"They say that friendship is like peeing your pants .......
Everyone sees it, but only you can feel the true warmth."
~Unknown
Over the years I have lost some of my best friends - usually by illness and eventual death. I think of them often and spend some solitary time on the anniversary of the day they left, remembering all the good times we had.
Mel left us on September 7, 2014 at the young age of 77. Mel was a unique individual - generous, conscientious, resourceful and just generally a neat guy. He initiated many of the fun activities I participated in over the years, including the Romel Investment Club, The Fonnesbeck Open, Season Tickets for the Dodgers, "Ride-Abouts" (Mel's name for an annual get-together with The Boys), a Day at Santa Anita (about twice each year to bet the ponies), and the Sigma Zonk Scholarship at USU. Mel & Linda and Bonnie & I spent many fun days attending L.A. Ram games at the coliseum while Merlin was still playing ball. I think of Mel all the time, remembering all the fun we had. We still see Linda regularly.
"In all times and through all things,
Friendship is a steadfast reminder that love endures."
Mel was an excellent writer and wrote a wonderful and touching story about his mother. I have reproduced this writing at the bottom of this blog below the photographs. It's about two pages long and I encourage everyone to read it.
A Little History: Mel was a great initiator of activities, and if he didn't initiate something he was certainly an active participant. 1st row of photos left to right: a great shot of Mel; Ron and Mel fishing up Cedar Canyon; the the Board of Directors of Romel Investment Co. (Mel, Cary, Robb, Merlin & Ron); and a group of participants in one of the many Fonnesbeck Open Tennis Tournaments, which Mel created and managed for many, many years; 2nd row-a shot of Ron, Bonnie and Mel at A Fonnesbeck Open Tournament wearing Fonnesbeck Open T-shirts Mel distributed each year; old friends at a Sigma Zonk gathering in 1998 (Ron, Covert, Barbara, Bonnie, Laurel, Maridee, Marilyn, Jon F, Linda, R.D., & Mel); five of us (Ron, Mel, Merlin, Les and Al) going to the races at Santa Anita in the Forty, a periodic outing created for us by Mel; four us (Ron, Mel, Les & Al) at the Santa Anita track; 3rd row- a bunch of us celebrating New Years at the So. Rim of the Grand Canyon (Ron, Bonnie, Grant, Finch, Mel, Chad, Barbara, Linda, Covert) - Mel initiated the idea of gathering at National Parks each year to celebrate New Years; next Covert, Ron, Jon F & Mel on a "Ride-About" which was an annual activity created by Mel to get a few friends together and go for a day-ride visiting the sites involving our family history - interesting and lots of fun; Mel standing at the school he attended as a youth in Howell Valley; and Mel & I won prizes with our collector cars at a Hurricane car show; 4th row- Walt, Ron & Mel at the statue of Merlin at the Merlin Olsen Field at Utah State University. Walt was the initiator of this project, and the three of us managed to get it accomplished; and finally, all the Zonks are proud of the Sigma Zonk Scholarship at Utah State University, which Mel initiated.
Click Photo to Enlarge - Use Arrows for Next Photo
Mel's story about he and his mother entitled "Band."
On Saturday August 13, 1994 I wheeled Mom out to the courtyard at Sunshine Terrace. I was between a family reunion and a high school one and had an hour to spend with her. A warm summer breeze rustled the trees as I moved her into the shade. I had visited her one or more times on each of the previous four days, and would see her the following day, but I shall always remember this day and the effect on both of us.
She looked at me with her sad face and tears rolled down her cheeks. I was overcome with guilt and felt responsible for her mental and physical condition and her whereabouts. "I don't know why this is happening to me," she said, "I worked hard on that farm when you were little, only you and Bob (the dog) were my company. It was lonely and a hard life." I grinned and asked which of us was the better companion. She laughed and the tears stopped. As she spoke, a transformation took place. I wonder if I can find the words to describe it properly.
Mom became lucid, she spoke with clarity and accuracy. For the next few moments she didn't stammer and search for the right words in the manner I had become accustomed to from her. Gone temporarily was the demential loss of memory. She talked of the housework, the cooking, the farmyard chores, the wind and winter weather, Dad being away in the fields or working for the county. Deanna was a baby and ill much of the time. She told me I was the focus of her attention. She read to me, sang to me, taught me to recite poems. She said how precocious and darling (yuck!) I was, that I learned to read at the age of three, how we would listen to radio programs together, how she delighted in my childish antics and imaginings.
I looked into her wrinkled face and saw her as a young farm wife and mother in her early thirties, wearing a print house dress and apron, anklets folded down from the top in sturdy laced shoes. She was so pretty and tall. Embarrassed by her height, she always hunched over slightly which gave her a round shouldered look. She was shy and lacked self confidence, yet possessed an inner strength she transmitted to her children, which they came to rely on most of the rest of her life.
I looked at her hands, now dry and scaled where she had scratched the back of them. Large purple veins and nodules protruded. I remembered how strong and long they once were. Hands that baked bread, biscuits, and my favorite chocolate cake. Those kitchen smells of my childhood came to me, all of them including even the sweet cool odor of the Koolade popsicles in the ice cube tray with toothpicks as handles. I saw those hands carrying into the kitchen bags of groceries from town shopping, and I could smell the packaged sliced Wonder Bread I thought such a delicacy. The aromas of lunch meat (baloney), Miracle Whip and cucumbers being sliced into a bowl of vinegar touched my nostrils.
I held her hands in mine and envisioned them carrying buckets of water and feed to pigs and chickens, lifting her apron to form a bowl to place the gathered eggs; and the mixed aroma of straw and manure and hay and grain from those sheds and coops cascaded upon me.
I placed her hand on my cheeks and remembered how they held my arms and face as she kissed me better after each of many well-deserved scoldings.
I kissed her hands and could see her long fingers that could stretch beyond a piano octave (something I could never do). I saw her playing the piano at home and in the two room school house for church meetings.
Mother has related to me, over the years, how much I loved her piano music she played even when I was a mere toddler. She has said my favorite piece was "Alexander's Rag Time Band," and when she played it I would strut and prance around the room to the music. It was before I formed complete phrases or sentences, so I would call the song "Band," as in "Play 'Band' Mom."
I stood up. I towered above her in her wheelchair. I am in my late fifties and outweighed her some 45 pounds. Yet I had this sudden longing to crawl onto her lap, put my arms around her neck, and lay my head on her shoulder. She could kiss my forehead, brush away my tears (I was weeping now), and apply her pre Kim-wipe spit bath to my face. Then I would murmur "Play 'Band' Mom, play "Band' for me again."
I has been three months since my Mother's last breath, but I know at this moment the ache inside me will never subside until I see Mom sitting at an upright Story & Clark and hear the rousing tempo of "Alexander's Rag Time Band." I do miss her so.