A Standoff Between Fowl is Reported

My walk to the gym takes me by San Pablo Park in Berkeley. The park takes up a city block. It features two baseball diamonds and a field suitable for all manner of sports including soccer, flag football and whatever you call that competitive frisbee game. There are also tennis courts and a tot lot. There’s room aplenty for picnics and barbecues and I’ve been to a few birthday parties for wee ones there. It’s a historic site having hosted Negro League baseball games some ninety years ago. Many prominent future tennis and baseball stars got their starts at San Pablo Park. 

The last two winters the main grass area of the park has been fenced off and unavailable for the public during the teeth of winter (aka the rainy season) for “renovation.” I think they just want to keep people off it. When I was a youth (and dinosaurs roamed the Earth) parks were available year ‘round. By the time I started coaching soccer, fields were given more protection that a rare Ming vase. If there’d been a touch of rain the night before, fields were closed the next day. When I was a kid we literally played in the pouring rain.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, the field is fenced off. It is thus currently occupied by ducks. Lots of them. There is apparently much for them to feast on. Yesterday as I neared the park I noted a flock of turkeys, well, seven of them, I don’t know if that qualifies as a flock. One can also refer to them as a rafter of turkeys, though who does? In any event there were at least seven gobblers walking in the direction of the park. They were all rather large, not a child among them. It is not unusual to see turkeys in Berkeley and we often find them in front of our abode. There are usually one to four of them with two or more appearing to be youngsters. So to see seven adults was unusual. What was also unusual was what they did. They halted their march, stood outside the fence and commenced to make a racket while directing their attention at the ducks.

The ducks in turn initially looked perplexed. What were these fellow winged creatures and why all the noise? The ducks started backing away although the fence meant that they were safe from a turkey attack. All the while the ducks kept close watch of the turkeys perhaps out of a mixture of curiosity and concern.

I eventually discerned that (as the cops say in moving pictures) there was nothing to see here and I was better off moving along. 

Living in a large urban area one does not often see wild animals in confrontation. We’re well-used to dog-squirrel confrontations and cats stalking birds but that’s pretty much the extent of it. And that’s the extent of my story. From there I went to the gym where I did the usual. Stretches, calf raises, planks, push-ups, sit-ups, lat pull-downs, tricep raises, arm curls, twenty minutes on the stair master, ten minutes on the elliptical, cool down stretches and Bob’s your uncle. 

I’ve started taking my post work-out showers at home, which I did yesterday. Then it was time for a beer (of the non-alcoholic variety) and fish jerky while listening to carols and boring my wife by relating the story above. We watched the 1984 A Christmas Carol starring George C Scott. I quite like it and Scott is a very good Scrooge though Alistair Sim still reigns supreme for me.

After work today I’m off for a week to celebrate the yule, I’m all about it. Favorite time of year and all that.

My Ten Favorite TV Shows of 2024

 

Andrew Scott in Ripley

1. Last Week Tonight With John Oliver — Always one of the top shows of the year and often the very best. Informative and funny and downright important. Downright indispensable.
2. Ripley — Andrew Scott was brilliant as the titular character in this, the best adaptation of the Ripley story. It had me reading the source material. Terrific production and even knowing the story each episode had one on edge.
3. Baby Reindeer — Challenging but well worth it. One of those series that is all the more compelling because it’s “based on actual events.” It’s a show that forces you to look at your own life and experiences and that is both discomforting and supremely rewarding.
4. Derry Girls — Okay this show did not have any new episodes this year indeed it ended two years ago. So I’m cheating. But I absolutely adored this Irish comedy and it’s superior writing and wonderful cast. Only a shame that there were but nineteen episodes. 
5. Late Night With Seth Meyers — Seth is funny, humble, charming and very intelligent. His Closer Look segment is always must-watch TV. It's a consistently good show.
6. English Teacher — The best new sitcom I saw this year. This gay-themed look at a high school English teacher is a far cry from the Father Knows Best and Ozzie Harriet fare of TV’s younger days. Hoping it gets a long run.
7. Hacks — Yes Jean Smart is fantastic, everyone knows that, but so too is her co-star Hannah Einbinder. Together they’re magic and this latest season was for me far and away the best so far.
8. The Great British Baking Show — I surprised myself by telling my wife I wanted to watch the newest season with her. She’s seen all previous seasons. I don’t know what inspired me but my instincts were spot on. Thoroughly enjoyed it even when my favorite was eliminated shortly before the semis. What is it about Brits baking that was so fun? Don’t know, but it was.
9. Only Murders in the Building — Impossible to go wrong with Steve Martin and Martin Short heading the cast and Selena Gomez consistently proves she can hold her own with the comedy legends.
10. Shogun — A grand production in the great tradition of the epic TV mini-series. Sets, designs, costumes, special effects all first rate and all in service of a truly remarkable story. Great cast too.

From the Winter War to Berkeley’s Finn Hall, an Immigrant’s Story

My father in 1945.

Below is the speech I made earlier today at The Finnish Hall in Berkeley as part of the commemoration for Finnish Independence Day.

Anteeksi, isä. (Excuse me, father.) Being a typical Finn, my father would not be pleased with me for talking about him so much, especially as I’m going to say so many nice things. But I’m not here to today to brag about my old man. No, today I’m using his story as an example of the type of Finn who in the first half of the 20th century came to the Bay Area and other parts of the U.S. and made a better life for themselves and their progeny.

In settling in the U.S. my father never forgot where he came from. Like other Finns, he clung to his roots, his culture and his language while enjoying the fruits of prosperity in America.

Typical of Finns who immigrated to the U.S., he deeply loved two countries and lived comfortably in two worlds.

Aimo Johannes Hourula was the first of eight children born to Saimi and Otto in Nivala in the north of Finland. He was born in the dead of winter — and I suppose it would be redundant to call it a cold Finnish winter as if to suggest there’s any other kind. We’ve all heard the old saw of parents and grandparents claiming to have trudged miles to school in the snow. Aimo literally did.

Not surprisingly Aimo could not continue schooling beyond his teen years. Going to a university would have seemed a wild fantasy. Instead he worked in saw mills. His family had enough of everything. No one ever went to bed hungry. But Aimo knew there was a better life out there somewhere for anyone willing to look for it. Though he lived and had grown up a long drive from the coast he also dreamed of taking to the sea.

By the time he entered his twenties, big trips for him had been going to Kemi and Oulu. He was content with life but dreamed of more. All such dreams were put on hold when the Soviet Union invaded Finland in the Winter of 1939. There was no question about his enlisting.

Later in life Aimo would begrudgingly talk about fighting the Russians. My father told of sleeping outside in thirty below zero weather. Of taking Russian prisoners and how scared they were and underdressed for the occasion and even giving one his dinner. He told of watching comrades die in battle, and the white snow covered with red blood. He talked of not knowing whether he had killed anyone. Yet despite all the horrors of war he claimed never to have been scared. Aimo insisted that he was simply doing a job. Typical Finn.

As history tells us the Finns fought bravely with roughly four Russian soldiers dying for every Finn killed. But the sheer numbers of the enemy were overwhelming and defeat was inevitable.

Disheartened, my father returned home. But not for long. It was time for him to actualize the dreams he’d had. He went to Petsamo and got on a merchant marine ship. He was going to see the world.

He picked one heckuva time to do it. World War II was raging and the seas were not safe. Twice he was on ships that were strafed by German planes, Later he was on a ship that was torpedoed. More on that in a minute.

One of his first stops was New York. Imagine coming to New York City after living in small town Finland all your life. He was mesmerized and fascinated. At age 24 he saw people of color for the first time. He sampled many foods for the first time, including certain fruits. Aimo remembered buying a grapefruit thinking it a large orange. Years later he could laugh at the memory of taking his first big bite of grapefruit. 

Among the things he found in New York was other Finns. At the time there was something of a Finntown near Harlem. He remembered an African American grocer who greeted him by saying: “mitä poika haluaa.” It blew his mind.

Aimo made New York his home base but continued to sail seeing the world. He had long stops in Australia and Argentina. When I was a child he told me that he stayed in those cities because he liked them. I got the R rated version when I was older, in both cities he’d met a woman. And in both cases he fled when the conversation turned towards marriage. He was decidedly not interested in settling down, he had more to see. 

On a Sunday morning in January 1944 in the Arabian Sea he was at the helm of a Liberty ship when he saw plenty in the form of a periscope from a Japanese submarine. He called the first mate to have a look see but the mate told him not to worry, that they weren’t looking at a periscope. Seconds later they were very much looking at a torpedo heading their way. The ship’s cargo included TNT. Needless to say the missile missed the TNT but it did enough damage to sink the ship. My dad and crew were soon picked up by a Norwegian tanker and taken to Iran. Undaunted by the experience, Aimo quickly got on another ship and continued his travels. Typical Finn.

Later he enlisted in the U.S. Army. He wasn’t keen to leave the merchant marines but wanted to serve his new country and being in the army was a quick route to U.S. citizenship. Soon after the war ended my father met a graduate student at Columbia University named Kerttu Kurki who was born of Finnish parents in San Francisco and had grown up in Berkeley. In fact her father, my grandfather, Emile Kurki, was one of the men who helped build this hall.

My parents had a whirlwind romance, marrying a few months after meeting. A year later they moved to Berkeley. Shortly after that Aimo joined the Finnish Brotherhood and was a regular at this hall for various functions for the next 60 years. We celebrated his 90th birthday here and later held his memorial service here.

Aimo had started work as a carpenter in New York. Moving to the post war Bay Area was fortuitous. A building boom was just beginning. There was plenty of work. It was said in those days that if you wanted to find a Finn in Berkeley all you had to do was visit a construction site. On a lot of jobs my dad worked on the entire crew were Finns.

Aimo had it made. Relative to his upbringing, he was rich. He owned his own home, along with a car and truck. His wife didn’t have to work. He had health insurance, a strong union to protect his rights as a worker. He had money enough in the bank to invest. His home boasted a dishwasher, a refrigerator, a washer and dryer and a television set. Unimagined luxuries in Finland at the time. He even had a sauna, a little bit of Finland in the home. To my father it was a life of luxury. He had two sons — I was the second — who would have all the advantages he didn’t and would go on to achieve advanced university degrees. He took great pride in my brother and I and at the same time we revered him. He was, incidentally, a terrific father.

Being a typical Finn he was a hard worker who didn’t take days off and seemed to never get sick. At least not sick enough to stay home. He got up early on cold mornings and worked. He worked on hot afternoons. He didn’t complain. Typical Finn.

But it most certainly wasn’t all hard work. There were regularly functions at this Finn Hall. There was the Ski Lodge which he was member of. There were picnics, barbecues, parties, holiday and birthday celebrations. There were football and baseball games, track meets, boxing matches, there was fishing and hunting frequent trips to Tahoe to gamble and take in shows and ski. It seemed to be a constant whirl of gatherings and celebrations. Life was grand. And the weather here was something he and other Finns bragged to the people back home about.

My father always credited himself with leading a mini migration to the Bay Area. He wasn’t exaggerating. He coaxed his younger brother Unto to move here and reap the benefits of this land of plenty. He also inspired his cousins, Reijo and Laura Mehtela to move here. His sister-in-law Elsa, Unto’s wife, encouraged her sister Sylvi to come here with her husband. His cousins brought others too. There were good-paying jobs for everyone. Like most Finns my father had relatives here now to go along with his many friends and co-workers who were Americans of all stripes.

He loved his country all right and he also loved the Finnish Hall and the Finnish community it represented. Though being a typical male Finn of his generation he wouldn’t have said so, certainly not in those words. I recall when he met a girlfriend of mine who is today my wife of 37 years — hi Kathryn, how am I doin? — I asked my father what he thought of her. “Yeah, she seems all right.” He said. “Wow, I thought he really likes her.” He was always understated. Typical Finn.

The times were great for Aimo and other Finns, but life has a way of giving us an occasional slap in the face. My mother developed serious mental health problems. This was the kind of thing people didn’t talk about at the time, certainly not taciturn Finns. My father hadn’t a clue how to handle the situation. He was shattered.

But life isn’t so much about what happens to us as it is how we respond to it.

A typical Finn, Aimo was a tough guy, resilient. The type of person who gets right back up after being knocked down. I learned some valuable life lessons from him: no matter what you keep moving forward. You don’t stop and feel sorry for yourself. You’ve got things to do, you take the next step. This is nothing he ever said, his actions said it. He was not much for philosophizing, he was a doer. In other words, a typical Finn.

Eventually my father re-married and got on with his life. He never recovered from the shock of what happened to my mother but he didn’t let tragedy define him. The presence of  the Finnish community was integral to his finding joy in life again.

Aimo had a fulfilling and happy retirement, highlighted by six grandchildren a few of whom are here today. He lived to the seemingly ripe old age of 92 but in truth a freak fall cost him many more years that he’d seemed destined to live. Before the fall no one would have bet against him reaching 100.

A typical Finn my father never regarded himself as anything special. His kids, his grandchildren, sure they were special, but he saw himself as an ordinary guy.  It used to be that on this day in this place veterans of the Winter War were asked to stand. They received a hearty round of applause. I was sitting next to him the last time he was thus recognized. He sat down quickly, before the clapping had even ceased. “I don’t like this,” he grumbled. He didn’t want to be singled out for doing his duty. He was a Finn and Finns do what they need to do whether it’s build a house, attend a party, wash their clothes or fight in war. What’s the big deal? For my dad it was like being applauded for going to work.

I’ll close with this: a few months before the fall that ultimately claimed his life, an Italian filmmaker who’s played a role in our family, made a short movie about Aimo Hourula. In it my dad talked about his life, especially his various adventures. But what struck me was at the very end when he was asked for a general philosophy of life. It’s something I’d never thought to ask him. In response all he said was to be nice to people.

Of course he said that, because all his life he WAS nice to people. You know, a typical Finn.

Kiitos ja hyvää itsenäisyyspäivää. (Thank you and Happy Independence Day.)

I Discuss a Recent Illness and Coin a New Word But Beware Phlegm is Mentioned

I’m on day six of a cold. It feels like week six of a cold. Having been a teacher for 38 years (God, that’s a long fucking time) I’m well used to having colds and going about my daily business, including teaching, while in the throes. Colds are like depressions in the sense that when you’re absorbed in teaching you can forget about them. Oh sure occasionally you have to stop and sneeze or blow your honker or cough into your sleeve but those are momentary distractions. As long as the cold doesn’t make your throat too raspy you can carry on. Then you get home and collapse on the sofa. Cold naps can be pretty deep. Waking from them you get this odd feeling of being refreshed and especially groggy (I know, it doesn’t make any sense to me either, but there it is).

One of the features of the cold is coughing up phlegm. For me this happens more towards the end of the cold. It’s not so bad if you’re outside because you can spit it out right away. But being a good citizen I send it in a direction that is not going to be especially visible. No one wants to see your gob. Of course if you’re in teaching you have to discreetly spit your gob into a tissue. (Has this been detailed enough for you? Found it interesting?) Your throat and sinuses feel cleaned out after a good gob of phlegm is ejected. Kind of like how your nose can feel after a particularly satisfying blow. But then the snot comes back. Where the hell does it come from?

Speaking of questions….Couldn’t we have come up with a better name for a cold? For one thing the word is already in use to describe the opposite of hot. (Pause while the writer does a bit of a google to seek an alternative name.)

I googled scrump but it’s a word that can be used to describe something that is “shriveled or cooked to a crisp.” Next I tried snorf but it means “to force air through the nose with a harsh sound, or to express anger, scorn, or surprise.” The whole point is to invent a word so that the condition of having a sore throat, sniffles and a low grade fever has it’s own name.  Next I tried blunk but in Scottish dialect it means to “ruin, mismanage, or spoil.” (Clearly this is more difficult than I thought.) 

Porbel is the name of a company. Gluch is a village in Poland. Skozzer is some sort of game. Blump describes something really boring. (Like this blog post?)

Success at last! Carnfaffle! We can say: I had a terrible carnfaffle last week. Or, Bob is coming down with a carnfaffle. Or, starve a carnfaffle, feed a fever. Or, will they ever develop a cure for the common carnfaffle?

So there you go ladies and gentlemen I hereby declare that colds will henceforth be referred to as carnfaffles. The Oxford University Press recently proclaimed “brain rot” as the word of the year (I call bullshit, brain rot is TWO words). Fair enough. But you’ve already got your word for 2025: carnfaffle.

Moving on…..

I just stepped out to get the morning paper. There are few people about at this hour (it’s about ten of seven) so it’s rare that I encounter anyone when stepping out for the paper or to move the bins on trash and replying and compost pick up day. But a chap walked right by this AM. I’m not ready for people so early in the day but especially not this bloke. He was a young skinny fellow with a handlebar mustache. I need to have been up for at least a couple of hours before seeing anyone with a handlebar mustache. It’s simply too much to take in early in the day. If I — heaven forbid — ever decided to sport this type of facial hair, I’d avoid mirrors until mid day. Maybe all day. But to each their own I say. (Come to think of it, don’t all but the most virulent bigots say, to each their own? Oh I suppose most say to each his own but I’m into the whole feminist and gender fluidity stuff.)

At the outset I believe (why doesn’t he go back and check?) I noted that the cold — sorry, the carnfaffle — that has been bugging me is in abeyance. The nice thing about getting over a minor illness is how damn good it feels to be normal again. You practically feel better for having had a week or so of sniffles and hacking cough. Of course that's not the case with the flu or something else more serious when there can be a longer recovery time and the rebuilding of strength. But with a carnfaffle (nee cold) I get back to a hundred per cent pretty quickly. 

Okay so I wrote all of the preceding yesterday and the day before (I’ve been busy with other things, ya know). The carnfaffle is all but gone now. I’ll be blowing my nose several times through the course of the day but my throat is just fine, thank you, and the achiness and whatnot are gone. I hated the whatnot. I’d go to the gym today but I have a haircut scheduled for right after work and a basketball game to go to tonight Tomorrow the gym. Recovered. 

Be careful y’all it’s carnfaffle and flu season.

The Gay Roommate

Senior year my college roommate was a chap by the name of Warren. He was gay. I knew it before we got an apartment together, I’d known Warren since we were in the dorm freshman year. He came out pretty early on which was a brave thing to do, especially in those days. Interesting thing was that some of us (ashamed to say this included me) used to make jokes about Warren’s sexuality before he came out. We weren’t certain that he was a homosexual but there were signs like his fastidiousness and a slight lisp and his never going on dates or talking about girls. But once he came out there were no more jokes. It would have been crude to make “gay jokes” about an actual gay man that we knew and liked. That’s true too, everyone liked Warren. He was the nicest person you’d ever meet, never had a bad word to say about anyone.

Warren was among the guys I drank with and when he’d had a few he’d sometimes discuss the difficulties of being gay, especially because he came from a small town in the Salinas Valley. He’d managed to find a classmate in high school who was also gay and they discreetly “saw one another.” Still he could hardly be himself least of all with his family which was pretty conservative. He did come out to an older cousin who lived in San Francisco and that cousin invited him to the city a few weekends where Warren was able to meet other gay teens. But now that he was in college, my friend was going to be totally open and even planned — as difficult as it would be — to come out to his family in the Summer after freshman year.

Over the next few years Warren and I saw one another from time to time, we traveled in the same circles and were often at parties together. He always appreciated me for the fact that, in his words, I “really listened and really cared.” Plus we both had similarly bizarre senses of humor and shared the same tastes in literature and film. It was late in our junior year that we were talking on campus and discovered we were both looking for someone to share an apartment with. I didn’t hesitate to accept Warren’s offer to look for a place together. Of course one acquaintance snickered and flat out asked me if I was gay too. Never mind that I’d had several girlfriends by this time. I shook it off.

Warren was a great roommate. I know this is supposed to be a stereotype but Warren was very neat and never minded cleaning up. Our apartment was immaculate. And, of course, Warren was still a really nice person. We were both pretty busy with our studies and both dating. Warren had broken up with a boyfriend over the Summer and was “playing the field.” I started regularly seeing a girl named Cherrise who was a freshman. Seniors didn’t usually date freshmen in college but I was smitten. Also white males didn’t usually date black females, but again, I was smitten.

It was a good year. Warren and I got along well, I was having a passionate love affair and had been accepted to grad school at Boston University. Warren seemed happy, he had a rich social and love life and had also been accepted to grad school, in his case at Colombia. We’d be a few hours a way from each other and be able to visit now and again and see each other’s cities. 

It was late in the school year when everything fell apart. It was a Thursday night, we’d both been at home studying for over several hours. It was 10:00 when I announced that I was done hitting the books for the night and was going to celebrate with a drink. Warren said that he too was caught up with school and would join me. I mixed a couple of martinis. We started talking and decided that a second drink was in order. Soon we had a third and presumably more, I can’t recall. Somehow we ended up in Warren’s bed where, much to my surprise, we were having sex. It was my first time with a man. I remember enjoying myself somewhat but it was nowhere near as exciting nor fulfilling as making love to a woman. For his part it seemed Warren quite enjoyed our coupling. 

The next morning was awkward. I slipped out of Warren’s bed, feeling guilty but more than that as if I done the wrong thing. If I had to have had a homosexual experience I wished it had been with a stranger rather than my roommate. I showered and dressed and when I went to the kitchen to make coffee and have cereal there was Warren, naked. 

“I had a nice time with you last night,” he said. I turned beet red.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, I won’t tell a soul,” he giggled.

“Look Warren, it was nice, really, but it’s also not my thing. I guess it was something I needed to get out of my system. I hope that doesn’t sound bad, or insensitive.”

“No, I understand.” But Warren’s voice had dropped, his head was lowered and quickly he returned to his room. While I was eating he re-emerged. 

“It’s so fucking hard for me,” he said. “I’m sick of screwing other queers. I want to make it with straight men. I want a straight man. I guess I thought I could convert you. I know it’s stupid and I’m sorry for saying it. I know I’ve had great relationships with other queer men and will again. But there’s something empty for me about it all. I guess I’m just fucked up and need a therapist.”

I told Warren that I agreed, he should find someone to talk to. If nothing else he needed to talk about his family which had not responded well to his coming out. Warren’s father was no longer speaking to him.

Then Warren began to sob. And sob. And sob. I was not used to comforting anyone who was crying, let alone another man but I did my best. I held Warren and patted his back and tried to soothe him. After a few minutes he stopped, got up wordlessly and returned to his room, he stopped at the door, turned and thanked me.

In the days that followed Warren was clearly depressed. I blamed myself and eventually told Warren so.

“Nonsense, this has nothing to do with what happened between us and even if it did, something was going to be the catalyst.”

“Promise me you’re not going to do anything drastic.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, I’m no drama queen and I love life too much. I’ll be fine. Maybe I just need a steady beau.”

“Or you could start seeing a counselor, or shrink.”

“Romantically?” He giggled.

“Glad your sense of humor is in tact.”

Warren ended up doing both. He’d had an on-and-off relationship with a junior, named Tony from near his hometown who lost his “virginity” to Warren in the Fall. He also started seeing a psychiatrist. “Dear old Dad has cut me off emotionally but he still sends a big fat check every month, so I can afford it.”

The rest of the school year went smoothly. I gradually extricated myself from my relationship with Cherise as I’d be moving out of town in June anyway. Warren and Tony became, in my roomie’s words, “hot and heavy.” Analysis worked for Warren whose depression symptoms eased. 

I occasionally thought of the night I spent in Warren’s bed and felt embarrassed, but I didn’t really regret it.

In the Summer I moved to Boston and Warren to New York. We stayed in touch and visited each other’s cities in the Fall. After a few months, Warren had a steady fella. Cherise transferred to Northeastern in the middle of the school year so we re-kindled our romance. 

Letters stopped coming from Warren in the late Spring. I tried calling him but never got an answer. In the Summer I was doing research in New York so visited his apartment. He’d moved out and not left a forwarding address. A neighbor told me Warren’s father had died suddenly and that he’d temporarily moved back home to be with his mother and sister.

I was pretty busy after that. Then spent a year in Europe. When I came back Cherise and I married, I got a job and then our first child was born. I only occasionally thought of Warren but never got around to trying to locate him.

It was ten years after I last saw him that he sent me a letter. I’d had a few articles appear in national magazines and Warren had seen one and somehow from there got my address.

He was living in San Francisco, in the third year of what he called his “most intense and meaningful relationship yet.” Warren was now a lawyer and active in the then burgeoning Gay rights movement. We corresponded for a few years and finally saw one when I visited the Bay Area on business. It had been fourteen years since our last meeting. We had a grand time catching up and the next day he introduced me to his partner, who I very much liked.

We stayed in touch and Warren visited me once in New York. A few months after that visit I got a letter from Warren in which he revealed that he had been diagnosed with AIDS which was then ravaging the gay community. I was going to be in the Bay Area in a few months and promised Warren I’d visit him.

I don’t know if you’d say the timing of my visit was exactly fortuitous. As it happened I arrived a day before Warren’s memorial service. 

I wept unashamedly when I got the news. I attended the service and wept again. Warren had been one of the best friends I’d ever had. Now when I think about the night we spent together I’m proud. Damn proud.