It was February, 1979 in a cul-de-sac in one of the subdivisions in Lee’s Summit, Missouri. IBM had transferred me from San Francisco to Kansas City, Mo., as I traded earthquakes for tornadoes.

I spent some time in advance scouting out a few houses I thought might be acceptable to BJ and we were on a little tour where I pointed out options. We liked one of the houses and the real estate agent knew the folks across the street so he volunteered to introduce us to our potential new neighbors. It was around noon on a Sunday so we shouldn’t have been interrupting, much unless arriving at a time when they might have been off at church.

That day we met Larry at his front door exhibiting the perfect definition of a glorious hangover. His wife and two daughters were visiting in California so he was “batching” for a long weekend and obviously had some friends who had led him astray the night before.

We moved in across the street and he became one of my best friends for the next 45 years.

Larry’s daughters and our two kids were within a couple of years age-wise and ended up ruling the cul-de-sac with kick ball and basketball games. His older daughter got things like clothes first and then handed them down first to her sister then to our daughter. Our families skied together many years and for a long time there was always a girl with a yellow ski suit. Different girl, same ski suit. Larry became an “uncle” for my kids.

Those familiar with the geography would realize that to go skiing in Colorado from Kansas City, one would head west out of Kansas City on I-70. One of our trips was interrupted with a snow storm closing the road in Burlington, Colo. Larry was driving an early Ford Bronco and I had a GM station wagon so we were unstoppable.

It was only noon so “let’s see if we can bypass the road closure by heading north on route 385 and hit route 36 and then head west again,” was our shared exchange as young immortals. A few miles later the road turned into two tracks in the snow. We finally headed west on 36 and got to Anton, Colo., population unknown to this day. But there was a diner, a fine development since the road west was closed and we needed someplace to light! We were not alone. The diner was full of folks, mostly truck drivers, waiting out the storm.

We had something to eat and tried to figure out a way to entertain the kids. We encouraged the kids to go around a get an autograph on a napkin from everybody in the restaurant. They did. Finally, it got dark and a local guy with an enormous pickup truck came into the diner and said anybody who wanted to could join him and his wife in their recently re-carpeted double-wide trailer for the night. (If you didn’t get a bed the floor was OK.) We took them up on their offer.

Larry sold trucks for Midway Ford in Kansas City and suddenly he had a captive audience with the truck drivers. I am convinced he wrote off the trip. The next morning was one of those great Colorado mornings with no clouds, bright sunshine and a clear road to the mountains!

BJ and I moved to Port Ludlow 16 years ago and we have not seen Larry or his wife as much as we would like. When we did, we created even more stories. He came to the Pacific Northwest for both of our children’s weddings.

He helped me off the hill when I broke my collar bone skiing Mount Bachelor. We met them in Tuscany for our 40th wedding anniversary. He and his wife came to our 50th wedding anniversary celebration at the Inn at Port Ludlow. With great glee I showed him the fun twists and turns on Swansonville Road. Then BJ recently found the napkin with the “Anton signatures.”

Last week my friend Larry passed away and I am sad.

Love a curmudgeon and have a great week!

ned@ptleader.com