Sagepaper

Slowly but surely, I am paying a price for developing so many of my friendships with people a good bit older than myself. I have to bury them. I just heard that my friend, "Johnny Ray" Ahr, has died of a heart attack at the age of 56. He and I were friends since I was 16. The last loss of this magnitude was eight years ago. Alma Ratliff Sellers (after being widowed, she remarried) died of lung cancer at the age of 62. I first met her when I was 12.

Of course, it is not a forgone conclusion that I will bury all of them. For the second time this year, I am battling a multi-drug-resistant super-infection. This time, the IV antibiotics are more convenient. I go to the hospital once a day. Before, I had home health care and three infusions per day. Both times I have been fortunate in not feeling particularly ill, having only occasional chills or slight nausea. I expect I'll live through this one, too, but it does demonstrate that we are born mortal. We can never take one another for granted. Even a car wreck can upset the expected order of death.

Watch your "last words." Try to talk to your loved ones as if you will never speak again. That keeps you more open and honest throughout your life. Then, one day, your last conversation will, indeed, have been your last. Trust me, it is a comfort to be satisfied with your final words.

In case he finally has Internet access, I'll offer Johnny Ray a few more words that I wish I had spoken: "When you are out of aces, just remember: "Deuces Are Wild."

A little birdy told me he really liked that song. Although we were practically telepathically close friends, I never would have guessed he felt that way. I first learned about thinking that similarly with someone from him. We often partnered in playing "Spades," and were nearly undefeated during a couple of years of daily play. There was no "table talking," but we each knew the other's way of thinking. It only took a faint nod when the other got to the correct thought to ensure the right card was played: every time.

He knew my mind a little better, though. That helped him save my naive a** a few times. He knew exactly what mistake I was about to make in a crisis, and firmly corrected me, or countered the consequences I was about to set in motion. He helped me survive living on the edge in a very dangerous little Appalachian town.

He was a natural philosopher, and helped in the shaping of my world view. He also taught me a lot about diplomacy and negotiations. He was a member of both "The Hatfield's" and "The McCoy's." Loving all of his family, he skillfully kept them away from each other's throats. Renowned for his wisdom, fairness, honesty, and integrity, people far and wide respected him as a peace-maker, and would often come to him with their squabbles.

Hating bloodshed, he quietly and tactfully defused many ugly situations in the local bars. He was not merely intelligent, well-mannered, soft-spoken and kind, though. Only slightly taller than me (I'm short), the stout, little, twice-decorated, Vietnam Vet could single-handedly leave a bar full of people on the floor, with more than one in need of an ambulance. He seldom had to do that, though, since it was well-known that he could.

In leadership, is it better to be loved, or to be feared? Johnny Ray proved that both were possible, and demonstrated that both were desirable and necessary complements in a violent environment. He taught me that you should work hard on developing an unshakeably good reputation, but that it must ultimately be backed by a really bad reputation.

To the dismay of my more cultivated family and friends, I have quite credibly developed and maintained both. Following in his footsteps as a peacemaker, I would not happily forfeit either reputation. It is a sad and bitter occasion when I must refresh my bad one, but I can no more afford to let it slide than I can my good reputation. Oddly, the two can coherently coexist within the same person.