A Rich Life

Twelve years ago today, my Pooh died. Sounds like a silly thing to call a grown man, but he called me Sweet Pea, an equally silly thing to call a grown man.

He was 27.

We didn’t have a lot, but we always had enough.

I remember one Christmas when we were just stone-cold broke. We set aside enough money for a good meal, and I drove to Bastrop to steal a tree. I was looking for a nice pine, and that's the closest they grow around here.

I found one on a property in the process of being developed. Once I decided there weren't any errant cows around to harass me, I cut a little pine tree down, threw in the back of my truck and drove like hell for the next county.

It was a great Christmas.

We argued more that I liked, but we had a good life together. We were both difficult and we both got mad at each other, but it never lasted long. One night that I remember vividly Rich stormed out of the house after we had a disagreement only to return home an hour or so later with a cutting board.

He thought I needed one, and I did. It was a peace offering, apology and kitchen accessory all in one. And I did need one of all of the above.

There’s one thing I miss more than the making up: he teased me incessantly about the way I pronounce the word “monster”. It tends to come out “mawnster” when I say it. Whenever the word came up, he would roll up cackling into a red-headed ball. Then he’d ask me to say it again.

So, for you, Rich, here it is: mawnster.

I miss him. He was my first real love. I held his hand when he died after I told the doctor to cut off life support.

Out of the horror of all that can come growth. I’m a stronger person than I was before June 20, 1995. I know I can make the most important decision anyone can ever make.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but also the easiest. I had to look beyond my own wishes and do what was best for him. So I did what I knew he wanted.

Losing Rich was a tragedy, not just for me, but for the larger world. He was smart, talented and had a heart of gold.

He built harps. And he perfected a wood finish that would make pine boards look like cherry.

He did his best thinking in the bathtub, always with a sketch book and sunflower seeds. I had to be careful that the bath drain didn’t get clogged with the sunflower seeds.

Among other things, he was messy. But he was my messy. He was my mess.

Even today, I miss him fiercely. I wonder what he could have done had he lived longer.

And I miss being “Sweet Pea”.