Farewell To An Old Friend

Old? I guess you could call him old, being 81. He was physically showing signs of it, systems no longer in tip top shape, slowing in his movements, although his mind, from what I could see, was still mighty sharp and he never became that "grumpy"old man.

I'm referring to Bob (Robert) Kroll as an old friend, however, having known him since 1983. That makes him one of the three very dear friends I've known the longest who are still in my life.

Were. It's an adjustment.

He died suddenly this April 24th. They believe it was a massive brain hemorrhage, the kind that would take him from walking and talking to fallen on the ground and forever unresponsive. My mom went the same way,  silenced in the middle of a sentence while talking to Dad. Bob had experienced a few minor falls which worried them both enough to seek a medical opinion, so the idea of TIAs had already been brought up. While Joan originally thought the fall had caused the damage, the coroner thinks it happened in reverse, the damage causing the fall.

Almost as bad was what happened after. Bob was Catholic, devoted to his Church. He would have wanted last rites. It never came into question. It's what Catholics did. Until they could be performed, he was put on life support. The hospital's chaplain assisted Joan in finding Bob a priest. It was a long hard slog. The first, his own priest for many years, declined to attend him, saying he was out of the priest's district. Others were  contacted, more excuses given. At some point Joan commented to the chaplain (what we all think at least for a flash at this point, admit it) that this was surprising considering how much time they apparently had to spend molesting children. After a long search, a willing priest was found to give Bob his last rites. Life support was removed. Joan said her last goodbyes while he drew his final breaths.

Memories remain.

Back in 1983 I was directed to a support group in the Twin Cities called We Care. It was originally founded by a minister who was looking for a way his "re-singled" parishioners, aka divorced, separated, or widowed, could connect and help each other grow and heal, all having many similar issues. Now several years later when divorce was still not a topic of "polite" conversation, this was one of the rare, and perhaps only non-religious, ways for many of us to gather. By this time it had grown to many branches scattered around the metro area, had trained facilitators, and had a non-profit management board in place. There were ground rules which made it a safe place to open up and share your experiences and feelings with small groups of others going through the same things. Those conversations were extremely open and deep, topics ranging widely with several offered each meeting to choose from. Friends made there were the kind who lasted.

I made three extremely important ones that year, all of us there after a divorce: Bob Kroll, his now-widow Joan, and my Steve. For a while, We Care was one of the most important things in our lives. Each of us either was or soon became one of those trained facilitators, and each served some time on the Fellowship for Renewed Living board, some in officer positions. We attended special weekend-long workshops developed by FRL to explore different issues in great depth, offered one or more times a year. Professionals were brought in as workshop speakers  for the large groups before attendees split into small discussion groups, same ground rules applying. It was something which Joan and I shared at one particular workshop - and confidentiality still applies - that brought the two of us close. When one is feeling very vulnerable about something previously unshared with anybody, and someone else understands and has something similar to offer back, the bond can be incredible.

I've already explained how I met Steve, and how that friendship is still the core of our relationship. While I can't recall just how and where I met or noticed Bob, I knew I liked his keen mind and unfailing kindness. He was an electrical engineer for the phone company, aka Ma Bell, and many from We Care in his particular circle of friends also worked there. (I had briefly myself, but hate to talk about it because it was the only job I've gotten fired from. 'Nuff said.) Bob had divorced his first wife, having three children, one of which they'd adopted.

Bob and I dated for something over a year. During that time I learned a lot of details about him. I'd tease him about being a Pole who was born on St. Paddy's Day. It made his birthday memorable even if it was a lousy joke. He had come to Minnesota from Detroit, having a brother and parents still there. For years he wore a mustache, giving him a very prominent upper lip. I was shocked to see how his face changed once he shaved it off, leaving that lip flat. Surely that hadn't been all hair?

As a couple, we were comfortable together. I thought that was enough. It certainly was orders of magnitude better than my marriage had been. Bob was wiser than I, however, deciding to break it off. Problem was, he/we kept reconnecting and disconnecting. That process took so long that it was finally Joan who came to me and told me Bob was already in a new relationship - with her! She couldn't believe I would forgive her for "stealing him" from me. I couldn't get her to believe I'd known this had been ending for months. What's to forgive? It could finally be a clean break - and was - and besides, who better for him to leave me for than Joan? I still consider her my best woman friend, Steve being my best man friend.

Bob had helped me in several ways during that time. First, there was the reassurance that my ex was wrong in saying there would never ever in my life who "loved" me as much as he did. Or at all. I'd never find another guy who wanted me. While I hadn't wanted to believe him, the fact that this relationship lasted over a year meant my ex was wrong: it wasn't me who was the problem. I wouldn't have to spend the rest of my life lonely. Bob left me knowing I could find decent guys to really care, perhaps someday "the" guy.

He also helped me when I was starting my courier career. Because he lived at that time in downtown Minneapolis, I harbored the silly thought that I could find his place, that meant I could navigate my way into and out of "the loop". My very first day at work I found out with great frustration and humiliation just how wrong I was. Each different street wound up in a different spot, some dumping onto a freeway, some crossing into a different, and isolated, neighborhood. I'd gotten so tangled up that I nearly cost the company a customer and myself a job. I found a phone and called Bob, inviting myself over so we could put together a handwritten map "cheat sheet". I referred to that for about a year, until I knew where every street went and how to get everywhere from everywhere else.

One night early in my travels, I was in the process of trying not to get lost in the Eagan area. It was night, snow was moderately deep, and there was no place to pull over on the freeway to make sure I hadn't overshot my exit which seemed like it should have been miles behind me by now. I'd even forgotten the name of where I wanted to get off, frustration doing that to me a lot those days. My solution was to pull off on the next ramp and park off on the side of it away from other exiting traffic, where I could check my map book again. Unfortunately, the plows had cleared a level path out of the snow over where the actual land underneath had sloped away. I was stuck in the snow.

New as I was to the job, and my earnings low enough yet to be unable to afford a tow, I called Bob for help. Now it occurs to me to wonder just where I found the phone, since it would be years before I broke down and bought a cell, but whatever I did is lost in the deep dark recesses of my brain. Regardless, I persuaded him to come out there, driving up the same exit ramp I was stuck on, bringing a sturdy rope to pull my car forward a few feet to where there was dry pavement with full traction. I had to assure him he himself would have dry pavement to keep his car on so he wouldn't get stuck too. He not only believed me, I got pulled out in plenty of time to finish the run I was on.

Bob and Joan dated until he was relocated by Ma Bell to a southern office. Minneapolis to Phoenix allowed them to spend serious time together only a few times a year, so Joan relocated. I was the one who drove her moving truck down there, picked because I liked to drive, had familiarity with one-ton trucks, and just plain volunteered for it. She'd been considering another offer but was leery of letting that person drive all that way with her treasures, so once convinced I really meant the offer, told me she happily accepted it. Another friend of hers, Carol, came along to share the driving of her car.

It was a memorable trip, and while this is about Bob, I include it here as much to refresh Joan's memories as she reads this, as to show how happy I was that those two were getting together even if it meant I would miss seeing them. (That, of course, would change later.) Besides, by then, Bob was a part of the inseparable unit of Joan-&-Bob.

I'm used to traveling as cheaply as possible, but Joan booked us in motels which offered actual breakfasts before we hit the road again. Her picking up the tab was her way of "paying" us for helping her. The road trip itself would have been fine reward for me. One night when we'd been going westbound into the setting sun, we pulled off for dinner and to save our eyeballs. Getting back on the freeway became a part of this trip's story, however. A semi was parked on the ramp. Their compact car scooted right past, clearing it with no problems. I couldn't risk scraping the truck on one side and/or dropping wheels off onto an unknown surface on the other, and had to wait a few minutes for it to move. We'd had a plan worked out for signaling each other for needing stops, but it hadn't occurred to them that there would be an issue, and they were so quickly gone that I had no way to signal them. Remember: way before we had cellphones. I proceeded along the freeway, never seeing them pulled over to the side, just hoping somebody would notice eventually that I wasn't following and would find me. It was completely dark, so identifying each other's vehicle was really a challenge. Dark car is just another dark car in a universe of dark cars. Headlights and taillights are just more of the same. Nothing says, "Joan". Eventually we reconnected, adjusting our contingency plan for this unforseen  issue.

Joan decided part of our reward, since we were ahead of schedule for arriving in Phoenix where Bob had would have an unloading crew ready, was to stop at Montezuma's Well. I'd never heard of it, despite by then having traveled this route several times to visit my snowbirding parents, and thoroughly enjoyed the stop. Leaving meant a climb out of the Verde Valley: beautiful, curving, long, and steep. By about a third of the way up, the truck decided 45 mph was now its top speed, even with the pedal floored. I accumulated an annoyed following, this being before a third lane for slow trucks was added. At least, in daylight, Joan and Carol quickly figured out what was happening and adjusted accordingly. With all that, we still arrived at Bob's house on time, unloading crew ready to get to work. Joan did the figures on trip mileage before returning the truck. The odometer claimed 1850 miles, Minneapolis to Phoenix. This was back when they charged by the mile for the rental. My car trip meter shows the trip from 55 miles further north at Shafer to Sun City on the same route to be a mere 1813. Guess which I trust?

After a few years living together, Bob got his Catholic annulment and married Joan in a tastefully pretty little wedding chapel in Las Vegas. I flew down for it, sharing a Motel 6 room with another mutual friend from We Care named Rosemary. She and I took the bus tour to the Hoover Dam while Joan and Bob were tending to all the pre-wedding details and out-off-town family. Rosemary and I walked (!!! Yeah, that's how long ago it was) down the strip, taking in the scenery, shooting fountains, lights, architecture. There was actually one stop inside a casino where a quarter was wasted at a slot machine that might have actually paid off BIG to a lucky somebody else. The wedding itself was lovely, the reception had good food and a great cake, and the loving supportive relationship the two had before marriage continued as before. Only now, Bob's Catholic conscience was soothed.

Their move to Arizona meant I was once or limited in my visits to Joan and Bob to the twice a year times I came down driving my folk's car while they flew from St. Paul. While there I also pruned the many plants around their 10' x 52' Park Model with a covered carport, discovering early that everything that grows in Arizona has thorns. Some are just nastier than others. Leisure time during those trips was spent visiting Joan and Bob, now relocated from northeastern Phoenix to Sun City West, just a couple miles away from my folks. After my folks quit heading south, I'd manage to fly down for a few days most years, and hour-long phone calls continued.

I liked their previous home well enough, but this new one had advantages. It was a senior community, providing lots of amenities you'd have had to travel well out of your neighborhood for before. It was single level instead of two, and my knees were getting ready to tell me just how that mattered. The new yard, stones instead of grass, open instead of fenced, surrounded the house on all sides instead of three, where before one side of their house was part of the wall on the next neighbor's yard. This new yard had citrus trees, and the house a glassed-in lanai within which to watch the birds and bunnies, and admire whatever might be flowering within view or ripening for picking. The cats may not have had grass to wander freely through, but that seemed like the only possible downside. Aside, that is, from having to clean something that big.

Yes, of course there were cats. Joan is a CAT PERSON. Don't confuse this with the stereotypical house filled to the brim with cats and stench, not in any way. But Joan has always, so far as I know, loved and had a cat or two. Bob surprised me by getting his own cat after moving south, as when I'd known him he hadn't had one. Possibly that was a landlord issue. I'd never thought to ask. That orange tom, Sunny, was the only cat I ever met who liked cantaloupe. After all the cats then in the family had died, they discovered a program called Seniors for Seniors. It gives homes to elderly cats, considered unadoptable, with older owners. It also takes care of vet bills of the cats, often unaffordable by retirees and preventing them from considering taking in a cat, however wanted.

Once they moved close to where my parents spent their winters, visiting them had become easier. It might be a short visit to their home, or a trip to see some feature of the state we all wanted to visit. At least they were willing to go see whatever it was without complaining they'd perhaps seen it 5 times before and it was still there. With the advantage of being able to schedule a visit far enough in advance, I secured tickets to Kartchner Caverns for the three of us shortly after it opened. Often I would become acquainted with a spot on a trip with them, and later turn it into some place I'd take the folks too, as by then their own driving became fairly limited. Recently, those same tours get made with visitors to Steve and me.

Bob had his own unique way of pronouncing place names. Or should I say mispronouncing? I may never actually know whether a certain peak is PEEK-ah-choo or Pih-KAH-cho. It'll always be both now. I'd hear all these names because while Bob drove he was ever the tour guide, pointing out anything of interest. It's because of him I knew where the new Intel plant was going up before I'd barely heard of Intel. Back then it was in the middle of nowhere. Now, it's still visible from the freeway, at least.

When I had decided that for my own retirement I was going to try to move down here at least for winters, I still believed it would be impossible given my finances. The two of them showed me the local market over one of my visits. There were plenty of open houses, so we saw duplexes, single family houses, condos, and even a brand new mobile home park (not so mobile) going up fairly close to them. I knew there was no way I was ever going to aim for anything as big as where they lived, but also wound up finding it hard to believe I could find anything I both would want and might be able to afford. But despite my doubts, I now had the grounding to work and dream from. Ironically, the Recession made it possible by bottoming out home prices.

Lately, even after moving back in close proximity to Joan & Bob, actual time spent together remained much less than I had imagined. One thing changed that: Grandmothers For Peace. We spend two mornings a month demonstrating together, carrying on conversations between periods of high decibel road noise. Hugs are also exchanged, something started in We Care and never abandoned.

Two weeks ago was the final one Bob attended. While usually I sit next to Joan for conversation, this time my chair was next to Bob. For most of an hour and a half, we talked. Some health stuff, some family, mostly politics. The organization isn't partisan, but many of us individually are and with the same leanings. Down here it's too easy to feel the minority in a very strange land. So the ability to have that kind of conversation with a long time friend feels good.

It was the last one we had. While I know the friendship will continue with Joan, and know we can share good memories and feel his loss, it was a good friendship and he will be missed. Rest in peace, Bob.