By Lori Welch Brown
There are many of you who are going to read this and not get it and/or not care. No hard feelings as I was young once too. If you’re at the age where 35 is ancient to you, you’re probably not even reading a paper so no harm/no foul. You’re busy buying Bitcoin or watching K-pop toks. For you older folks like me, please note that K-pop is not shorthand for cake pops. Which are also very good so keep reading. You’re in the right spot.
Last week a dear friend passed. I feel very fortunate to have met Dave shortly after I met my now husband, XXL, approximately 14 years ago. It was one of those really random, small world things you don’t forget. I went to meet my then boyfriend, XXL, at a local yacht club he belonged to—which was foreign to this landlubber. As what happens in many groups, subsets form, i.e., garden clubs, ladie’s clubs, and in this case—a five o’clock club—was XXL’s subset of choice. They were a group of (mostly) gentlemen who gathered to drink beers, shoot the sh*t, and smoke the occasional cigar. It wasn’t that women weren’t allowed—I think they preferred to avoid it.
I would come to learn that the five o’clock club had become a ritual begun long ago by the ‘old guard’ of the club of which XXL’s father belonged to “back in the day”. Given the stories I’ve heard, I’m sure he was a ring leader of a lot of the group’s adventures. Anyhow as father time wore on and the elders of the club passed, XXL’s father among them, Dave and his contemporaries found themselves in the role of the new ‘old guard.’
On a summer evening, XXL suggested I meet him after work at their gathering place. I jumped at the chance—curiosity getting the better of me. I had imagined top secret handshakes, decoder rings, and passwords, but it really was as XXL had described it—a bunch of dudes standing around drinking beers and BS’ing. I was offered a beer and stood awkwardly trying to keep my heels from sinking into the soft grass while trying to make chit chat—which I am horrible at, btw. So, I nervously did what I always do in these situations—I compliment and/or try to make a connection. In this case, I did both.
“Hey—nice sweatshirt,” I said pointing to a white-haired gentleman sitting in a lawn chair wearing a tattered sweatshirt with the Capitol Police insignia. “Were you a Capitol policeman? My uncle ran a body shop back in the 70s and 80s. He had a contract to repair their vehicles.” Most random factoid ever, and I don’t even know where it came from. I was a kid back then, but somehow that bit of intel had stuck in my peanut brain and some forty-odd years later, it made its way to my tongue.
“Who was your uncle?” the white-haired man asked.
“Jud Welch,” I replied and thought, what are the odds, Lori? How stupid was that—like asking if someone from California knew your friend from California. A one in a billion chance. Duh. My face began to turn red with embarrassment when the man jumped up out of his chair and said, “Jud was your uncle? Oh my God! How is he? I haven’t seen him in decades!”
That spark ignited a friendship that would last another decade. Sadly, I had to report that Jud had passed many years before from pancreatic cancer, but I loved hearing Dave tell stories about my uncle and their shenanigans—which were many.
Years passed and another connection evolved. XXL and I, now a married couple, purchased a property in Emerald Isle, NC. Dave loved EI and had owned properties and businesses there dating back decades before our toes ever touched the sand there. In his efforts to downsize and settle into beach life, Dave ended up consolidating and buying a home within walking distance to ours. I was thrilled. Nothing made me happier than turning onto our street after a long drive and seeing Dave with his beloved retriever Maggie in the makeshift dog park/communal gathering area between our homes where we often gathered over beers, wine, and tall tales. A new five o’clock club of sorts. Different state, but Dave assuming the role of old guard and wearing it proudly.
There was something about Dave—maybe because he was always laughing and smiling. Or because he was always ready to cut up—often at XXL’s expense, which I found humor in. Or maybe because Dave became more of a presence in my life after my own father (Jud’s brother) passed. Whatever the case, Dave quickly became one of my faves. Whenever I saw him and Maggie, my whole insides would light up. I’d pull over and chat. No longer in a hurry, free to stand and shoot the bull. We would text each other, “Where you at? What state are you in? When are you coming to the beach?” He made me feel special—but he made everyone feel that way.
I went to visit him in the hospital after he suffered a stroke, and there were a flock of women gathered around his bedside, his table overflowing with the treats they had snuck in for him. Two of us outfitted Maggie in a service dog uniform before sneaking her in. We joked that it was Dave’s blue eyes and pheromones that made him so irresistible, but really it was the fact that we all knew Dave would give you the shirt off his back, his last beer, and would do anything for you if you were lucky enough to be counted among his friends—of which there were many. He was beloved by women, men, and dogs alike. His pockets were always filled to the brim with treats which he doled out liberally making him a fan fave among the neighborhood fur babies.
After that stint in the hospital, Dave’s daughters made the difficult decision that their dad would probably be best served living closer to them. I had to make that decision with my own dad years ago so I understood, but it was tough. I felt a pang in my chest every time I turned the corner into my happy place—which was a little less happy without seeing Dave and Maggie.
It’s hard to lose people like Dave for many reasons. They hold the memories of the generations before you. I loved to hear Dave tell the story about ‘raiding’ my uncle’s shop for running a poker game (another ritual) and arranging for him to be tossed into the back of a paddy wagon and hauled off. It was my uncle’s birthday. What better way to celebrate than with a faux arrest? I loved hearing him talk about XXL’s father. When they were running around the yacht club, Dave was the young gun. Trust that there were many, many pranks involved. I loved hearing him talk about his beloved wife whom I never got a chance to meet, but I can only imagine what a special lady she was and now they are reunited.
Almost a week after learning of Dave’s passing, I was watching the Academy Awards—which are like my Super Bowl. As the camera panned the front row, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia. Gone are the golden oldies—the true legends, the old guard—Robert Redford, Jack Nicholson, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Katharine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart. Don’t get me started about losing Diane Keaton and Catherine O’Hara. No words. And Rob Reiner. Ugh. Painful.
And then the realization hit that my generation is now the old guard—George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, Meryl Streep. The front row, Jacob Elordi, a Kardashian or two, Timothy Chalamet—would be unrecognizable to me were it not for my People magazine subscription.
Losing these icons and legends hits hard. I’m so glad I was around to feel their glow. They will not be forgotten and it will be impossible for the new guard to fill their shoes, but let’s hope they try.
About the Author: Lori is a local writer, painter and pet lover who loves to share her experiences and expertise with our readers. She has been penning a column for the OTC for over 25 years. Please follow Lori online on Medium for more missives like this.