Remembering John

John and I met in high school. Inseparable in our senior year, we began steady dating and exchanged class rings. He was named the class joker in our yearbook, a label he loved, which followed him throughout his life. He was a card, all right. No matter what gathering we attended, he always came up with jokes. I don’t know how he could recall them all; I could never think of even one. He might start out spinning his rambling yarn, causing many yawns; but at the punch line, nearly everyone choked up with side-splitting guffaws.

After high school, we married and settled down to raise our two little ones, who popped in one right after the other. However, the marriage lasted less than five years. Eventually, the boys and I went our own way. John remarried and started a new family. With two sons in common, we put our differences aside. His wife even invited me to a ladies night out slumber party that was a blast.

After awhile, John’s family moved away and for many years, I lost track of him, only hearing bits and pieces about his life. At one time, they lived in Wisconsin and he became a preacher of sorts, I think. He struggled with hanging onto a job, quit a number of them, and then sat back and let his wife pay the bills. That characteristic never changed.

Later, John and his family settled in California. His wife, Pat, and I kept in contact over the years, and became friends. The pair had their spats. She even left him on more than one occasion, but she had such a big heart, she always went back.

We met up at our 50th Class Reunion, and there, she shared pictures of their great find, a fixer-upper home in California, which convinced me that I, too, might head for the sunny state.

When I did relocate to an inland valley of California, Pat and John lived close by and aided me in every way they could. My dog, Mikey, and I stayed with them for three weeks before my house was ready. Pat helped me learn my way around town, even lent me her car, and John had many suggestions and, of course, jokes to contribute.

I got to know him in a different light after moving here. The three of us got together often to play cards, hold yard sales, or to attend their club’s activities, though occasionally John and I would get into it. He loved to irritate people, often throwing politics into the mix. However, when I fired back and told him there’d be no political talk in my house, he quieted down. We had our own unique way of getting along, it seemed, and I looked forward to many more good times with the pair. After all, I hadn’t lived here three full years yet.

When I got the hysterical call, I couldn’t even make out who was on the other end of the phone. Not until I heard her say, “I think John’s dead,” did I realize it was Pat. I rushed over, but there was nothing to be done except comfort her. John was gone. Pat cried so hard, so much, and for so long that I worried about her well-being. Still do. It was not a time I want to remember, but I can’t forget. Somehow, this vibrant man, who was a few months younger than I, had suffered a heart attack while home alone. It must have happened quickly, because he sat fully clothed on his bed, leaning up against the headboard with the TV on. It didn’t look like he’d even reached for the bedside phone.

Pat’s family surrounds her now, as she deals with the loss. Her daughter took her back to Anaheim to stay with her. She insisted her mother not be left alone in that house. I not only mourn the loss of one friend, but my heart tells me that Pat will likely move closer to her two daughters now, a two-hour drive from here.

At their house, Pat had nearly every family member alive with her, even a two-week old great-granddaughter from Florida. My son and his family from the Palm Springs area were also there. My son is fortunate in that he can claim two moms. The house was bulging at the seams—something not likely to occur when I leave this world, not that I’ll know or even care.

I mourn alone, because John and I haven’t been a couple in nearly half a century. Still, I’m left with an empty space deep inside. He was a friend and the father of my two oldest sons. I’ll miss him, even his sometimes arduous jokes.