J. MICHAEL

I have a friend – an old friend of thirty plus years now – with whom I enjoy an occasional chat across a table solving all the political and theoretical problems of the world, laughing with veiled innuendo (not so veiled, actually), toasting with good scotch (or coffee as the time of day dictates), and shoving away a bad breakfast burrito without unnecessary comment (the shove says it all – ha),

who does not hesitate to call BS when I’m ranting too far off the beaten path;

who loves his new cars, and his backhoe, his bargain RV, and blasting the roadway to his historic old stone house at the top of a mountain that once a beloved of his tried to burn to the ground (no one has seen her since…hmm).

Like me, he has helped finance hundreds of homes, and has sometimes made good money doing so.

He has been an international soccer referee, and an annual mate on a sailboat in the Caribbean, paid mainly with rum and fresh lobster.

I’m glad for the occasional sit down, gossiping about who is doing what; which gorgeous woman has spurned him (her loss, I’d say).

He doesn’t judge me. He doesn’t bullshit me. He doesn’t insult me – often, ha.

Once, nine years ago, after a lunch at a favorite pub (no drinking at lunch, truly) I turned to wave tata to him, tripped on my clogs and fell face down in the crosswalk shielding my recently mastectomized chest with my arms. He screeched to a stop in his old Porsche, held up traffic, and ran to make sure I could walk to my car. I could. Don’t fuss.

He’s allergic to cats, something I’ve never understood, I suspect it’s more he doesn’t like them.

He’s a friend, and I’m glad for it.

We had coffee and discussion at a cozy diner spot up Turkey Creek yesterday.

We’ll likely touch base another time or two this coming year, now that the snow is moving out.

I hope you have a friend or two like this in your life…someone whose company you enjoy, though you cannot really say why…

It’s nice.