I had a Coke yesterday. Maybe not exotic to some of you, but I made a conscious decision in July of 2013 to stop drinking soda pop. Too much corn syrup in my life. Too many chemicals. Not healthy.

Summer 2013 was kinda one of those big ones. At least for me. Major emotional breakdown. In a good way, because I realized that I wasn’t happy. Hadn’t been happy in a while. Needed to make changes. Drastic ones.

Had been single for a while at that point. Wheels spinning in place. Gears grinding.

Decided I was making changes.

I do this every June. Become someone else. Usually, subtle. Small changes. Stack rank my life and look at it. Throw out a hobby or something and rearrange the rest.

2013, I tossed most of me into the garbage and moved on. Decided to be happy. Worked, too, because not long after that I ran into the Fabulous Publisher Babe™ ^again^ and many of you know how that turned out.

Stopped drinking soda pop. Didn’t get a haircut again for a couple of years, so it ended up past my shoulder blades at one point. Starting eating far healthier.

Since then, I’ve had a couple of sips of something and one root beer float.

Yesterday, a group of writers got together for lunch. We used to do this in the old days monthly, but that kinda fell apart in 2020 for all the obvious reasons. Hadn’t put it back together until now.

We used to go to The Rock Pizza. The old franchise in Alderwood is apparently a Chinese joint today. The more recent place ^said^ they were open on the weekend, but were only doing takeout when we got there.

Ended up at a fast food Italian place down the road. I ordered the chicken fettuccine Alfredo. Let’s just say that it was about as flavorful and exciting as what we around here call “mommy blogger food.”

But they also had bottles of Coke in a bin of ice. Mexican stuff, supposedly with real sugar. Haven’t had one of those in quite possibly a decade. Grabbed it, popped the top, had a sip.

Underwhelming, much like the food. The company was excellent. Made up for the rest, but that Coke was…I don’t even know what to say.

I stopped drinking sugary stuff and weaned myself off of sweet for the most part. These days, I drink Spindrift, which tends to be a teaspoon of fruit juice in a can of carbonated water, without added sugar.

The coke was sweet, but in a yucky way. Industrial. Chemical. Drank it, so that I could say that I had, but didn’t really enjoy it. These days, I’ll order an Arnold Palmer in the evening, unless I get some wine. Coffee up until about 2pm. Granted, I’ll put sugar in the coffee, but ijits around here think that coffee beans roasted to only a four are for wimps. I know places where you can get a six. The asphalt you drive on to get there is probably only a five.

Rain makes the locals crazy, so they roast coffee to a six. Yuck. Like the Coke.

But for me, it provided a perfect snapshot back nine years. She and I have a running joke about something being “Three Days Ago” and thus forgotten or irrelevant, depending.

This was nine years. I’m coming up on the anniversary of her in a month. And our seventh married in July. And meeting her for the first time fourteen in the fall.

He was angry. Unhappy. At an emotional breaking point. Fortunately, it all worked out well and nobody ended up destroyed.

But that bottle of Coke framed it. Brought all back.

Yuck. And everything along with it.

Happier these days. Having far more fun. Looking forward to things, when a lot of those old cohorts are trapped lamenting the loss of “how it used to be.”

Bruce Springsteen covered it in “Glory Days” and I look at some of those folks and understand what he was talking about. But I don’t ever want to go back. Not there. Not other places. I get to live in an amazing moment with good friends.

And look at that empty bottle of Coke and celebrate who I have become instead.

I lost a good friend yesterday.

Back in 2018 (I think), Fabulous Publisher Babe™ and I took the Coast Starlight (Amtrak) to Los Angeles from Seattle. Overnight, so we got a cabin and hung out there, plugged in and writing while enjoying the scenery and talking publishing. (Duh)

Outside of Oakland, we hopped off, because the main train continues down the coast and stops at every little town. We took an inland spur that only stopped a few times, and got us to Bakersfield, where everybody exits and you hop one of several buses that take you over the mountains and down into the basin. It also got us to Union Station in downtown LA something like 6 or 8 hours faster than we would have done otherwise. Worth the effort, though now I have some friends along the coast and might have spent the night somewhere around San Luis Obispo or Santa Barbara to see them.

So, part 2 of the trip. Now we’re in a car with sets of facing bench seats, instead of airplane mode with everyone facing forward. She and I are talking publishing and writing, because, hello, have you met us?

Gentleman sitting next to her listens to the conversation for a while, growing more interested because we’re getting pretty esoteric after an hour. At some point, he starts asking questions, then fully joins in the conversation.

As an aside, I tell people that I like to “collect interesting people.” I do. The worst sin you can indulge in is to be a boring conversationalist. Even sportsball can be made interesting. Ya gotta work at it.

Rich was interesting. And way cool.

He had been a young pro golfer, on the circuit. At the time I met him, I’d have said in his early sixties, so this would have been thirty years ago. Knew all the big players, and still stayed in touch with a few, but he never quite made it to the show.

Eventually, he gave up that dream and became a teacher. Taught high school golf for a long time, and had recently retired.

As noted, way interesting and capable of holding his own in a conversation with complete strangers, on a topic he didn’t know a damned thing about, but wanted to learn. So we firehosed him. (Some of you are nodding.) And he absorbed it.

Long story short, we got to Bakersfield, and promptly fled, as all right-thinking people would. (Yes, you, too. Heh)

Our bus took us to downtown. Rich was headed inland to Riverside, so he was on a different bus. We had been teasing each other by that time about not getting on the wrong bus, so we swapped phone numbers.

Trip to LA was fine. Met a niece and hung out with her. Rented a car and drove to Vegas to see some friends. Flew home.

Stayed in touch with Rich. Not much. The occasional text.

He had divorced a while ago and remarried Tamara. She had her own interestingness, and he’d wondered if we might be interested in helping her get her biography out. We love doing that sort of thing, so we did.

Hell of a book, too. Raw, and I was the “copyeditor” who had to clean it up just enough to handle technical things like commas and periods, without stripping out her voice. Think I did a pretty good job.

Little Girl Lost, Woman Found

They are both neat people and I enjoyed the regular and occasional texts back and forth. Never much. Mostly hello and a quick update, when they moved from Riverside to Missouri. Or later to his tribe’s reservation in Oklahoma.

At the time, I didn’t know, because he didn’t talk about it, but he spent most of 2021 fighting cancer. They thought they had resolved it with surgery late last year. Apparently, back in March it came back, heavy and fast.

Rich was in home hospice for the last three months. He slipped into a coma Wednesday and died peacefully Friday afternoon.

I only know now because Tamera sent me a text late yesterday as she sorted through things and wanted us to know, because she knew how much Rich and I enjoyed chatting and being friends.

Just a couple of hours on a train, several years ago. I never saw him again after that, but the modern age reduces that to phone calls, texts, and email. You can keep up with old friends. And new ones.

And folks that wander across your path for only a moment, bringing their light into your life and leaving a candle lit after they go.

I have that candle in my mind.

But I miss my friend.

I bought property at the end of a cul-de-sac. In a quiet corner of rural King County (Seattle), with only two access points (NW and SW) for an area roughly 100 square miles. (The county bought the land around Rattlesnake Canyon and closed it off years ago, so you can’t get through that way anymore. EVER.)

To get to my house, you drive down the road, turn a curve, go to the end, and you’re facing my gravel driveway. Then you wind up and around 150 meters to a plateau midway up the hill, where the house is.

Remote. Nearly feral.

I bought the land in 2010. Got the house done in 2015. Most of my neighbors had no idea anybody lived up there until 2018, because the two neighbors I do know are socially isolated from most of the rest of the folks around here (the hippies have a driveway out on the main road instead of into the neighborhood, and the guy directly south of me is an asshole that everyone around here hates, and not just me.)

I’m also not on the common well that they all use, so they have a neighborhood water association. That entity had it’s annual meeting yesterday, and the hosts (who I do know well) threw a BBQ afterwards and invited the rest of us to come down and say hello. Finally got to meet more than half of the folks around here, after just waving at them as I go by for so long.

Nobody knew that I was here for the longest time, because there is a landlocked chunk of 15 acres above me (I have 6.5 myself). The woman that lives up there (if I understand the story correctly), bought this whole section (1 square miles in American parlance) back in about 1962-63. Originally, her and her husband lived down on my pond, before selling chunks off to developers over the years. (They built that current house starting in ’64. Got power and a well in ’65, as the story goes. The kids used to ride their horses down through the current neighborhood in the early 70s.

The parents divorced at some point a long time ago and this 80+ year old woman is at the top of the hill. Railroad along one edge. Wilderness Preserve (public park land) on another side. Steep hill down on the third, and me below her, with her having an easement driveway over my property to the street below.

Crazy lady. Not bad, just stubborn as hell. Her kids are maybe 5-10 years older than me, and I’m friendly with both when they come up to see their mom. Know a couple of the grandkids as well. All adults at this point.

Then, there is Jimmy-Jack.

E is a small woman. And used to ride racehorses at the old track south of Seattle, some 40-60 years ago. Her daughter (mid-50s) still jockeys occasionally, but mostly works as a carpenter. Also tiny. Also stubborn. Barbed wire and tan.

In addition to an ongoing string of big dogs and chickens, E also rescues old retired racehorses.

Horses run professionally for only a few years, then they’re done, but can live 30+ in the right circumstances.

The hippies at the bottom of my hill have had to bring up an excavator a few times while I’ve lived here, so they can dig a hole and bury a dead horse.

I figure there are a few dozen dead horses up there. Can’t wait until somebody buys it after she dies and decides to build their dream house. 15 acres remote but only 10 minutes to Starbucks will go for a lot of money, until they look at all the dead cars, trailers, junk, etc. up there.

And then have to deal with unmarked horse graves.

I might be looking forward to being a fly on the wall that day, but I have a small soul and while her kids are nice, she can be a pain in the ass.

Neither here nor there. (Personally, I’ve suggested to the county a few times that they buy it themselves and extend the Wilderness another 15 acres while they can.)

Today, I wanted to talk about Jimmy, but it required some set up.

Jimmy-Jack is a 30-year-old retired race horse.

Two years ago, we had a friend come out and stay with us for the summer, sleeping in the camping trailer because COVID meant that everyone needed to be isolated, and she had a job as a shopper for folks, delivering groceries to their house.

She is also a photographer, and a loving soul.

Jimmy used to come down the hill regularly to hang out with her. And she’d walk up and say hi to him.

Sure, there’s a fence. Might Keep a shy sheep in. Jimmy just steps over it. Then down the driveway, cut across, and graze in my septic field. In the old days, I’d have to chase him off, but we both got over ourselves and he was mostly looking for company. And nice grass, because it’s all trees and shade up there, so nothing green he can just munch on.

So Jimmy would come down in the summer of 2019. Usually in the late afternoon. Then he’d head back up around sunset. I stopped chasing him off, and my guest made it a point to clean up the horse apples he’d leave, so it was fine.

Weird, but fine.

Because while some of you have neighborhood cats you might feed. Or the dogs that run around and hang out, I have a neighborhood horse.

How you know you live in the country.

At one point that summer, E was in the hospital and rehab, so her kids and grands had to come by twice a day to feed the various animals. One day, the dog and the horse both come down, late afternoon/early evening. The dog is friendly enough. Barks, but it isn’t a warning bark or a friendly play.

“Hey, you!” kind of bark.

Jimmy’s with the dog, hanging out. Watching me.

This goes on for a few minutes, so I grab Fabulous Publisher Babe™ and we walk up the hill, with both critters making a beeline ahead of us once they’re sure where headed that way.

Through the gate. Wind long ways around the driveway. Jimmy practically dancing, though he and I have a carefully-armed neutrality. (My dad got kicked by a horse 40 years ago. Broke several ribs and nearly killed him.)

At one point, Jimmy stomps right over, so I grab him by the halter and tap foreheads, telling him to behave.

Horse is ornery, not dumb. He nods and heads off to where his feed bucket is.

We get to E’s house. It’s unlocked. I don’t go in often, but it was obvious nobody had fed the critters today and they were starving, so I yell, open the door, yell some more, then go find the two feed barrels and get the dog and the horse fed.

Head back down, having done our good deed.

Smiled.

About 15 minutes later, one of the grandsons drives up E’s driveway, on his way to feed the critters. I can only imagine his response when he got there. I’m sure both animals told him they were starving and had never been fed in their lives. (Never trust a horse about his feeding schedule.)

After that summer, the guest moved on. Jimmy stopped coming down.

Until about a week ago. Guess he was kinda lonely. Or maybe missed the good grass.

Always interesting, waking up at 4am to the sound of hooves clomping along outside the wind. Dark brown horse, so I’d have to hit him with a flashlight to see him.

Usually, just clapping loud or yelling at him to go home is sufficient and he’d prance back up the driveway.

All a big game to that dork.

Won’t say I’ll miss him when he finally goes, but I will miss the stories I can tell about having a neighborhood horse.

One of the things they don’t tell you about being a grown-up is that you’ll lose friends along the way. Partly, at least in my case, that’s the outcome of living a full and adventurous life.

I wanted to talk recent times, but it dawns on me that I need to go way back to set up the scene. because I’ve lived a strange life so far.

My family moved from Wichita to Salina, KS when I was about five in the mid-70s. We lived there for two years, so kindergarten and half of first grade for me. Then back to Wichita for the other half of first grade, plus second and third, where I was at the same elementary school (Seltzer). Fourth grade in the gifted program at Minneha. Fifth and Sixth they split that group in half, and sent me to Clark.

That’s just elementary school, going to three of them without moving. Four in six years.

Then, for junior high (grades 7-9 in those days), they took half the folks I’d been with at Clark and sent them to a different school (Coleman) from the one the other part of us went to (Curtis). So all my bestest friends disappear and I’m pretty much starting over. Remember, this is before social media or even cell phones, in the early ‘80s, so they’re kinda gone.

Managed to stay at Curtis for all three years, which was amazing. And a record to that point.

Then all of us finally circle back to the same high school. (Wichita Southeast, when it was still on Edgemoor in town, instead of out in the middle of nowhere.)

But I’ve lost touch with everyone from elementary by this point. New friends in Junior High.

Then I graduated high school after what was functionally my Junior Year (technically skipped Junior and went from Sophomore to Senior, long story). So I was only in that building for two years, one of which I was suddenly in classes with folks a year ahead of me previously. They didn’t always react well to the kid. (Understatement.)

Graduate in May. Start classes at Wichita State in June. Don’t turn seventeen until the end of June, so I am not kidding when I say I started college at sixteen.

Stayed there three and a half years, which was my longest time in any school, and graduated in December of 1989. Took spring off. Went to graduate school in the fall in Los Angeles in the fall of ‘90.

Lived in LA until the fall of ‘95. Came back to Wichita, but only stayed about 18 months.

Moved to Seattle in the Feb 1997. New world. New life. Except that the woman who had convinced me to move to Seattle changed her mind after I got here.

On my own, in a whole new place. New everything.

Again.

I have been here (PNW) for twenty-five years now, having marked that six weeks ago. Was with Donna from 1998 until her death in 2008. Been with Fabulous Publisher Babe(tm) since 2013 (the second time around).

Worked for an insurance agency for a year. Then a property management company for two. Then I spent seven years (the HORRORS!) at a software startup. Then a year at Microsoft at as a-dash.

Swapped sides of the lake and worked in downtown Seattle for a year at one place before it shut itself down, then down at Pioneer Square facing the Pergola for three.

Then some friends from a prior gig recruited me to a new gig down near the stadiums, and I was there from 2012-2018, when I retired from the day job and started writing full time.

Social media works for me because I’m kinda feral, and have lived the exact opposite of that life where you and the same three guys you went to first grade with stay together for sixty years.

I tracked down my best friend in 4th-6th grades a few years ago, through an ex-girlfriend I remain on good terms with. Hadn’t talked to him for more than thirty-five years, I think. Haven’t talked to my best friend in Junior high and high school since just before we turned thirty, so that’s nearly twenty-four years now.

Etc.

Amazingly, I am friends with half a dozen exes on social media. Like, interact with some of them at least weekly, and others regular enough to count.

But I obviously have lost touch with a lot of folks over the decades. Some, it was for the better, like a handful who are probably all-in Q-Anon whackjobs these days, based on where they were headed in those days.

Others simply vanished when everybody got busy and drifted apart.

The friends you make in school are because you see them every day. Once you get out into the world, you will see co-workers regularly, but I was in software for a big chunk of my career, in Seattle, where folks move around a lot. Being with three different companies that went out of business not long after I left (writing on the wall kind of thing) doesn’t help.

So that’s where I started this morning with this blog.

The Pandemic has caused a lot of folks to stay home. To maybe lose touch with some old friends because you haven’t been seeing them at work or getting together for beers.

As a man of a certain age, I’m also old enough to have not seen folks in a decade or more, and maybe only loosely track that number.

So I started reaching out. Just to say hello. Catch up on news. Poke sleeping bears. Something. Not all of them have responded, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Maybe they didn’t drift away but purposefully strode into the fog and I didn’t understand at the time.

Who knows?

But I keep trying. Maybe I have an old email address that doesn’t work any more. Or a bad phone number.

Or they don’t want to hear from me.

That doesn’t stop me, until they specifically say to fuck off.

You, now. When was the last time you reached out to that friend you haven’t seen or talked to in a while? Even to say hello?

What’s stopping you? Do you owe them an apology? Do they owe you one?

Has it been long enough that you don’t even remember why you haven’t spoken? I got a few of those, where I remember stepping back, but not what triggered it. Can’t be helped.

At the same time, there are remarkably few folks out there that I won’t at least say hi to.

Like you, I keep a list. Folks TSTL. Or folks who violate Wheaton’s Law. Something bad.

But there are a lot of folks that are just out there.

If you’re one of them, and I haven’t talked to you in a long time, maybe reach out?

We live in an age of polarization, but also atomization, as we can remain kinda in touch while being farther and farther away physically and emotionally.

But ya gotta try from time to time.

When was the last time you tried?