Over the Fence: You can’t make an old friend

I sometimes think that life is about who your friends are. So many of our memories are devoted to our departed relatives, but in the end, it is often our friends whom we miss the most. It’s an emotionally depleting experience to suddenly lose someone you’ve known, in some cases, for your entire life.

Part of getting older is that the passing of these friends becomes inevitable. In the space of a week, for instance, we recently lost two wonderful friends. One was our long-time buddy Bob, who died unexpectedly a few days ago. My surgeon husband Stiles met Bob when he stitched together his hand, which he had injured putting in a hardwood floor. Once his hand was healed, they bonded over the guitar, an instrument they both embraced with enthusiasm. Their relationship eventually grew to include me and Bob’s wife, Thorey. We met in the early 1980s and our friendship continued until the present. A long time, by any standard.

There are a lot of stories about Bob. He was quite eccentric, but in an endearing way. He always had a funny joke at hand and he was a master at the art of whistling. He would entertain us with a wide variety of tunes along with perfectly executed bird whistles. He was a man with an impressive vocabulary and we often asked him what in the hell he was talking about! He was clearly an educated man, but chose to indulge his creative nature and earned his way by constructing beautiful hardwood floors. He once designed and installed the floor for the lobby of 1 Financial Center in Portland, and it was truly a work of art.

When Stiles went off to a surgical hospital in Kuwait during Operation Iraqi Freedom, the second Gulf War, Bob helped me manage the farm. Thorey was in her native England and heavily involved in teaching. During that time, Bob was back and forth across the ocean, but mostly his work was here, and he needed someplace to stay. He soon settled into a guesthouse on our property. It worked out well because it was like having a full-time handyman and an all-around helper.

Bob and I had some funny experiences together during that time. When in public, we could easily have been dubbed the original “Odd Couple,” since Bob was 6 inches shorter than I, and was prone to occasionally breaking out in perfectly orchestrated bird songs.

One day, he and I were sitting in the gas line at Costco. I looked over to the adjacent lane and saw a woman waving to me from her car. I recognized her as a neighbor I knew only slightly. Spying Bob in the passenger seat, she rolled down her window and yelled, “Oh Kay, this must be your husband, it’s so nice to meet him!” Before I could think about how it would come across, I yelled back, “Oh, he isn’t my husband!” Of course, since our voices were raised, numerous people heard this exchange. A sudden thought flashed across my mind – Oh Lord, what will the neighbors think?

A similar scenario occurred when Bob and I went shopping for a gate to restrict my dog to one room while I was gone. Since he would be installing the gate, I thought he should help me pick it out. The sales clerk smiled at us approvingly, obviously thinking that we were purchasing the gate for our grandchild (or maybe even our child — I just know that I didn't like the look of that smile.) Had I corrected her, however, I’m sure it would have been the gas station all over again.

Bob’s presence helped both me and my family. I was grateful that he was there when our beloved cat Marley died. Bob quietly buried him so none of us would have to perform that sad task. He was also there and managed to save the day when our basement flooded. But most of all, he was there to initiate long, philosophical conversations that helped banish the loneliness while my husband was away.

Fast forward to the present: A few days ago, Bob left us as the result of complications from early dementia, and the whistling stopped. When I think of Bob, I see him singing and strumming his guitar. I picture him on his knees working on our hardwood floor. But most of all, I remember him as a good friend when we needed one.

Bob enriched our lives. He was always there for us, and we were there for him. I think of him often, as well as other friends who have fallen by the wayside. It’s important to appreciate every one of them, because the sad truth is that you can’t make old friends. Once they’re gone, they’re gone, and we have to make do with the tender whisper of our memories.