Doc's been a special friend, meeting him through this site. I've stayed at his place a number of times in the past, and he once took a picture of me washing his dishes. Since then I have learned to cook and wanted to cook for him before his journey to Africa. Also maybe repay the photo favor.
Even though he took seconds of my seafood stirfry, this was the morning after. I hope the continent doesn't catch the "Bigmak Flu".
He left me a few postcards, one from a tavern he and his son enjoyed the night before. Doc also had a watercolor of the tavern on his wall. He was shipping a lot of his art over to Africa.
Another was one he sent to his family in 1981, of the pre-blast view of Mt. St. Helens. He told them to keep it. It's special to me because when it first cracked open, I made up bumper stickers and T-shirts and was hawking them by the weekend that March 1980. When it blew it's top in May, I never went back.
Sweet memories, we all have them.
A part of us will always miss the "Mountain men" (and women) we've met here (add name here).
Doc was staying at Sputniks. I knew Doc's son was there too, me having missed the Sat. night BBQ. But I pulled in around 5 pm Sun., thinking I would be cooking for them.
I sat in the truck, listening to the radio. I saw the front door open, and I jumped out apologizing for Doc having to come outside.
The words were lost as I recognized father and son fighting tears.
My door was next to Ben's car, so I closed it and moved to the other side of the truck.
Ben waved as he drove away, Doc returned inside. I busied myself with unloading food, etc. Time passed, and soon conversation returned.
I later felt I accomplished my goal by giving Doc a send-off dinner, his praises being my reward. Sputnik got home later, and after some adult beverage and cigars, the talk was sweet.
I then told Doc I was sorry for the timing of my arrival, but I wouldn't of missed for the world.
We have ways of saying goodbye when people we love have died, but seeing the long goodbye while alive is, is like having the heart mountain blown apart.
I live near the mountain now. It does heal itself.
May our memories be those of the living postcards that should never be thrown away
Thanks Doc, love ya.