How many cards will fall?
Another friend of mine has just passed on. Today, I found out my Aunt has Colon Cancer. . . so . . .

I begin to wonder about this great plan some almighty has for all of us at times. . . .

So I begin to anylize –

My best friend I grew up with. Next door neighbor and kind of mentor. One Sunday as I put my son in his car seat and shut the door, I hear, “ Hey, Matt!” 7 years later I still hear it.

And now I know why. When we were kids we’d walk to grade school. There was this cross walk where a crossing guard always stood.

Tom. . . How the hell do I still remember his name? Large horn-rimmed glasses, thick brown mustache, thinning, almost George Carlin like straight brown hair with the same body style and expression like a lankey gorrilla trying to figure out his mass, and always the same reddish-green checkered long-sleeved button-up shirts and blue-jeans. The guy could have been a lumberjack. As soon as we rounded the corner, we’d hear it in the distance. . .

“Hey, Zeb! ! !” Zeb loved the extra attention he got from the odd group of adults he interacted with. Tom wasn’t the only one, but he was the most animated and memorable. I think it made his morning, really.

Zeb knew he’d miss Tom when he went to jr. high (on rare occasion���s he’d say as much. Probably thought I’d forget). I didn’t think on it. People come and go in my mind at the time. It was only a couple of years later when we found out Tom got lung cancer and quit the cross-guard position. Zeb was the one to tell me. I didn’t get the same kick in the gut he did. . . There were very few people to me that mattered. Everything else was filler. I wanted to care like he did, but I just didn’t. Kind of funny really since I’m the one of us that’s more sensitive.

“Hey, Matt!” . . . He used to say that a lot to get my attention. . . I never knew why. . . Well, . .I know now.
Sunday afternoon. There he is, with a few other friends gathered around an old 80’s tan pickup truck under the canopy of the remnants of a fallen tree in his front yard (another story) like they’re getting ready for something, in his front yard. I paused, at least I can say that. Then I waved and got in my car. I thought about going over to bullshit for a minute. But. . . I was never comfortable around his friends. I always felt like I was trying to prove my worth around them. Like I was in judgement every time I stepped on Zeb’s soil just to see him.

To be fare, Zeb NEVER made me feel that way. He genuinely thought I was funny and creative and saw a great future for me. I used to love the times we had goofing off where we both just had the greatest time. Man I loved making him laugh. It was like the highest achievement, and it seemed so easy. . . when others weren’t around. . . But lately, they always were. I felt like a third wheel. Like he’d have to explain his relation to me to his friends after I left.

That’s no excuse though. . .

Sunday afternoon. I waved to him as I passed to go back to SLC. He waved back with his wrap around glasses, leaning on the pickup. . . probably the same side.

He was smiling at me. I didn’t pause. What if I did? Just a quick conversation. Would that have done it?

Monday morning at work I got a call from my dad. I’ve never gotten a call from my dad. . . “Zebâ��™s dead.

He died in a car accident on Sunday.” I didn’t hear the rest at first. Pretty blunt, but then. . . What should I expect? My dad makes his point. The end.

They went out to the desert to rabbit hunt, rode over a dip in the road and Zeb fell out of the back. He died instantly.

His brother drove. When they closed the coffin, I was the only person in the room that wasn’t a family member. That means I’m the only one not family that heard Zeb’s brother wail in his wifes shoulder when they sealed my friend forever. Jared was a goof-off, a smart-ass, party-goer, and a stand-up fighter. I never once saw him cry in my life. That day I saw him broken to the core.

I admit, I didn’t know just what to do. I was stupid enough to stumble up to Zeb’s dad, my scout-master, . . my friend, and ask, “What do I do, now?”

He couldn’t look me in the eye as he barely spoke, “ I don’t know.”

Sorry Bug. . . That’s what I should have said. . . sorry.

I placed my hand on my friends coffin as they lowered it. “Later”. We’d always at least say that much. Because we thought we’d say more, later.

Well. . .

Today, I remember another friend.

This one was harder, though. I willingly left a friend knowing I couldn’t possibly be back before. . .

She died two weeks later.

And again with the. . . could I have, what if I had just done, maybe if I had. . . . .

This time I was prepared. This time I knew! And yet even this time I couldn’t do anything.

We read books, watch movies, play games where people do extra-ordinary things in the face of adversity.

Why couldn’t that be me?! Just this one time! I swear I feel there was something I missed. . . Too late. . .
I missed it. Did I screw it up? Was there something I skipped? Did I not Believe enough to make it real?

I lost my best friend because I shrugged him off. I don’t want to loose another because I didn’t do enough.

How many cards will fall?
Another friend of mine has just passed on. Today, I found out my Aunt has Colon Cancer. . . so . . .

I begin to wonder about this great plan some almighty has for all of us at times. . . .

So I begin to anylize –

My best friend I grew up with. Next door neighbor and kind of mentor. One Sunday as I put my son in his car seat and shut the door, I hear, “ Hey, Matt!” 7 years later I still hear it.

And now I know why. When we were kids we’d walk to grade school. There was this cross walk where a crossing guard always stood.

Tom. . . How the hell do I still remember his name? Large horn-rimmed glasses, thick brown mustache, thinning, almost George Carlin like straight brown hair with the same body style and expression like a lankey gorrilla trying to figure out his mass, and always the same reddish-green checkered long-sleeved button-up shirts and blue-jeans. The guy could have been a lumberjack. As soon as we rounded the corner, we’d hear it in the distance. . .

“Hey, Zeb! ! !” Zeb loved the extra attention he got from the odd group of adults he interacted with. Tom wasn’t the only one, but he was the most animated and memorable. I think it made his morning, really.

Zeb knew he’d miss Tom when he went to jr. high (on rare occasion���s he’d say as much. Probably thought I’d forget). I didn’t think on it. People come and go in my mind at the time. It was only a couple of years later when we found out Tom got lung cancer and quit the cross-guard position. Zeb was the one to tell me. I didn’t get the same kick in the gut he did. . . There were very few people to me that mattered. Everything else was filler. I wanted to care like he did, but I just didn’t. Kind of funny really since I’m the one of us that’s more sensitive.

“Hey, Matt!” . . . He used to say that a lot to get my attention. . . I never knew why. . . Well, . .I know now.
Sunday afternoon. There he is, with a few other friends gathered around an old 80’s tan pickup truck under the canopy of the remnants of a fallen tree in his front yard (another story) like they’re getting ready for something, in his front yard. I paused, at least I can say that. Then I waved and got in my car. I thought about going over to bullshit for a minute. But. . . I was never comfortable around his friends. I always felt like I was trying to prove my worth around them. Like I was in judgement every time I stepped on Zeb’s soil just to see him.

To be fare, Zeb NEVER made me feel that way. He genuinely thought I was funny and creative and saw a great future for me. I used to love the times we had goofing off where we both just had the greatest time. Man I loved making him laugh. It was like the highest achievement, and it seemed so easy. . . when others weren’t around. . . But lately, they always were. I felt like a third wheel. Like he’d have to explain his relation to me to his friends after I left.

That’s no excuse though. . .

Sunday afternoon. I waved to him as I passed to go back to SLC. He waved back with his wrap around glasses, leaning on the pickup. . . probably the same side.

He was smiling at me. I didn’t pause. What if I did? Just a quick conversation. Would that have done it?

Monday morning at work I got a call from my dad. I’ve never gotten a call from my dad. . . “Zebâ��™s dead.

He died in a car accident on Sunday.” I didn’t hear the rest at first. Pretty blunt, but then. . . What should I expect? My dad makes his point. The end.

They went out to the desert to rabbit hunt, rode over a dip in the road and Zeb fell out of the back. He died instantly.

His brother drove. When they closed the coffin, I was the only person in the room that wasn’t a family member. That means I’m the only one not family that heard Zeb’s brother wail in his wifes shoulder when they sealed my friend forever. Jared was a goof-off, a smart-ass, party-goer, and a stand-up fighter. I never once saw him cry in my life. That day I saw him broken to the core.

I admit, I didn’t know just what to do. I was stupid enough to stumble up to Zeb’s dad, my scout-master, . . my friend, and ask, “What do I do, now?”

He couldn’t look me in the eye as he barely spoke, “ I don’t know.”

Sorry Bug. . . That’s what I should have said. . . sorry.

I placed my hand on my friends coffin as they lowered it. “Later”. We’d always at least say that much. Because we thought we’d say more, later.

Well. . .

Today, I remember another friend.

This one was harder, though. I willingly left a friend knowing I couldn’t possibly be back before. . .

She died two weeks later.

And again with the. . . could I have, what if I had just done, maybe if I had. . . . .

This time I was prepared. This time I knew! And yet even this time I couldn’t do anything.

We read books, watch movies, play games where people do extra-ordinary things in the face of adversity.

Why couldn’t that be me?! Just this one time! I swear I feel there was something I missed. . . Too late. . .
I missed it. Did I screw it up? Was there something I skipped? Did I not Believe enough to make it real?

I lost my best friend because I shrugged him off. I don’t want to loose another because I didn’t do enough.