For Bud
One measure of how you spend your time is what you remember. If that’s the case, I spent a lot of time with Bud—all of it makes me smile.
· Watching him beat back the dreaded “swine flu epidemic” of 1977
· The beer he handed me as I crossed the finish line of the 1977 Seattle Marathon
· His mother, him, me, and a few of our equally inebriated friends serenading West Seattle from my deck with “those wedding bells are breakin’ up that old gang of mine” early (2 am) the morning of my wedding
· Sunday bike excursions from Marymoor to Ste. Michelle, long picnics, slightly harder to navigate rides back to Marymoor
· Bud—the diamond merchant
· His incredulity around the fact that an incredible California babe really liked him
· His astonishment that she married him
· Late dinners—lots of wine
· His face and Kathy’s through the window of the newborn nursery a few minutes after the birth of my first daughter, Molly—exactly 28 years ago last Sunday
· The bird he flipped me when I told him to get off his ass and take a walk with me a few days after his open heart surgery
· Late dinners—lots of wine
· His work with the HealthPlus staff, attempting to undo the damage I’d done as a “wet behind the ears” CEO
· His careful probing about what I was doing with my life—questions like “Jeff, what the fuck are you doing with your life?”
· Sonics games—watching the crowd, attaching nicknames to colorful fans, scoring (like in ice skating) the Sonics cheerleaders’ routines, leading our section in taunts and other unsportsmanlike behavior
· Thanksgivings at their house as an orphaned 50 year old
· Emails galore—all funny
Bud was a rock for me—always there, always in my corner, always a friend, despite my “prodigal son-like” behavior. I’ll miss that and I’ll miss him.
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