1. I'd rather it didn't happen to anyone else.
Early this afternoon, Byrdman and I drove out to East Settlement Road, out in rolling farm and timber land just outside Priest River, Idaho to attend an open house and Celebration of Life for Steve Rife, Wallace High School, '72. Upon arrival, and for the rest of the two hours or so we stayed, we were strangers to everyone. Tami, Steve's step-daughter, hosted the open house and introduced herself to us soon after we arrived. We learned that Steve had mandated that no service be held, but that Tami wanted to put together this open house, especially for the benefit of Steve's wife, Mary, and his daughter, Julie.
We learned more about about Steve's passing. Ever since I contracted meningitis in 1999, I have had the same thought: I'd rather it didn't happen to anyone else. But, grievously, Steve also contracted meningitis, in 2011, and we learned its debilitating impact on him, although he fought against it bravely. In the end, though, as I understood it from his wife, it was an infection of a small cut on his foot, complicated by having diabetes, that cost him his life. (If I've remembered any of this incorrectly, I hope anyone who sees my errors will correct me.)
Near the table where the meatballs, hot dogs, chips, dip, cabbage and chicken salad, and other food rested, Tami created a gallery of Steve's pictures through the years. Julie brought a collage of pictures from Steve's youth: Steve in his Little League uniform, a couple of action shots of Steve playing basketball for Wallace High, Steve with his first wife, Shelly, Steve with his daughters and grandchildren, and a host of other pictures that transported me back forty-five to fifty years ago when I last knew Steve. Memories of playing basketball against him and being his baseball teammate rushed in and I enjoyed remembering those days a lot.
2. Byrdman and I got acquainted with two of Steve's friends from Wallace, Buddy McCorkle and Rick Zent. They told us story after story about Steve: I'd forgotten he survived a serious car accident when he was 17; Byrdman I learned more about his love of fishing and learned he hated playing high school football, despite the fact that he was very good; we learned that Steve was a voracious sports fan throughout his life, that he loved to play golf until he couldn't any longer. Steve's wife, Mary, told us it was a "small bone of contention" between her and Steve that when we worked as a marshal at Stoneridge Golf Course, he got paid in golf equipment and other goods, not in money. We had a good laugh about his excitement when he'd come home with a new driver. His wife would have preferred he come home with some money!
3. About Tuesday or Wednesday last week, a deep sense overcame me that I had to go to Priest River and pay my last respects to my long ago opponent and teammate from Wallace, Steve Rife. I could kind of tell from the announcement of the open house that a service wasn't being held and I thought long and hard about the possibility that I wouldn't know anyone at the open house, one of my least favorite situations to be in. Byrdman and I had exchanged some words praising Steve Rife upon learning that he had died, and I wondered if he'd like to go up with me -- and he did. It made the awkwardness of being a stranger, easier -- but, I would have gone alone had Byrdman been otherwise occupied.
When Steve's wife Mary saw that Byrdman and I were leaving, she followed us to the Sube and thanked us for making the trip, telling us that it would have meant the world to Steve to know that we made the trip and how much it meant to her.
On the way home, Byrdman and I discussed how glad we were that we made this trip. We paid Steve Rife our respects, we got to hear great stories about him, we got to assure his step-daughter that Steve was, in fact, as great of a ballplayer as he told her he was -- he hadn't embellished those stories. He was one of the best athletes to come out of Wallace. We got to meet his wife and learn more about Steve from her and got to meet his daughter, Julie.
The older I get, the more I realize that maybe what matters most is just showing up. A person's presence, whether at a memorial, to the side of a grieving friend, to a retirement party, an annual get together of past Bunker Hill employees, a crab feed, a class reunion, a Farmers' Market benefit, or any number of other things significantly matters. Being present, showing support, enjoying the company of others, in short, making an effort to be a part of others' lives significantly matters.
I know how invigorated and moved by gratitude I was when so many people came to Dad's funeral back in 1996 and to Mom's Celebration of Life this past October. I deeply appreciated the respect they paid to Dad and Mom -- but it was more than that. I experienced the goodness and vitality of the collective goodwill, the shared histories, and the mutual love we shared with one another.
I've experienced this collective goodwill numerous times since moving back to Kellogg. As much as I loved living in Maryland, I've come to realize that being here, being where I can show up, whether it's having our Sunday family dinners together, eating Friday morning breakfast at Sam's, making a monthly trip to Corby's in Post Falls, attending a Hospice memorial at the church, going to the memorials for Peny Benson or Roger Fulton or Marguerite Gallaher, knocking back a few Mountain Fresh Rainiers with the Wallace Social Club at the Midway Tavern, dancing at the Kellogg Elks on New Year's Eve, or enjoying a mini-bluesfest at the Inland Lounge -- the list goes on -- , I'm back with people I've known most of my life and I'm astonished by all the goodness I experience and can share just by showing up.
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