So Long, My Friend

It's a bit strange how, as we grow older, the people we call friends mold and evolve.  When we are kids, our friends are almost exclusively other kids, of roughly the same age.  Most of them, we meet at school, or church, or through involvement with sports or some other extracurricular activity.  They typically develop from simple proximity.  Being at the same place, at the same time.  In many ways, the friends we have when we're young aren't the same as those we make later in life.  Quite frankly, we don't have too much of a choice, when we haven't yet figured out who we are.  A major part of those first friendships is just that: discovering ourselves (what we value, what we despise) by the people with which we are surrounded.

As we go through life, as we grow and change, the people we ultimately call friends change, too.  A few of those initial friendships may have lifelong staying power, but the vast majority come and go, sometimes as quickly as they arrived.  And, sure, a lot of acquaintances that ultimately turn into friendships happen by sheer happenstance, not too unlike those early ones.  But, instead of school or sports, it's people we meet at work.  Or at a bar.  Or through mutual friends.  And instead of just being comprised of people of the same age and demographic, our friendships diversify.  They look and feel different than they used to, take on different dynamics, and come more from the result of personal choice, as opposed to who happened to be sitting next to us in English class.

My friendship with Steve Ragle was sort of a mix.  We met purely by chance, by being in the right place at the right time.  But, I made the choice to be his friend because I valued the same things he valued.  Because he made me laugh.  He brought me joy.  He taught me things. God knows I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life, but being friends with Steve Ragle was not one of them.  And when I really think about it, it wasn't really much of a choice.  It was easy.

That's what's funny about friendships, and how they look as we grow older.  There's no real reason Steve and I should have been friends.  We never had much in common.  I was in my late 20's when I met Steve; he was in his 60's.  Adrienne and I didn't have kids, yet; Steve had four grandchildren.  I worked as an insurance agent.  Steve was a retired contractor, and Vietnam veteran.  I liked AC/DC and Boston.  Steve liked Southern gospel and old-school country.  We couldn't have been more different, as far as friends go.

I met him through his daughter, Leah Kate, who was a teacher at North Jackson with Adrienne.  We grew close with her and her husband, Luke, and frequented the pool at their house in the summer.  Steve would ride the hundred yards or so from his house to theirs on a motorized scooter...Not because he needed it, but because it was just fun.  I guess that's where I met him.  Truth be told, I don't remember meeting Steve for the first time.  It was just like he had always been there, like I had known him for years.

But, despite our differences, Steve and I became fast friends.  We never really talked about anything life-shattering; I didn't confide in him about anything real.  Most of our conversations revolved around his fishing stories, or old houses he built.  Or boats.  We exchanged funny stories about idiots we saw out on the lake, over the years.  We poked fun at Luke, sometimes when he wasn't around, but mostly when he was.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't make up excuses to go visit him at his shop: I needed to borrow a tool, or inflate a tire on my lawnmower.  I needed help winterizing my boat, or to just pick his brain about some random project I had at the house.  I learned a lot from him.

I guess part of it was selfishness.  If I ever needed anything, I knew Steve would have the necessary tools, and the knowledge, to help me out.  The spray gun to paint the furniture for Charlotte's (and now, Delilah's) nursery.  The lathe and tile grout to make a sideboard, now sitting in our kitchen, out of an old shipping crate we found in Adrienne's grandma's attic.  The new sink and counter-tops we installed in the kitchen of our first home.  The display case he built for Adrienne's father's old rifle.  Our house is littered with small pieces of Steve's handiwork. Little daily reminders of the memories made with him.  And I am so thankful for that.

Steve really became a sort of father figure for me.  My dad is fantastic, and helpful anytime I need it. But my parents live over two hours away, and sometimes you need to borrow a weedeater like, yesterday.  Sometimes you need someone to help you change the blower motor on your 25-year-old furnace, because it’s November and your wife is seven months pregnant and there will either be working heat in the house, or you'll be in a hotel.  I have absolutely no doubt there were times when Steve would look down at his phone, see me calling, roll his eyes and sigh, but pick up anyway.  Always answering the same way, with an enthusiastic, "Hello, Zach!"  Always knowing damn well I had a stupid question, or needed his help.  And he never hesitated. Never even thought twice.

I will forever regret the fact he never met Delilah.  I will forever regret the fact that Adrienne and I talked about how we needed to take the girls to see him and Kathy dozens of times over the last several months, and never did.  We kept waiting for the right time; when the girls weren't sick, or when it was just a bit more convenient.  We kept thinking we had more time.  We didn't.  

The old saying goes, "You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family."  I wasn't lucky enough to be able to call Steve family.  I just had to settle for friend.  But, considering the fact I knew him as "Papa Steve," from day one, I'd venture to guess he didn't think of Adrienne and I (or Charlotte and Delilah) as anything less than family.  If he did, he certainly didn't show it.  Either way, it's a choice I'm eternally grateful to have been able to make.

You will forever be missed, Papa Steve.