Thin Ice

Today, I read of a young woman who apparently became confused and drove out onto the ice in the middle of a local lake (see: Idiot move).

This made me remember a few of the winter days when a group of bandits and I went ice fishing on the upper pond here at the bog. The first year, about five years ago, featured some 20 of us huddled around 10-15 holes bored in the fifteen inch thick ice. We had a fire blazing on shore and we’d quickly cut filets and cook on sticks over the fire. Unfortunately, one of the traditions of ice fishing – schnapps – started flowing a bit too freely and we lost a couple of our anglers. I believe Jeff Foxworthy once opined, “If you’ve ever been too drunk to fish, you might be a redneck.” Yep.

Tonight, I stopped on my way home to visit a buddy. Howard is nearing ninety and is a staple at the local watering hole where a handful of good folks gather after work to kvetch, enjoy half-off appetizers, and well-wish. He’s a welcome fixture who can tell stories of Ann Arbor in the 40s and 50s, regale with tales of vintages discovered during European adventures, and remember when he had to chastise internationally known chefs. He also hadn’t appeared in over three weeks.

I abbreviated tonight’s stop for a detour to Howard’s house. He’s often an ornery cuss who might direct his ire at me for discounting his ability to get through the world and I’m a bit wary approaching his driveway. I'm also worried that I hadn't seen my octogenarian friend in three weeks - I hope he's OK.

I've learned that when checking on older friends, anything is possible.

In 1992, a co-worker and I made a trip up to Bloomfield Hills, Michigan because Harley, a brilliant and eccentric septuagenarian-engineer coaxed out of retirement by our company, hadn’t been to the office in 2 days and no one had heard from him. Given his eccentricities, we figured we’d find him naked on the roof with a shotgun quoting Shakespeare. The “boss” of the group – already looking for an excuse to fire him – leapt to the conclusion that he was a no-show and had prepared a dismissal letter to be posted the next day.

We found a deceased Harley.

Through the early and mid-2000’s, I developed a true crush on a beautiful woman named Trudy. She was born in 1915 in Cheyenne, WY, and earned this tribute in her obituary: 

Huebner excelled in every activity she put her mind to and lived life with gusto, family members say. She was passionate, kind and compassionate, a master of the English language and wonderfully irreverent, they add. (Obituary)

Her irreverence lasted well into her 90s – she once told me that the best thing about planning a party was deciding who not to invite!

We lost Trudy in 2009 after series of strokes and the ravages of age. When I win the lotto, I plan to open a restaurant named Trudy’s.

So, I’m headed down the unpaved (and often flooded) portion of Liberty Road in Washtenaw County to Howard’s home. A light is visible beyond the hearty hedge barrier between the road and the house – coming up the driveway I see a familiar bald pate. 

Howard ambles to the door and welcomes me with muted gusto. He’s just recently been released from the hospital after therapy for congestive heart failure, is nearly gaunt, and fights a stagger in his step. Despite it all, I know he’s happy I’m there.

We visit for an hour and throughout he insists on being a proper host and waits on me – despite needing the stability of walls, furniture, and other fixed objects. We trade stories about gourmand excess and wines beyond our status . . . he’s laughing and so am I.

Howard insists on walking me to the door upon my departure – this winds him and he’s reliant on the wall for stability. “Do you want me to stay,” I offer.

“Hell no.”  I get it and I hit the road.

I'll be back with some frequency.

At the risk of being preachy: if you know a Howard, Trudy, Harley, or Vince (earlier post), take full advantage to listen, learn, and laugh.