no more cigarettes for me.) I unwrap one, cherry flavored red, and pop it in my mouth (pun intended, sorry Lynn) and take my wife's hand. She smiles at me and pulls me close, dropping my hand and taking my arm. We know Jessie's not out of the woods yet, but for now we can celebrate her first victory. And that's certainly cause for celebration.

            Up head we see Jessie and Larry walking hand in hand. Jessie's wearing a bright red stocking hat and scarf that matches Larry's red, puffy sleeved jacket. From the behind they look like young lovers. Lynn and I both call out to them and hurry to catch up. Old time street lamps are lit and trimmed with green garland. White twinkle lights decorate the buildings and reflect off the newly fallen snow. Someone shoots off a bottle rocket and it trails colorful sparks out over the Mississippi. Tonight is going to be a good night of celebration with our friends. It's been a long time coming, and deep inside I have the feeling it will be the first of many more times together. Our friendship is something worth believing in. Of that, there's no doubt in my mind.