December 9th is the tenth anniversary of Dick Crooks' death. Dick was my best friend from 1960 to when he died in 1998 ... 38 years. We met in the Army, hit it off pretty quickly, and (both living in the west) kept close thereafter. Dick introduced me to the northwest and logging culture.
He doesn't seem gone that long -- or even gone at all. His presence remains real to me, and I still can hear his laughter. We laughed a lot together, and I miss it.
My dad and his stepdad on different occasions told each of us how fortunate we were to have such a close, long friendship. Apparently neither had experienced this. So as much as I lament outliving Dick and all my other close male friends, I remind myself how fortunate I've been to have the friends I did. Luck of the draw that I'm the last one standing.
Dick's two sons live in Moscow, Idaho, and I especially keep in contact with the oldest. The other has a booze problem and isn't reliably in a space in which to communicate. But I regard both as sons, my godsons. I've known the older since he was a kid, the younger since he was a baby. The older has a blues band and is one of the better harp players on the planet.
Video interview with Brad Crooks.
I miss Dick, of course, but in a sense he hardly seems "gone" at all.
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