Transitions
"Meet me at X town on the Y river. We'll put in on Sunday and what's left of us will take out mid-day Tuesday. Water's perfect, bring your fishing gear. I'll bring the groceries in sixes." --L
It came written on paper. So long ago. He was best man in my wedding. He and I had rafted and canoed and waded so many miles of Alabama warm-water creek and river while students at Auburn; had graduated, got jobs of sorts, moved away. Our outings had been many, spontaneous, irresponsible, in the years the pop-top pulled all the way off.
L. worked off campus at the Tiger, whose distinction was the highest sales of beer per cubic foot of space of any seedy college campus suds-shack in the country. He preferred PBR. He'd take care of five, I'd finish one, save for the warm last ounce. He'd get that, too.
Life changed. Our daughter was born, maybe six weeks old when L's hopeful itinerary came in the mail. For my reply, I took this picture and sent it to him with a note:
"Sorry buddy. Give me a raincheck. Life has changed. Speaking of change, I'm on diaper duty. Don't forget me." -- F