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Gone forever, not coming back

Gone forever, not coming back

My friend Tom Clark was at his desk in the Fort Collins Chamber of Commerce as always. Charcoal gray suit, blue and red stripe rep tie, business-hip tortoise-shell glasses. He set aside the dull report he was reading, leaned back in his chair and smiled.

"Haven't seen you for a while," he said.

"I know, I've been gone."

He stared at me.

"I've been gone too. A month."

Eyebrows raised, we looked at each other as some sort of psychic realization dawned.

"I was at a treatment center in Denver," he told me.

"No shit? I was at a treatment center up in Estes Park. Five weeks."

The irony induced shared grins. "When did you… ?" I asked.

"Last drink September 11."

"Me too."

"Well, hell, I guess we should head over to the Rio Grande and have a three-Coke lunch," he declared, and so we did, two old gin-and-tonic bar buddies starting our shared journey in recovery with the best chile relleños in Colorado. It was 1983, and for almost four decades we stayed in touch, meeting occasionally for dinner, talking on the phone, communicating by email, driving around to gawk at the fastest growing city in America whenever I passed through Denver.

We laughed, often, at the amazing fact that we shared the exact same sobriety day. Not nearly—exact.

We did not stay put long after starting our lives in sobriety—I headed off to Seattle, of all places, to continue my half-century career in journalism. He went down to Denver to become the economic development director for the Queen City of the Plains, the same job he held in Fort Collins, and he made quite a career of it. For 30 years Tom was the visionary behind the new Denver International Airport, the Colorado Rockies, light rail, countless new businesses and public improvements. They called him "The Godfather of Regionalism." Tom believed that responsible growth was the only right kind. He never wavered on that principle. Like me, he was clean and sober the entire time.

Before we both left Fort Collins Tom was the key figure in the most awesome business integrity story I've ever known. A European technology oligarch had decided to build a big new facility in the US, and after his site selectors searched the whole country, they settled on our peaceful mid-size university city at the foot of the Rockies. Land was optioned, contracts were negotiated with the city and county, and all was set: $15 million plant, 300 jobs, global prestige, ground-breaking next month.

Mr Tycoon flew to Colorado for the final signing ceremony. The Chamber and local business leaders scheduled a spiffy dinner at the country club. Countless aides scurried about making sure all the arrangements were air-tight. And, at Tom's last meeting with Herr Big Bucks' advance men, one took him aside and said:

"Mr Big, you know, expects to have companionship in his hotel room tonight. She has to be over 21. Please take care of that."

Tom stared at him. Hard.

"I'll get back to you."

He hustled down to the Chamber building, marched into his boss's office, shut the door, and relayed the story.

"I can't do this," he told chamber honcho Dick Albrecht, a dyed-in-the-wool business promoter all his life. "I won't do it. I'm not a pimp."

Dick thought about it for a minute, no more.

"No, you're not. And we aren't. Tell him to go to hell."

And that's exactly what happened. Mr Megabucks checked out of his hotel, drove back to Denver and flew home, aides and lackeys trailing behind. The deal was dead as dust: no plant, no jobs, see you later. I've never heard any other story like this. Tom gave me permission to use the tale, because he believed that right is right. Quaint idea, now.

The news back in March that Tom had died shook me hard.

I cannot call him now. Cannot stop by when I pass through Denver. Cannot laugh over old times. Cannot take comfort in his presence in this world. He's not here.

Last time we met, seven years ago, I noticed that his conversation was a bit wonky, his words occasionally garbled, his focus spraying around the restaurant like starlings startled in flight.

"I have dementia," he finally told me. I hugged him long and tight.

Tom's not the only one. David Neenan, my mentor and supporter and friend, a superhuman who built a quarter-billion-dollar construction company and spent his spare time teaching personal growth to thousands of people around the world, died of dementia several years ago. More than half of everything I know came from David. His company lives on, like Tom's legacy in Denver.

Back in January, Dave Carlstrom, my 20-year friend who was the world's most patient, low-key individual, with whom I spent years meeting at a health club in Ballard for 3-hour racquetball death matches… Dave finally lost his 10-year battle with a thousand health problems. He used up his 9 lives 10 times over, cheerfully all the while. I had lunch with him two weeks beforehand. I could see him slipping away, like mist rolling in at night.

I cannot call Dave to talk about air travel shenanigans (he was in the industry). I cannot visit David to refresh all the things he taught me, including a principle of infinite value: You can never learn less.

The only lesson here inside the bald fact of finite human existence is that we'd best take any opportunity to spend time with our loved ones. Talk to them, walk with them, break bread and brave life, together. And hold fast to the memories like hardy junipers clinging to desert cliffs, for that is what we are in this world.

As I was sending out my most recent blog, a mild diatribe about truth, I noticed that Tom and Dave and David were on the distribution list. They still are. I failed to remove them. Didn't even try.

"I don't know what's up there/beyond the sky," Sam Cooke sang. None of us do. Maybe there's an infinite server on which they are reading these words right now. I hope so.

But I wish I could tell them in person, one more time.

Lifelong journalist and editor Eric Lucas lives on a small farm on an island north of Seattle, where he grows organic hay, garlic, apples, corn and beans. To sign up for Eric’s blog, email him at ericplucas@yahoo.com. Learn more at TrailNot4Sissies.com.

A Year of Transformative Travel

A Year of Transformative Travel