Great thread, and food for thought and emotion at this time of year. Prompts me to tell a story about a dear friend, who's no longer here.
I met Ron at a small newspaper in northern Alberta where I was an editor and he a reporter, about 27 years ago. We seemed an odd match, personally and musically. I was a management guy, he a staffer with strong leanings toward the collective side. Yet we hit it off, big time, him a hard-core country player, me a grizzled blues rocker.
Somehow, we picked up guitars together, grabbed up some cheap red wine, and set about playing. He wanted Muleskinner Blues, I wanted Statesboro Blues, he worshipped Merle and Hank, I worshipped Jimi and Duane. And yet, we found ourselves on local cable TV playing tunes such like Hobo's Heaven and Livin on Tulsa Time, which he wanted the country way, and I wanted the Clapton way. We found middle ground.
I stayed the newspaper course, and he moved into public relations, making much more money and achieving much success. He played in a weekend country band and I in a weekend rock band, and in Fort McMurray, both of us had some good times and made some needed extra cash. But we never lost that initial musical connection.
I always admired him in so many ways. He had a gorgeous old Martin and a top-line Tele, and left them sitting out when he had his first child. I, years before becoming a parent, cautioned him about his toddler busting up his top line instruments, and he said something like: These guitars are made for playin and livin, not for hidin.
Eventually, he and his wonderful wife left the boomtown. He moved into academia, getting a PHd in philosophy, continuing to excel in PR and corporate communications, and bringing his zany zen sort of sensibility to the apparent disparate disciplines, all the while playing Merle, Hank and the country classics.
Years later, while we were in touch only via letter, we learned he had cancer. We managed one visit, near the end of his time on this earth. As I was preparing to leave his bedside, he said something like: Say goodbye, my friend, in case we don't see each other again. I said something typically banal, like don't worry we'll see you again. He grasped my wrist and said, no, we need to say goodbye now. And we did.
Many nights, when I sit with a guitar on my lap, I remember my friend. I see us in that corny cable studio, our two acoustics ringing out some Hank classic, him playing pretty country licks and me trying to make my blues rock corners fit in. And it worked.
Sometimes, with bottle of Donini in between us, we'd work songs every which way, and our eyes would lock. And it worked. His death came after we'd already been separated for some time. But I remember him now because he was the kind of guy we need a million more of these days. I miss him.
