Life in your sixties is a time for grandkids, a time to think about retirement, or the battle to keep your body going.  Life in your sixties is also a time for loss of friends.  The past few months I have lost two friends, Syd and Larry, both 67 years old.  Too soon, too soon!  Syd was an affable, sweetheart of guy I met in Mexico.  He was the owner of the house we rented from him and his wife LaRae. They made the decision 13 years ago to take retirement from the school they worked at on Vancouver Island, British Columbia.  They built a house on the Pacific coast 25 miles south of Ixtapa/Zihuatanejo, Mexico and rented the bottom of their two storey home. When I first arrived a few years back, I had no pesos, only dollars.  The locals don’t take anything but pesos.  Syd handed me $100 in pesos because the nearest money exchange was in town 25 miles north.  “I’ll put it on your bill”, he said.  We wanted some beer and mangoes.  He came by the next morning with a case of beer and a dozen ripe mangos.  “On the bill”, said Syd.

Growing up on the Minnesota/Ontario border guaranteed you had Canuk friends and acquaintances.  I used to tease him about slow Canuks and he teased me about dumb Yankees.  Syd and LaRae were founders of the dog rescue program in the area.  They would salvage some of the many homeless skeleton like dogs wandering the landscape.   It was a joy to talk with him about his life in Mexico.  He said that he rarely drives at night because of the danger of other drivers and the bandits come out at night.  So it was logical that when at a friend’s residence, you had an excuse not to come home, and played poker or pool all night, with of course, a few libations.  Syd got an infection in January, two weeks in a Mexican hospital, two weeks in a Canadian hospital and died of pneumonia in February. He was 67.

Larry was a co-worker at Wells Fargo Bank a few years back. Larry was from the old school in dress and demeanor. Never did I see Larry without a white shirt and tie.  He usually followed the company way to the letter and rarely was disciplined like some people I know.  All had worked for 30 years, why change.  Larry and I had a few things in common.  We had boys; we loved the outdoors, had cabins, deer hunting, and had a strong interest in aviation.  His son was living my dream of flying for the military.

I went to an air show to see the Blue Angels and especially the new super jet, the Raptor.  There were fences around the jets and the aircrew, so I could only look at a distance.  The Blue Angels did their fantastic show and then the Raptor was next.  It took off normally and then came back in front of the thousands of fans and trolled by at an unusual attitude that defied all aviation sense.  With its nose in the air and engines roaring it sailed by at about 40 miles an hour and then shot straight up into the sky and disappeared.  That image rolled in my imagination over and over the next few days.  I asked Larry if he saw the Blue Angels and the Raptor.  He said, “Yes, that was my boy flying the Raptor, Major Skalicky.  Why didn’t you come over to the plane, you could have climbed in?” Well I didn’t know he was flying it and I didn’t know Larry was there.

Larry was going to retire soon, his son was stationed in Alaska and Larry was excited to see Alaska after retirement.  Planning was at an advanced stage.  Larry had an aneurism, slipped into a coma and died last week.  He was 67.                                                  Published every Wednesday, at least.