Over the past week my posts have been sparse and cryptic. I apologize for that. In reality it was not something that could have been avoided. Terry, one of my best friends ever, passed away last week. Until the family was ready to disclose it I couldn’t talk about it. My pain was great, their pain is unbearable. So I posted tidbits we would understand but which wouldn’t mean much of anything to anyone else
Since learning of Terry’s death my mind has rushed to corner after corner seeking out memories. For the past 43 or so years Terry has been such an important part of my life. He was there when our first son was born. We had to tell him to get the heck out of the room just before, and I mean, just before John Lee came into this world.
Terry took me to the hospital the night I had to have my appendix out. We took Barb, his wife, to the hospital when she was ready to deliver. This was because he was in a room where his cell phone didn’t work. But we followed up and made sure he got to the hospital before Allen came into this earth’s air. He was in my wedding and I was in his. I could go on page after page with such stories.
He convinced me to camp and canoe. So many nights spent along river banks and lakeshores talking about everything.Our topics ranged from using white gas to spur a campfire along (not really a wise idea-men don’t look right without eyebrows) to the meaning of it all, including this thing we call life. I convinced him to camp in Henryville and then take that short trip to the Fellini-esque spectacle that is the infield at the Kentucky Derby. Those nights by the campfire were special and that is why I linked the blog post on camping.
The ‘Glendale Train' link was tied to another camping trip. Many years ago in that short span when I left Michigan and moved to Delaware (1984-1986) Francie and I missed our Michigan friends. After weeks of phone calls it was agreed that we would meet near Donegal Pennsylvania and raft the whitewater river just south of there. Six of our friends drove out from East Lansing and us from Wilmington.
We pulled it off. There are many stories to tell about that weekend. There was a major mistake made when we decided after six hours on the river to take the one-hour tour of Wright's Fallingwater. We were so exhausted by the exertion that we fell asleep standing up during the tour.
Then there was the park ranger investigating our campsite on our first night there. Francie and I brought a gourmet delight for our Midwestern friends. Over a Coleman camp stove we boiled a bushel basket of Maryland blue crabs for dinner. Mr. Ranger just couldn't figure out what we were up to and what all that crap was on the table. This was i.e. crab guts and shells.
Later that night after the crabfest the four guys were sitting around talking. The women had gone to bed. Well we guys started talking about music and the next thing you know we were all singing the absolute most terrible version of New Rider’s 'Glendale Train' you have ever heard. There were muffled calls from four separate tents telling us to shut the fuck up and head to bed.
Marty Robbins’s ‘El Paso’ was another all male, and off key sing along following one of Terry’s tasty Mexican food dinners. God somehow, some way, someone got the idea that we should all wear sombreros. The sombreros led to singing, terrible singing, “Down in the West Texas Town of El Paso…” Terry, John, Glen and me - oh how we harmonized. The passion was there, but the talent was not. Glen left us first passing a couple of years ago. And now Terry is gone.
I am destroyed. I never thought a man with such a life force would pass before me given all my maladies. I am wrecked. I knew he would always be there, no matter how far apart our travels in the world took us, if I needed him. I posted the picture of us all at the dinner table just so you could see the love and camaraderie we really shared.
I broke the news to some of our friends. I held it together until I remembered our sort of tontine. About a year after Francie and I were married six of us drove to Chicago for a hockey game. While there we saw some pretty rare cognac in a store near the hotel. To buy the bottle, all the guys contributed $50, maybe $75 each in 1980s money. We agreed that the cognac would only be opened for births, deaths and maybe some other unspecified major life events. We have taken a few sips of it over the years, births, major moves, but there is still plenty left.
When I informed one of the other ‘Glendale Train’ singers, John, of Terry death I asked him to drive the forty miles to my house in East Lansing to pick up the cognac. We will need it after whatever memorial service comes. As I remembered the snowy day we bought it I just broke down sobbing. I don’t think any of us really understood what our agreement meant. I don’t think we understood the pain that will come when we take a sip these forty years on.
At some point soon we will lift a small glass and say "To Terry." And then we will cry our eyes out and sob wretchedly. And then we will talk again with sentences like, “Do you remember that night in Sudbury?” And “Oh God what about that time…” We will try and bury the pain with some of the dearest memories our hearts have ever held.
Terry loved the Grateful Dead. Here's your miracle ticket my man.