It's been a long, strange day.  So far, it's been an interesting life.

Mom's text message read:

"Sad news via Sandy B.: Donald passed away last nite. funeral is Thurs. 11 am @ the A.G.  He beat Gram to the Pearly Gates!"

If Mick had written the text, the exclamation point would have been an indication of a subdued "ha!"  Coming from Mom, it was probably just amazement.  Gram is 99 and holding, reluctantly.  Donald was my best friend's dad from second grade until my junior year of high school . . . her oldest brother was 10 years older . . . so Donald would have been in his early 70's-ish?

"Once you've set up a project, there are a lot of options for the different types of invoicing you may need . . . "

I focused on the image from the presenter's computer, textured by the wall onto which it was projected.  The screenshot looked like it was painted on canvas.  Accounting software.

And yes, I usually can believe that shit.  But where Mick is bitter about a great many things, I am . . . not so much.  It would probably be healthier if I could be bitter, actually.  If I were simply bitter, or angry, I would know exactly in which emotional boxes to place the memories.

Maybe the part of me that's still pissed is projecting Mick's probable reaction.  Crazier things have happened.

Let's see . . . I met Sasha when I was 7ish, in Sunday School.  She was cute, beautiful even.  Only a few more freckles than I had, stretching out each summer over our noses and cheeks like carmel over ice cream.  When we moved to be closer to the church, Sasha was the only person I knew in my grade, and she was about as shy as I was, so it figures that we became friends.

Sasha was sweet; I was savory.

Donald had some lake front property with a cabin, through the thick woods down the two-track from their house on the highway.  So when we moved, he offered Dad dock space for free.  Our boat was just right for water skiing, his for fishing on Lake Michigan and general cruising.  We worked on our tans on the sand, and dared each other to swim under the big boat - first width-ways, then the length, the hull blotting out the sun and all hope of air.  We ate watermelon cooled in the well, and warmed ourselves from midnight swims around the bonfire, shivering in our towels.

"The reporting features are interactive, and you can click on any blue text to drill down to the next level of detail for that item . . . "

The year after we moved, the recession hit us all big time.  Dad was a teacher, but when weddings were downsized and conventions dried up, there wasn't any need for his "real" job:  pianist.  There was no way to keep up with the oil prices, especially to heat the house in that long, cold Michigan winter. Donald's brother owned the oil distributorship which filled our tank, so we got by, and used the big stone fireplace as much as we could.  Groceries and hand-me-downs mysteriously appeared in our car, unlocked like the rest in the church parking lot. Mom planted a garden in the spring, and we got a wood-stove for the following winter.

Sasha was my friend, even though I wore patched jeans and too-big shirts, even though I read a book a day and wrestled boys and played basketball.  In 6th grade, we both played flute, even though mine was borrowed from the school, and the handle was missing from the case.  Sasha didn't seem to mind that I got good grades with little effort, or that I was first chair in band without practicing, or that I was ready to fight with any boy who threatened any girl.

"Now in these fields, you can customize the drop-down menus and even attach documents . . . "

Missy was a year ahead of us, and if we'd had tracks, she'd have been from the wrong side of them.  Everyone was a little afraid of her, even teachers.  But she was a hero to girl-athletes, allies and competitors alike.  She made the starting Varsity basketball squad in 9th grade, until she tore both cruciate ligaments in a game.  No one thought she'd ever play again, but playing ball was her life, and she worked her ass off in physical therapy to get out there her sophmore season.  So when, my Freshman year, Missy shared the court with me on the Junior Varsity team, no one was more surprised than I that we became friends.

The winter of our Freshman year, Sasha decided to go out for volleyball, and made the team, in spite of her long fingernails.  Missy's 10-pound metal knee brace did not deter her from becoming the team-leading server and hitter.  Towards the end of the season Missy went up for a block, and came down on the outside of her foot; her ankle swelled to the size of a softball and we packed it with snow until we could get her to the emergency room.  Missy fought depression, between the medical bills her family couldn't afford and the fact that she had to sit the bench for the rest of the season.  Sasha and I encouraged, cajoled, scolded, and enforced the painful treatment regimen that Missy needed; we helped her tape her ankle, do the "hot/cold" treatment, and carried the crutches when she didn't need them.  We became the three muskateers.

Sasha and I invited Missy to church, and she became a part of the youth group.

" . . . No, those are the only categories that are completely fixed by the system, those cannot be customized by the user . . . "

And - oh God - the church, the church, the church.  No thought of Sasha, or Donald, would be complete without the church.  Donald was chairman of the board of our small-town Assemblies of God.  Her grandparents were the matriarch and patriarch, her aunts and uncles and cousins filled the pews.  Donald drove the church expansion to a much larger building, explained the bonding to the congregation, assisted with the design which included a gym, performed as general contractor for its construction on the hill above 5 ancient pines.  Donald chose the pastors, and the board followed.  Donald testified of God's grace, and gave God full credit for his worldly success.

I lived rural.  Sasha and Missy lived "in town."  When I got snowed in, they had slumber parties.  They became "best friends" over the winter.  In retrospect, it's not a coincidence that, in the throes of puberty, I made plans to walk out on the ice of Lake Michigan, intending to simply disappear "accidentally."  I was no longer savory.  Sasha was still sweet.

Sasha and I ended up getting shipped off to church camp that summer, after the ice melted too early, and I stopped being shy.

Apparently, not long after she faded out of the youth group, Missy told the board that Donald had made advancesto her.  No one believed her.  My Dad didn't believe her, and said so to the board - he'd had her in class, in middle school.  She wasn't believable, compared to Donald's denials.  No one ever asked me, not even Missy, but I believed her, for no particular reason except that I knew her.  She had nothing to gain by lying about it.  Donald, for all his bluster and generosity, seemed a little too slick.

For reasons I don't understand, Missy maintained her friendship with Sasha and I.  Missy graduated high school, and started the nursing program at the nearest community college.  Things turned incomprehensively strange when Sasha started dating one of the guys from church - he was 23, we weren't yet 18.  Suddenly, Missy and Sasha couldn't be in the same room together.  I was told by the youth pastor that Missy, getting no satisfaction from spreading lies about Donald, had decided to corrupt Sasha . . . and that she was jealous of Sasha's current relationship.

"You can export any of these reports to Excel, PDF, or CSV formats . . . "

Don't ask, don't tell.  But I still believe Missy.

Last I heard, Sasha went to an Assemblies of God college, graduated with a degree in Elementary Education, got married, and has 5 or 6 kids.  As the youngest child, she was the only one who could persuade Donald of anything, probably right up until the end.

Missy went on to become a travel nurse - scoring something in the high 90s on her boards.  No one could believe that either.  Last I heard, she settled down and married, and probably has some kids.

I tried being straight, I really did. It didn't work out.

At least I'm living honestly.

My text in reply:

"Wow, was he ill?  I'm sorry for their loss.  What comes to mind is 'The king is dead.  Long live the king.'"

In the end, I don't know how it all adds up, over history, over a lifetime.  Maybe Donald is meeting his final accounting.  Maybe not.  Maybe we'll never know.

Here's how it adds up for me:

Out with the old.  In with the new.