700

I started this blog on November 19, 2017, when my friend, Ed, turned 100. My first story was about him. Our lives are a bit different now, but we’re both still moving forward.  This is my 700th tale and he’ll be 107 years old in November.

A lot of things have changed since that first blog.  It’s funny how people and events shape our lives.  We learn from both, but some lessons are harder to swallow than others.  I’ve experienced both joy and grief over the past several years.  I prefer joy.

Ruth and I bought a condo in the Tullymore Resort community and sold our Lake LeAnn house in 2020 after living there forty-three years.  It was a big change and one I’ve learned was a very good thing.  She loved our new condo and the surrounding area.  She described it as “perfect” and “beautiful”.  Part of my grief is the fact that she didn’t get to enjoy it very long.

We bought the condo in part because of its location.  It was about halfway between David’s family home and his cottage.  Ruth’s sister, Kathy, and her husband, Dan, lived on the same lake as David’s cottage.  We planned to travel up and down US 131 to see people we loved. Six months after buying the condo, Kathy and Dan divorced, and within another year, David and Lindsay sold their cottage.  Neither was planned, or expected, when we moved to be closer to them.  But life happens and things don’t always go the way we plan.

The best part of the move for me was Ruth and I made it together.  Losing her as I did would have been much more difficult had we still lived in the home where we raised our children.  We said good-bye and celebrated those memories together when we left.  We shed a few tears but were looking forward to our new life.

Just before we left, we ate the last bit of ice cream from the freezer.  Everything was packed so we used the caps from bottled water as a spoon. That was our last celebration as we completed the final moments of our move.  It’s funny what you remember.  Even the little things count.

While Ruth’s passing has been my most difficult challenge, I shared my greatest joy of my
“blog years” with her.  Our youngest grandchild, Young Jackson James, was born.  She only knew him for a year and a half, but she couldn’t have loved him more if she had lived to be one hundred.  We didn’t have to see him to know we loved him.  We learned how to love our grandchildren before birth from Brady and Eva.

Within the first year of my writing, I lost my friend, Jim.  He was among my biggest fans. He died on his sixty-fifth birthday. You read about people who die that way, but never expect to experience it yourself.  It was a terrible time for everyone who knew him.

About thirty years ago, I gave a nickname to Jim.  I called him Sparky. We were in the final hours of one of our many buddy trips to Vegas.  Jim was done gambling, but I was down and wanted to give it one more run.  I was playing double deck blackjack at the Stardust Casino.  Jim stood behind me and a few hands in whispered in my ear.  “Raise your bet.” I listened and complied.  I didn’t know it, but he’d been keeping track of the cards and knew the deck was rich with high cards.  I won.

He whispered in my ear for the next forty-five minutes, and although I didn’t win every hand, I won all my money back and ended up ahead.  Sparky Anderson was the coach of the Detroit Tigers at the time, and I started calling Jim, Sparky, because he coached me through my fortunate run.

Writing about him has helped preserve my memory of him.  During my adult life, he was the closest thing that I had to a brother.  We discussed everything without passing judgement.  We sought each other’s counsel and held our deepest conversations as we sat shoulder to shoulder in a car driving to our next adventure.

Within a year after losing Jim, I lost my brother from my youth, my cousin, Gene. He was the guy who spilled the beans about Santa, took me to my first bar with a fake ID, and asked me to be his best man when he married Sandy.

When I was about five, and he was nine, we were wrestling at our Grandpa and Grandma Barner’s house.  I jumped on his back and one of his teeth fell out. I immediately started to cry because I thought I hurt him.  He hugged me and told me it was ok.  It was loose and he been trying to get it out himself but failed.  I just did the job for him.

While adulthood cut into our time together, we relived our childhood stories whenever we had the opportunity.  We laughed until we cried.  Tears of laughter feel much different than tears of sorrow.

When I started writing, I planned to post a story each Sunday and Wednesday.  There was no timetable just a goal of recording two stories each week.  I missed three days in January of 2019 when Ruth was ill.  I tended to her rather than write.

I posted one extra one when Young Jackson James was born.  His birth was too important.  I needed to share it immediately.

After writing about a dozen stories, one of my readers referred to me as a new Erma Bombeck.  I knew she was kidding, but I was flattered. When I told Jim he disagreed.  He said, “You’re more like Dave Barry.”

As I begin my second 700 stories, I’m content to be Robert.  And as I’ve said before, “If my stories remind you of yours, I’ve done my job.”