country boy

If you are one of the regular readers of this blog, you have probably figured out that I talk about, write about, a person named Gene. I talk about him because he was my best friend. Period. He never saved my life in combat, never loaned me money for a life saving operation or gave me a kidney. He was just my friend. He was a loyal friend, always supportive and giving. He kept me honest by always telling me when I was full of shit. He listened to me when I had troubles, towed my car when it broke down, and stood by my side when we had to literally fight our way out of a tough situation. Gene and I had many adventures together, drank more than our share of beer, and on one occasion ate a whole pan of brownies together. Yes, those type of brownies. We were chased by police, double dated, and worked side by side from time to time. Gene was a gentleman. When other friends would compete for the affections of a girl Gene liked, he would stay out of the fray. "I don't want to beat anyone else's time" he would tell me. I knew that he wanted to, and also knew that he probably could too, if he wanted to. He could have had any girl he wanted. Gene was smart, polite, charming and romantic. He was the swarthy type, a stocky Portuguese-Italian that could talk to anyone about anything. He and I attended community college together for awhile, but classes were not his thing. He never earned a degree, but was incredibly smart and well-read.
Gene and I met when were in high school. He transferred to our school in mid term of our sophomore year. It wasn't long before we started hanging out together, and I became an unofficial member of his large family. He was conservative, I a liberal.

He lived in the country, about a mile outside of town on a farm. I lived in town. The town we lived in was about 5,000 people at the time, so for him to call me a city kid was a bit of stretch I thought. But Gene was very proud of living on a farm and being a country kid. He belonged to 4H and FFA. He loved working in the fields, driving tractor cutting and baling hay. He and I planted an orchard one summer when I needed work and his dad put me on the farm payroll for a few weeks. We probably took longer than we should doing those jobs but at the time, the hours passed quickly. That's just the way it was. I spent countless hours with Gene, but there were not nearly enough. Gene referred to he and I as the square pegs in round holes. We were not jocks, or scholars, or bad kids or angels. We were just two kids growing up in a small town, figuring it out and making it up as we went along.

One day six years ago  after I came home from work  the phone rang. It was my friend Robert. I answered the phone, he told me to sit down, he had bad news. I didn't sit, I just asked him what was wrong.

"Gene died"

I sat down. My head was spinning, really spinning. We exchanged a few words, then ended our conversation. Head still spinning, I got on the computer and booked a flight, arranged for a car rental, made plans. In two days, I was back home. I sat on a plane, drank a lot of vodka and wrote a eulogy. I did not deliver that eulogy in the church, but afterwards with some of his close friends and his brothers and sisters we gathered at his grave, drank a couple bottles of Glen Fiddich and I said the eulogy.

I reunited with friends and family and buried my best friend. I grieved, I cried, I went back home and resumed my life. And very often, I would stop and think of Gene, and cry. This happened at home, at work. The grieving process was very prolonged. I missed him, I felt guilty for moving away from him, and wished we had more time. I was living in a place where no one knew of him. My new friends were sympathetic, but they did not grieve, they did not miss him. They were polite. Grieving alone is not a fun process. I was perplexed why this process was taking so long. Years had passed, but the grief, the pain remained. It came and went, I went on with my life, but I could not let go. I did not know why, and it was really bothering me.

Then a couple years ago, I traveled back to our little home town for the annual fair. I saw many old friends, had some fun, and was ready to leave town so I could get back on the plane and go home. As I was leaving town, I met up with Gene's younger sister. We went for a little drive and wound up having what would be one of the most important parking lot talks of my life. As we talked and reminisced, we shared many thoughts and feelings about this person we both loved and missed. I had known for years that while Gene was my best friend, his best friend was his sister. They were close in age and were inseparable as kids. We both expressed guilt and regret about time lost with him, about doing more of this and less of that, and just missing him. Finally, I confided in her that I could not let go of him, of his memory, and that I was having a real struggle with that. She looked at me through her teary eyes and said that we were not supposed to let go, we are supposed to keep him close and never let go. Just like that.

The weight of the world was off my shoulders.

Thanks Deanna.

Gene did many things for me while he was alive. He took care of me when I needed it, he kicked me in the ass when necessary. He would get pissed at me, console me, advise me, and laugh at me. He never lost faith in friendship.

As it turns out, he never really died. Yes, his body is no longer of this earth, but he lives on. He keeps me company every day. Today, he would have been 53 years old. After I moved away, I would try to call Gene on his birthday. One year I forgot. I called him a few days later, and started the conversation by saying '...meant to call you, but I forgot.'

"I noticed"

He was truly a man of few words, but when you use few words, people tend to listen closely.

Happy Birthday Gene. Say hi to your dad from me, and mine too.