Yeah, I know I didn’t post anything yesterday.

I had it in my mind to do so, but I wrote another letter to the editor to the local paper.
(In short – dead end street.   Train gets stuck.  Everyone can die.   See previous posts.)

My first editorial letter was in June.  Last weekend,  my sister and I got nosey and started looking at the county planning council.    There was nothing on the docket.  Actually, the August meeting was canceled – according to the Facebook page – because they didn’t have anything to discuss.

So, that’s where my writing time went yesterday.

I get the instinctual feeling the editor guy of the paper like me much.  For each letter, I had to email it twice.  –  Once for submission and once again to aggregate him when I wasn’t acknowledged.  On the second one, he asked me if it was ‘really’ an opinion letter.   I suppose he was confused by my snarky tone, but my sister picked up on it.   That was okay.

Anyway, I think I’m trying to get the creative juices flowing again.   They always tell you ‘write about what you know.’  I consider all of the recent blogs like a puzzle I’m trying to piece together.

I firmly believe there’s a story in everything, everyone, and everywhere.
It has to be seen and understood to be acknowledged.

For some reason, I’ve been thinking about a childhood friend – Tommy.    His real name was Thomas Calvin – not adding the last name.    He was the oldest of two brothers, lived in the trailer park down the highway, and was completely devoted to his family, especially his father.

We went to middle school together – two short years.
We’d play D&D on the bus with friends.   And, since we were all fairly poor, we played while we ate school breakfast as well.  Tommy was the leader of our little band.

Tommy and I pretty much shared everything.   We liked the same music, the same games, and hated the same school subjects.    Parents and the woes of being the eldest sibling where often topics of conversation.   Hell, we even pulled for Pioneer for a couple of summers, although we were in different fields.

His parents liked me.   Not so much his younger brother, Mike, but I was always warmly greeted at the trailer park.  I know my parents liked him.   Mom even suggested that we might be distant cousins since she is related to some people who shared his last name and had his same coloring —  deep blue eyes and curly black hair.

We treated each other with near unquestionable respect.  He didn’t care I was overweight… obese, to tell the truth, or wore glasses, or lived in a house where I could draw on the walls.      He could tell just by a look… by the tone of my voice… that there was something wrong and he — drop — everything.  Not to pester or to try to drag whatever was wrong out of me — but to just talk until I volunteered the information.   It didn’t matter if it took a day, a week, or a month.

That was and still is rare for a seventh grader.    I think it’s rare for anyone, regardless of age, to treat someone so well like that.

But, our friendship ended.   He went to North High School.   I went to East.  That was about it.   Poof.

We kept in contact, but it was really rare.
I saw him at the prom where we just spoke for less than five minutes.   He was with Ava, who would later become his wife.    So, I guess I can’t blame him for that but I couldn’t help feeling a little resentment while they made out in shadows.    My life was really bad then and I could have used a friendly ear… but, it was okay.

I think the last time I saw him was the day after he and Ava wed.
He pulled into the driveway when I just got home from work — the nursing home I think.  His hair was wild.  Face flushed.  He just wanted me to know he and Ava wed.    Actually, he invited me to the wedding on the — day they wed.   They did it at the courthouse on really short notice.

I had no idea.  I was at work.
I was washing dishes while one of my best friends was going through a life changing event.  That always kind of upset me and still does.

I didn’t see him after that, but I tried to keep tabs on him.

Through the grapevine, I heard he had a child – a daughter.   No idea what her name is.  They lived in Taylorsville at the new (at the time) trailer park that was just built.  Always family first, he worked in a couple of factories — one was next door to where I worked third for a summer and didn’t know it.

But, unlike my dad, Tommy didn’t let 80 hour work weeks get him down.  He became part of the volunteer fire department and drove a motorcycle… which he was driving when he died.  It’s the same old song.   Someone ran him off the road and into a ditch out in the middle of field nowhere.    He died on the way to the hospital.

I was in Florida when he was buried.   Didn’t attend.  From what I understand, he had a small service.   Instead of flowers, he asked donations for his daughter’s college trust fund.  That was in his will.   It was always about family.

Looking back, I think I was in some sort of love with him.
It wasn’t a passionate crazy hormone driven love, but some sort of love that was built upon deep sincerity.   I think it was a very adult love, but I didn’t recognize it because I never had a relationship like that before.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve experienced that again.

As the years go by, the heart becomes fonder.  After that spinal fusion, my memories of high school and earlier are all messed up.  A straight morphine drip and a lot of psychological stress will do that to a person.  Well, it at least did it to me.

I still remember him.  Somehow.  Someway.
Tommy and I shared everything.     Except for a kiss.