Goodbye My Friend

Andy

I met him in 2008 when my wife, Christine, and I moved into a new house. He was billed as a finish carpenter, but he was more than that. His name was Andy, and along with his wife Becky, they did all the intricate molding inside and outside of our house. Andy could do anything. He worked out complex ductwork, exotic cabinetry, exquisite metalwork and intricate molding. He was a visual spatial thinker. I know because that's what our oldest son is as well. Andy would describe how to do something while looking up into the air and mimicking actions with his hands. He bailed me out of a lot of jobs I fouled up by showing me the right thing to do.

Andy was a rough guy on the outside, but a wonderfully warm and funny person everywhere else. In his younger days he worked on a road crew in the midwest. Not liking the two hour bus ride to the jobsite, Andy along with a fellow worker scouted out a nearby river. They found a cave which they made suitable to live in. They caught fish in the stream for dinner. They bathed down river at night. Repurposing any wood they found, they fabricated comfortable places to sleep.

One night Andy and his friend were exiting a bar when they saw two guys beating up a Native American. Andy didn't think that was fair so he tapped one guy on his shoulder as he said,

"Hey."

When the guy turned Andy clocked him in the head with his hardhat. He and his buddy proceeded to take out the other guy. The Native American was grateful so he invited both of them to the reservation. Andy said while recalling the experience,

"Those guys knew how to have fun."

The Native Americans introduced Andy to hallucinatory mushrooms in an attempt to discover his spirit animal. Andy was a free spirit who embraced life as it was served to him. He said he spent three days on the reservation when he "finally figured out how to leave."

Andy was my home improvement mentor. I would come up with some knucklehead idea of how to do something, then Andy would step in and set me straight. He would often say,

"Give me five minutes, and if I can't do it, we'll do it your way."

His way always worked out. Many times I found myself admitting,

"Thank God I listened to you Andy."

One time I dropped my son, Aidan, off at Andy's workshop where he showed him how to use a ball peen hammer and anvil to make shapes out of copper. We talked, Andy and I, in his shop late into the night about all sorts of things. I was fascinated with his life on the road, and he with my military service. He never spoke about his mother. He told me once that his father announced to his children that he had filled the oil tank which should cover them for a month, then in the middle of winter his father took off. I don't know if he ever saw his dad again. Two years later after Andy graduated from high school, he filled the tank with oil then left himself. He lived a nomadic life, going wherever he could find work, usually on farms or in construction.

Andy and Becky

Eventually he met Becky and they married. Andy settled in one place and made a life building things for people. They made wine cellars, furniture and copper weathervanes. Three years ago he was working on installing a roof and skylights on our outdoor deck. We had elaborate plans for intricate woodworking, embellished with copper accents. Andy loved the challenge.

On a bright Sunday afternoon in August as I surveyed Andy's tools neatly stowed for the weekend just outside my window, I got a phone call from his son. As incomprehensible as the news was I relived the day I received the same phone call about my father years earlier. Andy's son informed me that Andy had died. I was speechless, heartbroken. How could someone so strong be gone? It left me feeling forgotten as if the world pulled away like a train from a station. I found myself having to move Andy's tools to a new position. I recoiled his long extension chord and discarded his coffee can full of cigarette butts. I didn't want to face that my friend, my mentor, the man I had come to depend on to tell me what to do was gone.

As days passed I slowly came to the conclusion that I would complete Andy's last job. I wanted it to look as good as if he had done it. I installed a beadboard ceiling. I wrapped poles with iron wood. I sanded the floor to bring back the grain. I learned how to make large screens for the windows. I installed copper hurricane lights. I flashed and roofed around skylights. It took me through to the next summer, partly because I'm slow, and partly because, I guess, I didn't want to finish.

The other day I found the circular copper vent which Andy made for our covered deck. It was the last thing my friend made with his hands. As the summer wore on I never got around to installing it. I decided to prominently display it on the gambrel end of my barn where it is today.

Unlike Andy I don't get close to too many people. I'm not good at making or keeping friends. My sharp tongue gets me into a lot of trouble. Friends and family usually tire of my banter and move on. I wasn't close to my parents or most of my family for that matter. I often say to my wife that when it is my turn to go, there won't be anyone there to greet me, but that's not true anymore.

When my time comes, I know Andy will be there to reach out his hand, and he will tell me, once again, what I have to do.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 30, 2017.