RIP my friend.

My friend died a year ago. I didn't know until last week.

Scott Murray and me arrived in Cortland, NY proper within a week of each other. It was the beginning of the Eighties, a very bleak, dark somber America. I was looking for a place to land, so was Murray. It was as if we stepped off separate Lunar landers on Planet MFN, only to end up at the same Weirdness. Scott asked her to go skiing, I asked her to meet me after work since she was going skiing. This all came about first week, one night at a secluded upstairs bar, Godiva's above the Dark Horse, in a ski and college town in the middle of nowhere Upstate NY. Murray had a job that paid and I was a ski instructor and a vagrant. My future ex-wife met me at the bar at the bottom of the slopes, Scott was there. Something should have happened. Murray was gentleman, we were fast friends. It was a magnetic zone of skiing and food and beverages. We became a powerful clan. Greek Peak Ski School, a dozen or so of the Grey and Black would overrun the Dark Horse or anywhere Cortland, colors. And even after I broke my neck, Scott was always there. Jesus we blew a lot of money at the Rusty Nail, The Community Restaurant, Paddy's, the Tavern, Woodman's, everywhere. The Dark Horse. Scott made sure I was everywhere and at every event. He was always there. It was tough being a new quadriplegic, Scott and Greg and Bill and Jim. They were there. Playing cards, arguing politics, parties of legend- the Western event was epic with rooftop gun-play et. al.. After me and what should have been his ex-wife split, we were tight. Scott would laugh when my catheter would leak, we'd fix it. Back before ramps I still went everywhere, thanks to Scott. Scott gave me dignity. We were always tight between women. Women didn't like being around us when we were single, we laughed too hard. Our inside jokes drove women crazy, not one S.O. liked either one of us, we recognized this. Out of respect, we hung out infrequently. But oh, I can't count the number of our legendary events we started and finished. Scott once shoveled a path through eight feet of snow to my back patio. We BBQ-ed ribs like Kings and drank Jameson, a case or two of Old Milwaukee. Scott's generosity knew no bounds. We ate good. We enjoyed cooking over the edge. We did holidays for strays regularly, for those with family far away or unable to travel or too close. Thirty second auto transfer, in or out, me and wheels in his car. Epic times. I was stupid. I didn't check in with Murray after my last split. He was a brother through thick and thin and a great friend. He loved to ski hard and fast, always ready for a grease-race and Spring skiing slope-side BBQ. He loved to fish, fish fish. Always pushing that damn smoked Skaneateles Lake trout. Always wearing the Ray Ban aviators. Drove me nuts, he used to howl with my dogs until physical harm. Steve Earle's Copperhead Road. Damn. I can't believe he beat me into the ground.



The author suggests making a call or writing a note or comb the internet for a chance to say hello to an old friend. Merry Christmas.