As I approach my birthday,
I think about Mike Dickey, because his birthday was just a month before mine.
That meant that when my family moved from Indianapolis to the countryside near
Oakland City, IN, we were in the same grade, 5A. He was always the most gracious
friend I had, up until I did his funeral, almost five years ago now.
After we graduated, we
lived far apart, but as we aged, we kept in touch. We saw each other in person
at least every five years, when our class had a reunion, and in between we talked
on the phone and wrote letters. The class reunion times were precious, as we
stood outside the motel--so that he could puff his pipe--and talked, just the
two of us, every minute there were no class events.
The older we got, the
worse Mike’s memory got. I was the worst bassoonist in the history of high
school music, but he claimed I was the best band member Oakland City ever had.
I was a highly deficient basketball player, but Mike remembered me as a scoring
machine. I was a timid and terrible boyfriend, but Mike was sure the girls has
been all over me.
A bad memory is a precious
thing in a long-term friend. Perhaps Mike was not the best friend ever, but
because of his bad memory, that’s the way I remember him. Bad memories can make
good memories.
John Robert McFarland
I had a pic of a pig
taking a shower for my post of two days ago about Bobby’s pig, but forgot to
use it, so I’m adding it here, because… pig in shower.
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