Goodbye to a blog friend

When you write publically for a prolonged time, you occasionally meet someone who reads your work that you would never expect. It doesn't happen often, but when it happens, it’s a pleasant surprise. I admit it always makes me feel good. It also reinforces that this is worth doing.

When my two daughters were in their tween years they joined a Temple, in Skokie. I think it started because they had plenty of fun youth activities, plus some of their close friends were doing it. It’s two decades later and they still belong.

I occasionally went to see them there. I ended up meeting some of the other members. One of them was a man named Bob.

I think Bob was a bit older than me, but maybe he just looked that way—I’m not sure. Talking about looks, his distinguishing features were his lengthy white hair with a matching beard. Bob looked like he belonged to the 1960s-70s generation—and to be honest, I kind of do too. That was our immediate connection.

One Saturday, maybe ten years ago, I was visiting the girls at Temple. Bob came up to me to tell me he had been reading my writing. He was impressed enough that he signed up to be a subscriber. I was surprised and curious about how he found it—it certainly wasn't through my daughters. By the way, I never did get the answer to that. I was happy that someone was reading this and that was all I needed.

And then a couple of things happened to take this relationship up a notch:

For a few years, my youngest daughter, Kimi, and I had a monthly lunch date. It was our way to make sure we were connecting despite our busy and changing lives.

One day we’re walking into a restaurant and Kim’s husband is having lunch with Bob. None of us knew about this in advance. We stopped to chat for a minute and Bob asked them, “Do either of you read his blog? You really should because you're missing some good stuff.”

I still laugh at telling this story of a guy I didn't know that well telling this to my close relatives. But, that was Bob.

Another time, word filtered down to me that Bob wanted me to come to a Saturday service. There was someone he wanted me to meet. So off to Skokie, I go. Bob has a friend who used to work for the Grateful Dead and was intimately familiar with the West Coast music scene of that time. He introduced us and left us to chat. For about an hour, we talked about the Dead, Jefferson Airplane and the other bands of that era. He told me stories about his work with the bands; I reciprocated with my story about Jack Cassady having to drive me home because I got too fucked up to drive after working a Hot Tuna show as a photographer.

In the background, I could see Bob shaking his head and occasionally laughing as he overheard our discussion.

When it was over I thanked both of them and especially Bob for thinking of me and getting us together. He responded that it was no problem. He was happy to do it. That was Bob.

Last Thursday night, I was at my daughter’s home for a day-after birthday dinner. I asked her how she spent her actual birthday night. She said they were at the Temple for a shiva. When I asked who died, she told me it was Bob. I was saddened, a bit shocked and just a little surprised. I knew he had some health issues in the past few years, but I didn’t know he had suffered a stroke earlier this year.

We spent the next few minutes talking about what happened. I retold the story of the lunch in the restaurant—neither of them remembered it, but both laughed.

That’s my story about Bob. So long and rest easy. Thanks for being a reader. Thanks for being a friend to my girls. I’m grateful for both.