By one estimate, the average person in America has between three to five close friends. Recently, my friend Tom Porter passed away.
One of my favorite characters in the novel Voyage of Life is a man named Bear. In the story, the main character, Sean Buchanan, reaches the mountaintop of his life. His journey begins in the calm waters of a valley, where he can glimpse distant peaks. Hill after hill, he climbs, conquering each one until he stands triumphantly at the summit. But then, his life comes crashing down, shattering against the rocks below. His best friend, Bear, rescues him, stopping by daily to fill the long stretches of silence with quiet conversation. Sometimes, Bear holds him in his arms.
Tom was a Bear friend.
Life happens in unexpected ways, and death, too. I’ve never been one to rush through life, yet somehow the hours hurry by, and the next day arrives, always with a plan. The dreaded day I shipped out for Navy boot camp came as promised. Later, I couldn’t wait for the day I would be discharged, but looking back, I loved my time there. It’s funny how the days always arrive—until they don’t. Looking forward can be satisfying, but it’s often nothing more than fool’s gold, an emotional longing rather than rational anticipation.
I knew Tom was going to die—not just the simple, inevitable truth that we all die. For years, he fought a heroic battle against cancer. We know we are going to die, and the thought of it visited me randomly, but I quickly pushed it out of my mind. When the day came, it was still a shock.
His passing came in the winter of his life, not in the spring—a blessing. A life well-lived is the most enduring legacy and the highest compliment. He was the founder and president of a successful Iowa advertising company, father of three successful sons who would be a credit to any man’s life, and a good husband. He was my mentor, lodestone, and the author of All I Need to Know About Business I Learned from a Duck. While I was trying to appear calm, trying to make something of myself, I was like a duck paddling furiously to keep moving forward, and he always asked just the right question.
He was also a fellow member of the Hillman Track Club so named because we trained for marathons by running hills. One particular route took us down through Greenwood Park, along the Bill Riley Bike Trail into Water Works Park, around the outside loop, and back up the hill out of the park through Greenwood and up Polk Boulevard. I estimate it must have been five miles uphill coming out of the park. The run was close to twenty miles. We played tennis, golfed, and fished on Northern Canadian waters. Our favorite lake was Pipio, a remote lake miles from civilization with only one cabin and a propane refrigerator. We drove all night on a two-lane, narrow Canadian roadway to Ear Falls, Canada, to our seaplane transportation. In an out-of-this-world experience, we witnessed a spectacular view of the Northern Lights. Over the years, we told as many fish stories as we did Hillman Track Club tales, and Tom always reminded me, “Anyone can run 20 miles… It’s the last six that count.”
Tom made them all count and sprinted past the 20-mile marker.
From birth, our shadow has been our constant companion, and when death’s passageway opens, the shadow leaves our well-worn time-expired body and passes through into a different realm. The last time we were together, when it was time to say goodbye, he said, “If my last treatment doesn’t work, I’m done… Then, I’ll see you on the other side.”
