Andyman

Back in the stone ages, CD101 had a tiny little office and DJ booth on south High St near German Village. If you didn't know what you were looking for as you made your way there, you were more than likely to miss it.

My pre-GPS marker was the "other" Buckeye Donuts, where I'd occasionally make a run for Andyman because he was working late. I can't remember now why I had so much time to kill or why I wasn't sleeping on those nights, but my favorite place to kill time was with Andyman in that tiny booth. I even made it onto the air a few times in my occasionally drunken state. Who knows what I said. Andy would just laugh his big comforting laugh and smile that amazing smile of his. Andy and I shared conversation and comraderie that helped feed my soul on those boozy nights.

One day, I played a CD101 night at Ludlows in the Brewery District. It was the only gig both my parents ever attended and I remember saying to Andy "Look, both my parents are out there and if you embarrass me, I'll kick your ass..." I'm sure the anxiety on my face showed I was serious. Andy somehow found a way to put a spotlight on both of them and introduce both of them when I stepped onto the stage. I can feel my face going red right now as I remember it. Darn that wicked drunken Andyman!

Over the years, we'd run into each other. In 1998, I went to a Columbus Chill hockey game at the fairgrounds for the first time with my new boyfriend and there was Andy, in a suit. I had to go over and mock him a little. I didn't know it then, but I'd scored big points with the boyfriend (now my husband) because I knew ANDYMAN.

Andyman was for me, a prince among human beings because he radiated so much genuine warmth. He wasn't perfect, but who amongst us is? So many of us felt the patch of sun that Andyman radiated. How could you not be drawn to it?

I love you. I miss you. I'll always remember you.

Mrs M

Last summer, I met my friend and her mother at a resort in the Outerbanks. By anyone's standards, it was a blowout of a vacation. There was no expense spared. We ate extravagant meals, stayed in a opulent suite with an equally gorgeous view and were pampered beyond expectation in the spa. The reason? My friend's mother was dying.

The idea was to give her a send-off. One last blowout of a party. She hadn't been away from her husband since before they'd been married nearly a half century earlier. Here she was, with her youngest daughter and her daughter's best friend, celebrating together for the first and last time.

Between spa treatments and excursions with Mrs. M, I spent a lot of time on the North Carolina beach with my fly fishing rod, unsuccessfully trying to catch whatever may have been in the surf. I'd been told there were all sorts of fish trophies to be had. In the end, my enduring memory from that trip will be trying to light Mrs. M's cigarettes on the blustery veranda of our suite. I never failed, using my body to block the wind and even lighting several cigarettes between my own lips and handing them to her. When I asked my friend if it was really okay for her mother to be smoking, she replied, smiling sadly, "It doesn't matter now."

Last night after dinner with the family, I walked into the dim bedroom where Mrs. M lay. I remarked to myself how delicately papery and thin the skin on her fingers had become. This scene looked only slightly familiar to me as my own mother had been in a similar hospital bed more than ten years earlier. Mrs. M though, was listening to her dayglow green iPod with just one earbud in and when I chuckled to myself at the sight, she opened her eyes and smiled. I told her about dinner and how everyone had devoured the Chinese food I had delivered.

"Oh, they must've loved that," she said quietly.

"Oh yeah." I replied.

Silence between the dying and the living is a remarkable gift. In those moments, where we, the living, are certain that someone is slipping away, there is often the sharpest clarity.

In my moment, I said to Mrs. M, "Can I hug you?" She put her arms up slowly. I know it must have been difficult. Painful. I leaned over the hospital bed railing and wrapped my arms around her, kissed her gently on each soft papery cheek and looked her in the eye.

"Thank you for making my best friend," I whispered.

"You're welcome."

I held her hand for a long time afterward. Examined her fingers and the wedding rings that no longer fit side by side, but rather clumsily overlapped like two exhausted friends. There was nothing more to say. At least nothing I could think of.

This morning, Mrs. M passed on.

I'm not really worried about my friend and her family. They are sturdy Italian and German folk from Northeast Ohio, incapable of idleness or able to stay down for too long.

My only concern is I hope wherever Mrs. M is, someone is blocking the wind and lighting her cigarettes.