The year before I retired, a good friend of mine from high school passed away suddenly.  It was such a shock to me, let alone his wife, who I had run into unexpectedly at a restaurant several years prior to his death.  My son and I were staying at a hotel in Mishawaka, Indiana, and had plans to visit my dad at a nearby memory care facility that afternoon.  We were driving around trying to decide on a place to have breakfast, when we stumbled upon a Denny’s.  Minutes before, we had almost pulled into another restaurant’s parking lot, but apparently fate changed our mind.  We found a corner booth, where I had my back to a group of ladies that were dining at a table directly behind.  One of the women came over to our table, and asked to “borrow the ketchup.”  My son passed it to her, while she was still out of my vision.  I turned for some reason, and realized that it was my high school friend’s wife.  I hadn’t seen her or her husband in some time, so it was quite a surprise, especially since we were eating in a neighboring city to our home town.  The chance encounter reignited our relationship, and led to a reunion dinner the next night.  It was through the bottle of ketchup at Denny’s that I reunited with my friend, Denny.   As we joked about later, “it was Heinz time to ketchup.”

Dennis’ mother, Eleanor, became as close of an adult friend that I ever had.  She was like a second mom, to me and all my classmates.  I spent many nights with the boys, camped out in her basement, feeling as welcome as if I was home  She would feed us spicy Italian meals, coach us on getting dates, and join us in lively conversation.  She once gave me one of her special garden-grown peppers to take home, and warned me not to bite into it.  I considered it a challenge, as it “called” to me from where it sat on the passenger seat.  I nearly drove off the road, it was so damn hot!  She also once threw my contact lenses down the drain of the sink, thinking it was just an unfinished cup of water.

Dennis was such a mama’s boy, related to every other Italian Catholic in town.  His cousins owned an bar that was a highly requested lunch spot for executives visiting my dad.  It featured a bartender named “Hammer,” also related to Dennis, that would literally abuse and intimidate the customers.  People loved it!  For example, if the door was left open from those standing in the line outside, he’d hit someone in the head with a wet, bar rag to get their attention.  There were never any complaints at this restaurant.  In fact, there was a plague behind the bar, with one shoe mounted on it.  Rumor had it that a guy had come in to rob the cash register and “Hammer” pulled a shot gun from underneath the counter.  The empty-handed thief ran out so fast he lost his shoe! Did I mention there might have been some mafia connections to the bar?

It was great to see Dennis again after all those years.  I think I missed the entire part of his life while they were raising their daughter.  I had gone to their wild Polish-Italian wedding, and they even invested in our floral business, but we hadn’t really stayed in touch for nearly 30 years.  We cautiously talked about Notre Dame football, the one divisive element of our friendship.  I began to hate the Fighting Irish, solely because of his obnoxious attitude about the team.  It eventually drove us apart, but something apparently happened through the years to change him.  In fact, he was wearing an Oklahoma Sooners sweatshirt when we reunited.  We also discussed retirement that night, something he would never get a chance to enjoy.  We got together several other times after that as my wife and I came to town to visit my dad. They were there for my dad’s funeral.  We were just starting to get close again, when I got the call that he had died of a heart-attack.  It hit me hard, and has stuck with me for a long time.  I took his wife to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field and together we scattered some of his ashes on the right field line.  At least, we both had a laugh, as we spread “ketchup” on our hot dogs.

Dennis’ death was so random, it reminded me of a former boss who died tragically in an auto accident years ago.  I was with them one day, and the next day they were gone.  Another high school friend died at his desk while teaching, and a third friend’s death was related to Lou Gehrig’s disease.  However, in both of those cases, I hadn’t seen them in years, so the feelings weren’t as painful.  I lost my four grandparents and both parents, but they all lived long, fulfilling lives, and the inevitable came without much surprise.  I guess I’ve been fortunate to have somehow avoided these types of tragedies in my life.  It’s not a subject that I want to think about, but I do want to think about those that I have lost.

I’ve probably been to fifteen funerals in my life, mainly because I’ll naturally do anything to avoid them.  Seven of those were close family and four were associated with the parents of people who worked for me.  I was a pallbearer at four other ceremonies.  These were the “had to be there” occasions.  Distance kept me apart from attending Dennis’ funeral, or my other high school friends.  I some cases, I conveniently found out about it too late to attend, as word passed slowly through the grapevine.   I think my parents avoided taking me to funerals when I was young, because there are none that I remember.  I’ve found excuses ever since.  However, I’ve now arrived  at an age, when funerals replace weddings and work as the most likely place that I’ll wear a suit and tie.  Sadly, I live so far away from relatives and my home town that I will always have a built-in excuse.   Also, thankfully, cremation ceremonies are beginning to replace the expense and awkwardness of formal funerals.

Why am I writing this?  Well, Dennis’ younger sister died yesterday of a heart-attack.  Unbeknownst to me, she had been battling cancer for years.  She joins Dennis and Eleanor, who didn’t have to suffer her loss, as she did theirs.  Her death closely follows a friend’s younger brother who died unexpectedly earlier this week.  In both cases, they were people younger than me, who never got to enjoy retirement.  I find myself expecting a third phone call, based strictly on superstition.   The silly “rule of 3” is a common conversation after someone dies.  It’s because people, by nature, are very uncomfortable dealing with randomness.  We’re inclined to seek patterns in an attempt to somehow justify our losses, as death keeps nipping at our heels.  We’ve spent our entire lives engaging with people who leave us in mysterious ways.  In each case, we have to wonder, why not me?   The Grim Reaper is after us.  We keep running, but can only hope he doesn’t “ketchup.”