Thus Sayeth The Rain God

When I finished my doctoral work at Drexel University, I returned to my adopted town in North Carolina and took a faculty position at the university. I soon met Dr. D, who had just come from Temple. Quickly, we became personal friends. He was an inveterate home remodeler and I had just purchased the godstead and it came with an old house that needed some work. Whereas I had no intention of restoring my old Greek Revival farmhouse, Dr. D was forever displeased with his abode and was not completely happy unless we was tearing something out or adding something new.

We exchanged labor but it was not a balanced sheet because his projects never ended and mine were easily complete enough. His home was a fashionable house in an old college neighborhood and my home was a modest structure on the very edge of town, complete with a small stock pond, a four-stall horse barn and fenced acreage. I did not mind the inequality of work because, among our friends, our intellectual exchanges were legendary. It was a great disappointment to me that our universities are filled with mere academics and scholastics, rather than intellectuals, and I rage that storm against Dr. D.

Supper with Dr. D followed a predictable pattern. My second wife and I would arrive in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, help Dr. D and his wife strip wallpaper,  tape a room for painting or sand fresh drywall. At six-thirty, we would all retire to the kitchen for a glass of wine and to begin putting supper together. The meal was set out on the dining room table and we began a leisurely repast that always concluded with a fabulous dessert. I always steered supper conversation away from shop talk. We discussed world events, local scandals and our personal dreams. When Dr. D’s daughter came along, followed rapidly by my son and then my daughter, the pattern changed little except that I spend less time at the table and more time in the yard playing with the kids.

Away from the table, Dr. D and I discussed our mutual intellectual interests, trout fishing and, of course, home improvement. As it turned out, my interest in remodeling was largely theoretical, as was his interest in trout fishing. He fished occasionally, as an adjunct to wilderness hiking and mountain climbing. I went into the wilderness regularly to pursue wild trout. He fiddled with the internal architecture of his domicile constantly. I did the minimum to make a house a home.

Dr. D and his wife bought a second home in Colorado and he indulged in his yen for hammer and paint in that home. Every summer now they spent in Colorado. Dr. D said that going to Colorado let him escape from his life and relish paradise for a while. When my friend told me he was moving to Colorado, I ardently advised him against it. I reminded him that he took refuge from his life in Colorado. I told him that he was not the type who could actually live in paradise.

They moved to Colorado and reported that life in paradise was fine. When I went out to visit, I discovered that Dr. D and his wife were splitting up. I was shaken to the bone. They had always seemed rock solid. Little did I know that within two years, I would suffer the same fate.

Dr. D’s divorce crushed him and he started putting his grief up his nose. I encouraged him to let go of his bitterness, but to no avail. His dark Scandinavian nature clung to his great sorrow. In time, he met a great woman, fell in love and got engaged. I went out to Colorado for the wedding. I met his new wife and renewed my relationship with his daughter.

As the years went by, Dr. D and his second wife seemed very happy. I had a third wife and then a fourth. One evening, Dr. D called me—I knew by his speech pattern that he was high—and informed me in a quavering voice that he had lung cancer. He was very upbeat and said that his university health plan would give him the very best medical treatment. Over the next year, reports from Dr. D indicated that the treatments were going well and that the tumors were shrinking.

Several months later, my daughter told me that she had found out via one of Dr. D’s daughter’s Facebook postings that Dr. D was dead. I was astounded. His wife and his daughter knew that Dr. D and I were close friends. In my folk art way, I created a sympathy card that featured Dr. D’s beloved mountains and included a heartfelt verse about losing a good friend and a good man. Several weeks later, the card was returned with a forwarding address indicated. I sent the card to the new address. I never heard from Dr. D’s wife or daughter. They never told me he had died. They never acknowledged my card.

My 30-year friendship with Dr. D, one of my closest friends,  had not—in all those suppers, shared labors, mutual visits, attendance at his second wedding– transferred to his daughter and his second wife. I was astounded and deeply saddened. Had my daughter not been a Facebook user, I would have never known that Dr. D was dead. In a world webbed with electronic communication, my long friendship with Dr. D did not even garner so much as an email upon his death.

My children know who my close friends are. They have been involved in the lives of my close friends. I hope that, upon my death, my children will care for those who have cared for me, because my friends, in welcoming me into their hearts, have also welcomed my children.