A Gentleman Gone

I have not posted a blog in months. My life has been spinning and, yet, motionless, since we moved to California. This has been a year of bad news, it seems, in which my wonderful grandson has been the only light of every day. Yesterday, I received the news that a friend - a good friend - a friend of forty-five years - has died. He was diagnosed with cancer just four months ago, and never let us know the seriousness of his illness. He avoided seeing us until we visited him in late November on our way to California for a new start. We could see that he was ill, but he spoke optimistically of his chances for recovery. We had no idea we would never talk with him again. My friendship with Dennis Dawson started in high school and has a few holes in it. We were married for a couple of years back when we were just 19 and 20. Dennis had taught himself to play guitar during his time at East Carolina University and I always loved to sing, so we started practicing songs by Joni Mitchell, Linda Rondstadt, Elton John, and James Taylor. Our marriage didn't last: but after we split up, we still had bookings to honor, so, thanks to my oblivion and his good nature, we remained friends and continued to perform. I introduced him to his second wife, Bess. I later moved to Richmond and married the man who would be the father of my children. Dennis and Bess had a daughter, Sara Jane, and when our children were little, we went to King's Dominion together once or twice a year. Later on, after my second divorce, I brought my new beau, John, to meet Den and Bess in North Carolina. We lost touch for a few years - he called it his mid-life crisis period - during which he and Bess were divorced. I never met his third wife before they, too, were divorced. But when we moved to Chatham, VA and found that Dennis was back in South Boston, we contacted him and visited several times before moving to SoBo ourselves in 2009. He even helped us move. It was so much fun seeing Dennis and John become good friends sharing the same silly sense of humor and delight in almost everything new and interesting. We played Scrabble together nearly every week for over two years, during which time Dennis built a business as a guitar teacher. We attended his daughter's wedding, and watched as he shone with pride over the wonderful woman she has become. We performed together again at parties and at Somerset Assisted Living, after my mother moved there, and even had a gig at Bistro 1888. His taste in music had changed over the years, and we loved performing old favorites from the 1930's and '40's. He could play anything on guitar, but had come to appreciate the simplicity - and the possibilities - of those songs. He gave John free guitar lessons, during which they did entirely too much laughing for John to learn anything. In the spring of 2012, I asked him to help me record a CD of soothing tunes for my first grandchild, and he, of course, agreed to do it. It was probably a great inconvenience for him, but he would not let me pay him. We practiced for weeks, and had a great time recording (with little care for our usual perfectionist leanings) just for the fun of it. I now have a recording which I will treasure for the rest of my life. I can hear Dennis play "Blackbird" and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", and so many other beautiful songs, whenever I like. When so many men our age are still trying to be the boys they used to be, Dennis had matured into a classy, endearingly old-fashioned gentleman. He had a sort of code that he lived by, which was an example to others. He appreciated and respected women. He cherished his friends. He kept his business close to his vest, and never betrayed a confidence. He was caring, thoughtful, tolerant, fun-loving - curious about philosophy, science, human nature - and a loving friend. He adored his daughter, Sara Jane. He considered her to be the greatest gift and most amazing "achievement" of his life. She was with him every day as he lay dying. I wish I could comfort her, but I know that nothing I can do can ease her loss. When Sara Jane so sweetly took the time in her grief to send me the message that Dennis had died, John and I cried over our loss of a wonderful friend - and over the loss of a caring soul to the world which so badly needs men like him. The world grieves and suffers over such a loss, even if unknowingly.