Teaching Dad a Thing or Two

Wade was seven when I began officiating football games.  For him football was boring, and he figured any adult willing to run around in public a striped shirt with a whistle in his mouth was pathetic.

To say the Rogers kids grew up around football fields is no exaggeration.  Chip played for Trinity Presbyterian, and Louise was a Trinity cheerleader.  When Trinity and Saint Ann’s Catholic squared off one Saturday in early September, I was the field judge.  Six-year-old Carroll and Mom, in the bleachers, kept Duke plugged in with a pacifier.

Wade had no intention of watching early teens play football and his kid-of-a-father make a fool of himself.  He wasn’t into fooling around with babies either, and he’d heard enough of Louise’s yelling at home.

Midway in the third quarter Wade was nowhere to be seen.  But before Mom had worked herself into a panic, she spotted him in the distance, behind the end zone nearest the highway, lugging an armful of freshly harvested corn.  He had slipped across the highway and filched a few ears from some farmer’s last crop of the season.

By the time we got home, we were over Wade’s crossing that highway alone.  By then what he’d done seemed almost cute, typical Wade.  I did give him a lecture about taking something that didn’t belong to him.

Within a week or so I noticed tiny green sprigs peeping through well-worked soil in one corner of the backyard.  “What’s this?” I asked nobody in particular.

“Corn,” Wade said with a shrug.

It brought up an image of the football game.  He’d planted a handful of kernals!

“But it’ll be too cold for corn soon.” 

He thought a minute, tears flashing briefly in his eyes.  Then he swallowed away the lump in his throat, coaxed some color back into his face, and said, “Just watch, Dad.  You’ll see.”

Okay.  I’d said enough.

The next time I saw those plants they were four or five inches high, and had been transplanted into four flower pots, lined up in Wade’s little red wagon.

“Still planning on cornbread for Thanksgiving?”

“Yessir.”

“Cold nights are coming.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dad.”

“I’ll tell you what, Wade.  I’ll give you a thousand dollars for every ear of corn you get from these plants.”  Immediately I was ashamed.  It was cruel.  It was mean.  Unacceptable behavior for a father.

“Okay,” Wade said calmly, his mouth twisting into a grin.

The night before the first predicted frost, Wade jerry-rigged two extension cords between the kitchen wall outlet to his wagon in the carport.  One was wrapped in three places with duck tape.  A line of 75-watt bulbs was stretched across plywood some ten inches above the plants.   Each burned brightly, warming the plants.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Wade grinning.

Our electricity bill would go sky high.  And with that old extension cord, we’d be lucky if our house didn’t burn down.  I had to put a stop to this right now

But how could I?  I had a financial interest.  Wade would see interference as cheating!

He wouldn’t believe it but now I was pulling for him.  How long could he keep those plants alive?

But after the second weekend in October I never saw those mobile plants and their heating system again.  It was sad.  Wade had seen the handwriting on the wall.  Thudding head on into reality, he had little choice but to give up.

I’m sure I felt worse than he did.  He was already dreaming another dream, stalking another theory.  Nothing had been lost.  Our electricity bill was not any higher than it always was, and the house did not burn down.  Plus, I would not be dipping into our savings for a thousand bucks.

What did Wade teach me as a seven-year-old?

First, he who discourages youthful enthusiasm only exposes his stupidity.  Not too far into the future Wade took on another task that seemed impossible to me.  And he did not fail.  I’d grown up a little by then, and kept my ignorance to myself.

 Second, never take advantage of inexperience, especially in a kid as bright and sincere as Wade.  It’s not fair.

 And third, but not last, don’t jerk around someone you love.

 

Cricket—A Tribute

          It was twilight in Waynesville, the sky’s shades of red and orange fading rapidly.  One pup stepped forward from her brothers and sisters and hobbled toward Wade.  She stopped at his feet and looked up, eyes full of hope, her tail wagging uncertainly.

            “If that don’t beat all,” the old man said.  Shirtless beneath bib-overalls, he was stooped and had a heavy growth of whiskers and no teeth. 

            “Sir?” Wade squinted at him.

            “That bitch ain’t never showed no interest in nothing human,” the old man said, slurring the words a little.  “She’s the only only-est one too.  The rest is real friendly.”  Tobacco juice leaked from one corner of his mouth and trickled into his whiskers.

            “I’ll take her.  She’s the one I want.”

The old man shook his head and shuffled his brogans back and forth in the dirt.  He wore no socks.  Finally he leaned and released a long stream of brown spit.  “You’re one that’s lookin’ to buy, mister,” he said.  “I don’t reckon it’s up to me to tell you nothin’ you don’t ask.  Maybe you don’t wanta know nothin’.”

            “How much?”  Wade dug into his pocket, wishing he had brought more money.  For the first time in his life he wished he weren’t tighter than a new shoe.

            “Twenty dollars.”

            Wade handed over the roll of bills without looking at it.

The old man grunted, then counted out the twenties, tens, and fives—five or six of each.  “Look mister,” he growled, working his chew to the opposite side of his mouth.  “This ain’t the way I do m’business!  This here puppy ain’t worth a nickel more’n twenty dollars, and I’ll not take more’n that either.  People knows I’m fair.  And two hundert dollars ain’t fair.  Soon’s that gits around, I can’t hold by dad-burned head up.”

            Wade backed up a step as another man came from behind the cabin.  He was short, with a barrel of a chest and powerful forearms.  The axe he carried was wrapped in black tape halfway up the handle.  He’d been cutting firewood.  Wade glanced at the open door, and the shotgun propped against the doorjamb. 

The old man gave him a hard look.  “You don’t wanta jerk me around, son,” he said.  “Believe me, you don’t.”

Wade had no doubt the shotgun was well-oiled, loaded, and that the old man could handle the aiming and the firing.  Folks like him came from generations of inbreeding, likely as not.  Who knew what he would do next?

            “Look, captain,” Wade said.  “Two hundred seems about right to me.  This is a special dog.”  He smiled, showing perfect white teeth against his sun-burned face.  

            “You don’t know poop from piss about pups, young feller.”

“I know enough about this one,” Wade said, flashing his teeth again. 

“You sayin’ I don’t?”

            “No, sir.  I just want to feel good about taking her home.  Giving you less makes me feel cheap.  It degrades the dog too.”

            The old man looked at him for a long time, then finally stuffed the wad of bills into a hip pocket.  “I reckon y’all might git along,” he muttered.  “Two of a kind.”  He spat again, and walked back toward the cabin in the failing light. 

A cricket squawked from the woods across the road.  Wade didn’t miss that.

 

“Cricket” was part Border Collie, part Australian Sheppard.  She was coal-black, with a splash of white on the left side of her snout, a smaller one beneath her chin.   Her most striking characteristic, though, was her huge brown eyes, and the way she looked at people, right through the back of their eyeballs, straight into their souls. 

Wade needed Cricket as much as Cricket needed a new home.  His mind played tricks on him.  It began sporadically, but now the episodes were getting worse, coming more frequently, lasting longer.  The medicine helped, but sometimes not enough.  Sometimes he needed an extra dose or two.  For him, the label on the bottle was only a guide, his doctor’s best estimate.  He made adjustments from time to time, and occasionally lost track of what he’d done.

That he could keep his business afloat was nothing short of miraculous.  On his good days his mind was beyond sharp, and he managed to bluff his way through the days that weren’t so good. 

But it wasn’t easy.  Thinking rationally and making decisions while being bombarded with bizarre ideas was like playing a game with the rules changing continually, always without warning. 

It took courage and ingenuity.  He had a system of writing notes to himself when things didn’t seem right.  Instinctively he knew when to work and when to take a hike or a nap.  His goal was a twenty-hour work-week anyway.  If he had to work those twenty hours in a single day, so be it.   Some days he could manage a week’s worth of those notes before lunch.

But mustering the consistency necessary for a personal relationship was more demanding than making his living.  Each failed relationship had hurt him deeply.  He concluded he’d be better off with a dog.              

             

            To help him understand Cricket he settled on a book written by men of the cloth.  The New Skete monastery was in upstate New York, near the Vermont border.  The monks of New Skete viewed nature and animals as manifestations of the mystery of God.  That was enough for Wade. 

            The most important thing he learned from the monks was to include Cricket in everything he did.  It made sense.  It gave her a sense of priority that most spouses never felt.

They became inseparable.  If Wade went to the bank, Cricket went too.  If Wade went to Wal-Mart, so did Cricket.  But Wal-Mart and banks did not allow pets on the premises.    Wade simply left Cricket at the front door to wait for him.  Why not?   She was far more reliable than any teenager.  He wouldn’t consider tying her to a tree or a parking meter with a leash.  Neither would her neck ever feel the constriction of a collar.  It would belie their trust.

Cricket thrived on pleasing Wade.  His confidence in her inspired in her a sense of duty.  Taking care of Wade was as important as herding sheep.

The household furniture of Wade’s friends was off-limits, however tempted Cricket might be.  Neither was she to lick, nuzzle, or even touch anyone who did not invite it.  Being a nuisance was above her dignity.  Even socializing with other dogs was taboo.  To Wade’s friends Cricket was more humanoid than canine.   

            She learned to negotiate the sidewalks and streets of Asheville.  Wade shocked his friends by having Cricket “stay” sometimes when he crossed a street, when he knew he would return in minutes.

            “You can’t do that, Wade,” he’d been told over and over.  “It’s too dangerous.”

            “No.  Cricket won’t move until I tell her it’s okay.”  He trusted her as much she trusted him to provide food for her, and shelter.

 

            Cricket was almost eight, in human-years, when Dan dropped by on a hot Friday afternoon.  She was with Wade in the backyard.

            “We still going to Pisgah in the morning?” Dan asked.

            Wade gave him an empty look.

            “You know.  We decided last week.  We haven’t been in the woods for two weeks.”

            “Oh, yeah.  I forgot.”  He said nothing more.

            Dan hadn’t known Wade long, and he couldn’t recall seeing him like this.  He didn’t know what more to say.

            “I don’t feel good right now,” Wade said finally.  “Why don’t you call me in the morning?”

            “Okay.”  Dan turned back to his truck but a nagging feeling made him stop and look back.  “You all right?  I mean, is there anything I can do for you?”

            “No.  I’m fine.  Got a headache.  That’s all.”  Wade flashed a wide grin, but Dan wasn’t buying it.  He had to do something, register his concern with someone.

            But Wade lived alone.  There was only Cricket.  His family was scattered—in Charlotte and Raleigh and Atlanta and Tulsa.

 

            Nobody knows for sure, but it’s likely Wade took some medicine then, at a little past four o’clock.  Possibly he had forgotten the night before.  Or maybe he’d altered the dose schedule altogether. 

            At eight o’clock he was fine, perhaps feeling better than he had in weeks.  He called his brother in Oklahoma, who was being visited by their dad.  He talked for almost thirty minutes, letting them know how well his business was going, about Dan and his other new friends, how happy he was.

            Did he take more medicine at bedtime that night?  When he was on top of things, fully focused, he took his medicine religiously at bedtime.  He may have had no recall of seeing Dan that afternoon, or taking his medicine then.

 

            Dan called the next morning and came by when there was no answer.  Wade did not answer the door, and there was no sign of Cricket.  Possibly they had gone to Pisgah without him.  Or maybe he had gone to the doctor.  Dan didn’t feel right about peaking in a window, or quizzing the neighbors about Wade.

            A brother called him Saturday night, then twice on Sunday.  When he got no answer by Monday he began to worry.

 

            Wade was found by the police the next day.  They estimated he had been dead for seventy-two hours.  There was no suicide note or evidence of foul play.  His refrigerator had been freshly stocked—some meat, sandwich fixings, and soft drinks.  Every shelf was chock full.  Magazines, books, and papers were strewn everywhere.  Every drawer in the house was open.  It seemed as though he had been upset, frantically searching for something.  But that was the way he had lived.  Friends had seen his home like that before.

            He had made no provision for Cricket.  No one who knew him could imagine Wade destroying himself without providing for Cricket.

            Neighbors had noticed Cricket in the backyard since midday Sunday.  Wade had constructed an entrance into the kitchen that Cricket could manage herself. 

 

            The memorial service was held in a meadow off the Blue Ridge Parkway.  Sam Knob was due north, several hundred yards away.  Black Balsam arose in the east.  One hundred of Wade’s friends and family had trudged down the narrow trail from the parking lot.  Friends came from as far away as Connecticut.

            Cricket was among them, still unencumbered by collar or leash.  She clearly anticipated something special.  She had visited this very meadow with Wade dozens of times.  She sensed she would find him there.

            During the scripture readings and eulogies Cricket wanders from person to person, discreetly sniffing from foot to knee, then looking into often strange faces before moving on.

            She springs forward as the ashes are spread in a patch of lush grass.  Suddenly she scampers back and forth with a burst of energy, lunging at the puffs of ash settling to the ground, her eyes wide in recognition.

            Then finally she is still, sitting on her haunches, in the midst of the ash-speckled grass.  She looks around one more time, then focuses on fluffy clouds above, not moving for long minutes.

            The gathering of humans watch her in awe, understanding that something special is taking place.  Even as the humans began to file back toward the parking lot, Cricket does not move from that spot.  And neither does her gaze leave the heavens. 

            Only calling her name finally broke her trance, and convinced her to follow Wade’s brothers.

            The monks of New Skete wouldn’t have batted an eye.  They understood that the Crickets of the world possessed gifts from God that transcended conventional thought.    

 

Two weeks later a brother and a sister met at Wade’s Asheville home, to make dispositions on what of his belongings yet remained.  Cricket accompanied them.  Late in the afternoon Chip and Louise had planned to climb Sam Knob, build a fire at the summit, cook, and sleep beneath the stars as they had done so many times with Wade.  They made themselves believe he would still be out there among the bramble and rhododendron, in some form.  If heaven existed he would be near.

Cricket is aware of Wade too.  She runs ahead of the others with great joy, circling back and forth through the underbrush, her bushy black tail flashing in the failing light. 

As they reach the summit, a great black bird appears above them from beyond the trees.  He dips and swoops, then glides a ways, tilting his wings first left, then right, seeming to focus on Cricket, signaling her somehow.  Instantly Cricket is beside herself, scampering back and forth, then in small circles, barking, yelping, determined to follow the giant bird.  With a flap of his mighty wings, the bird defies the laws of nature as he rises beyond the treetops in tight, corkscrew flight.  He hovers an instant, then rolls in a wide circle back toward Cricket, finally tipping downward and diving at Cricket with startling speed.  Cricket squeals and yelps, then leaps frantically—twisting, turning, determined to hang in mid-air.

Muzzle and beak seem to meet in a fleeting kiss before the bird turns and soars eastward, reflecting streaks of gold and yellow and shades of red and orange.  Finally the great black bird is little more than a memory, an apparition of grace and mystery.

Cricket sits tall on her haunches, watching in silence now until the dark image is no more.  She looks back at the others and seems to smile, her eyes glistening and bright.  She pants, her tongue falling from a corner of her mouth, saliva dripping onto the soft, wild grass.

 

He grew from a beautiful child into a man of uncommon intelligence, ingenuity, and sensitivity—profoundly in love with nature and every form of animal life.  For the last years of his life he was tortured by a terrible disease.

His family returns annually to Sam Knob Hill on his birthday, August 31.  It remains a beautiful place, his most favorite spot on earth.  There, if one is lucky and very observant, a beautiful bird is visible ascending in the distance.  For there my son, Wade Barrow Rogers, forever age 37, soars with the eagles.

 Larry Rogers

May 25, 2010

The story of how I met Wade (by Emberley)

I met Wade in the early 1990's, while I was living in Providence, RI. Wade was attending (or had just graduated from?) Brown University at the time.

Wade and I met in a rather roundabout and strange way,though: His
(temporary) roommate, Vladimir, who was visiting from Russia, tried to coerce me into a green card marriage so that he could stay on in the U.S.
Thankfully, even though I have a helping spirit and felt bad for Vlad and his life situation (and the depressing stories he told of a bleak life back in the USSR), I had my doubts about the sensibility of marrying someone to help them get a green card.

I also had some nagging doubts about Vlad as a person, and it was Wade who clued me in (reluctantly though, 'cause Wade never liked to talk disparagingly about anyone) as to all the untruthful things which Vlad had been telling me over time. Such as the fact that the "friend" who was "just visiting me" was actually Vlad's girlfriend from Russia and that they were still physically involved with each other.
I dropped Vlad immediately and had nothing more to do with him.

Thanks to that (rather ugly) saga though, I met a truly GREAT person: Wade!

A few years later, in 1994, I moved to California on a job exchange, and was living in the San Francisco Bay Area at the same time as Wade. He lived in the Oakland/Berkeley area, and I lived in San Francisco -- first in North Beach, and then in Haight-Ashbury.

Wade and I used to get together for spaghetti dinners and have silly discussions over which brand of spaghetti sauce was the best. This was kind of a running gag, up until recent times. Our tag line was: "Remember Lady Lee brand spaghetti sauce? That was the BEST."

Anyway, Wade never really took to the Bay Area and he ended up moving back to the east coast, to North Carolina. I was very, very sad to see him go.
We simply hadn't spent enough time together -- not in RI and not in CA.

Life just moves so fast, and everyone has so many commitments, it's hard to get together often. And it doesn't help matters when your careers are taking off as well!

Both Wade and I had very busy careers and busy social lives, but we managed to go see some bands now and then, go to the flea market or farmers market, eat out or hang out. He was always a great listener, great with advice, and an available shoulder to cry on. I didn't have a car at the time (you didn't need one, living in the city), but it was nice to be able to ride around in Wade's car now and then!

Flash forward to late 2003...I moved back to the east coast after having lived in CA for 10 years...and by 2006 I was ready to settle somewhere new and somewhat more permanent -- the next "big move", if you will. Wade had been talking up North Carolina for quite some time. I called him and told him that I wanted to check out Asheville, where he was living. We set a date and I made the loooong drive down, from CT to NC (a 14 hour drive).

I planned to spend a week in Asheville, checking it out and absorbing the flavor of the city. Could I hack it here? Was it affordable? Wade saved me tons of legwork, by driving me all around Asheville and explaining all the different neighborhoods, their advantages and disadvantages. He showed me the good places to eat, great places to work, the local live music clubs, the cheapest gas station, and the "good" grocery store. We drove around downtown. We checked out the microbreweries.

He bought me the local insider paper (the IWANNA) and said if I wanted to rent someplace that we would pick up the paper when it was distributed again on Tuesday at 7am (i'ts published weekly), so that I could be the first one to call abput apts. or houses for rent -- esp. the newest listings. All his tips worked: I decided to move to Asheville, and within 3 days of my decision, I had found and signed a lease on the perfect, affordable 2-bedroom house (with mountain views!)

Basically, in Asheville, I can rent an 1100 sq. ft. HOUSE for the same price as a crummy, tiny STUDIO APT. in New England. The choice was clear: fresh mountain air, views, cheap prices, artsy people, eclecticism, and a best friend nearby. I moved to Asheville as of July 2006.

Sadly, Wade and I only got together a handful of times between July 2006-June 2007. We stayed in touch by phone and email, but our schedules seemed to be completely opposite. And his business was really taking off, so he was busy, busy, busy. But Wade always made time for friends, and was always generous to a fault. No matter how busy he was, he would drop everything to help you out in a jam, or to just hang out. I've never known anyone else who would call to say, "Hey, I'm here at Sam's Club -- do you need anything?" Wotta guy. Totally unselfish and so people-oriented, always energetic, upbeat, and fun to be with -- and smart as a whip!

This posting is very long, so I will close. I will post another time.

I miss Wade and think of him every day, and will never, never forget the fantastic friend whom I was lucky to meet, and to know, even if the time together never seemed long enough...

My son was a precious, precious person.

His life was short, but the effect of his living was great.

He taught me lessons I would not have learned without him.

I rejoice in his life.

So now he belongs only to God,

That’s something I’m confident he was aware of all along.

I’m not usually comfortable talking to a group of people unless I begin with a reading quiz.  We’re going to skip to the answer to question number five, which is always the Atlanta Braves, regardless of the question.  Now that we have that out of the way. . . . 

There are three different Wades which I will always remember and cherish.  Most of you know at least one of these Wades, and many of you know all three.

The first Wade that I remember is—man, he was a gifted sucker!  He was a genius.  And this was apparent from a very young age.  When our family moved to Charlotte—I think Wade had to have been around five years old—at some time in our first year there he was at my Aunt Louise Smith’s house, and—I can’t remember exactly what was going on, but she had electricians there and she wanted them to do something.  And they said, “Sorry, we can’t do that.”  And Wade said, “Sure you can.”  Then he proceeded to show them exactly how to do what they said couldn’t be done.  This was Wade at five years old.  

And then he did the same thing when our parents moved to the house on Lemon Tree.  The telephone guy said, “You can’t put a ringer here.  You just can’t do it.”  And ten-year-old Wade said, “Sure, you can.”  By then it was kind of boring.  Why not just call Wade to begin with?

Any of us who have had the pleasure of dealing with Wade in his work—his computer work, his IT support—his generosity was overwhelming.  One of the last things he did for me was to design an online quizzing program.  I wanted him to spend no more than two or three hours on it, and if it took more than that I didn’t want it.  And I think Wade must have spent two full days.  And now I have a professional-caliber product he could have put on the market.  He was just above and beyond.  I’ve talked to a lot of computer people—and this is nothing against my brother Duke—but Wade had a way of making the most complex things simple.  There were many times, when computers were new to me—he could talk to me in terms I understood.  He was patient.  He was so kind.  I know there were times when he wanted to say, “Dammit!   I just told you that!”  But that just never came across.  So many of the comments on the RememberingWade website, by people who knew him a little or a lot, at different times in his life, say the same thing: Wade was a kind soul.  Oops, looks like I’ve gotten away from Wade the genius and into how kind a person he was.  Anyhow, together, that was the first Wade.  He was kind, and he was a genius. 

The second Wade I will remember and cherish too, is—Wade was very often a tortured soul.  He lived a difficult life.  Probably more difficult that any but two or three of us really know.  He had a lot of demons.  He had a lot of burdens.  I want to remember the difficulties Wade faced because I hope that it will teach me to be kind to people who I know are facing similar kinds of burdens.  To teach me to be patient like Wade was, to be sympathetic and understanding and caring.   But the thing is that I’ll bet every one of us who knew Wade well—for someone who really did have difficult demons to face, he was a strong sucker too!

He was so positive.  He always had faith.  Whatever the obstacles he faced, he knew he was going to conquer them.  He made plans, and he pursued those plans.  He had courage, I think.  He had faith, and he was, above all, a positive person.  In spite of the difficulties.  And that’s what I want to remember because I want to be like Wade, to have faith and be positive.  I want to follow his example.  

The third Wade that I remember many of you know well, and that was the Wade right here at Sam Knob.  And not just Sam Knob, but the whole Pisgah National Forest.  In these woods and hills and those in Tennessee, Georgia, and South Carolina Wade was most free and happy—because this is the place where I think Wade was absolutely in his element.  I met Wade a number of times at that very parking lot up there—I met him three or four times, too, at the Comfort Inn where I stayed last night in Asheville.  When I met Wade on these occasions—there is nothing like that smile, or that big Wade hug.  Robert, you know this Wade grin and hug, and so do you, Andre, and Dan, you probably know that meet-Wade-in-the-woods smile too.  There was nothing like that smile or that hug.  And it’s ironic that in Wade’s backpack the last map that he had with him on the trail—I don’t know that it was his last time going into the woods—but he had this very map of this very place—Sam Knob, right there, Black Balsam, over there.  What the heck was Wade doing with a map of this place?!?  He know it so well . . . maybe he was adjusting the—correcting the contour lines to be more accurate.

Many of us remember this Wade in the woods—he was always so eager to hike half a mile down a steep incline, bushwhacking all the way, for water, at four o’clock, when the sun was going down, two days after Christmas, when it was twenty degrees!  And loving it!  Absolutely wishing we needed more water!  We remember the Wade building the fire, the Wade stopping with the map, saying “please pull the map out of my pack,” the Wade holding his map on your back like this, looking at the compass.  That’s the Wade that I will cherish and remember.  The Wade scrubbing dishes in the dark, setting up a tent, the Wade running into other hikers.  Especially other Appalachian Trail hikers.  And if one of them saw the patch on his pack that said “through hiker,” which meant he did the whole thing, you would see a wonderful special light on Wade’s face, on both their faces.  

Spending evenings staring into campfires, for hours and hours.  Talking about life, talking about family—you know, Wade taught me that campfire talk is actually much better without the Wild Turkey 101.  I didn’t believe that at first, but it was!  Talking about God.  Solving all the world’s problems.  It’s a wonder there are any problems left!  Even talking about some of those demons that Wade faced, and that others like him face.  That’s the Wade that I will cherish above all.  Because I think it was here, in these mountains, that Wade was the most free, the most unencumbered by his demons and difficulties. 

And I know that that is exactly how he is now, free and unencumbered.  He’s in heaven, where surely he doesn’t need a map, but he has one anyway because that’s Wade.

 

We read some from the Bible, or we’ve heard from people who read the Bible, which can be God’s Disaster Recovery Plan for you sometimes and going through Wade’s things I found Wade’s Disaster Recovery Plan and I thought that I would … read it to you … no, I thought I would look through and make sure that they match up together. 

                So I will just read this one page:

Eggo waffles, Butter, Milk… Wade loved milk…  This is not the right page, this is a grocery list I think...  I was going with it I mean you see I could do it…

My brother Wade was the kind of guy you could meet in Georgia, offer him a ride to Maine and he’d say nah, I got this on foot.  And he did. 

Wade loved to walk...  I’m sweating out of my eyes… I haven’t sweat like this since I got married...  Wade loved to teach, to invent, to laugh and God he loved to learn.  Wade was always learning.  Speaking of learning, I learned that the Boston Tea Party, and this is relevant, was perhaps planned by John Hancock, you know the guy with the signature.  He was a founding father but he was also a tea smuggler… so it could be that the Boston Tea Party was really just a business deal for him because it jacked up what he was getting for his tea.

  Sometimes you can be so sure of something only to find out you are completely wrong.  Like today, and I got caught up and am guilty too, many of us think today is a day to be sad about Wade being gone from this world, but in fact, today is a day to be happy.  It is a day to be comforted because today Wade is with the Lord, today and really Wade is closer to God than he has ever been.  If we wanted to have a sad day, we should have done this a month ago, when Wade was further from God.   We could have done it right here.  We could have done it with Wade, “Wade we’re sorry you aren’t dead.  It will be better.”  Because it is better.  Sometimes we will be sad, but these are times when we are forgetting where Wade is or getting caught up like I did.

                Of course there are organized groups that don’t think we all get to go to Heaven, that’s true.  These are the same people though, who would do things like sell indulgences!  Forgiveness for cash!  These organized people do not have the God market cornered – I know this because Wade is with Him, on the highest of mountains, higher than Sam Knob, looking down on us today, probably with a big smile and the aforementioned twinkle in his eye. 

                Obviously this doesn’t mean much to you if don’t know God.  But today is actually all about God.  Sometimes it is hard to know God – it can be a problem, I mean he doesn’t have a myspace page and he doesn’t go on tour.   An old friend of mine… He’s up there elbowing Wade saying “this is me.”  He solved this problem in an easy way.  He said, “All we gotta do is pray”, even if we think we are praying to nothing, all we have to do is just say “Hey God! If you really are out there, could you help me to believe in you?”   He will do the rest.  He will FILL YOU UP!  It’s really true – I don’t know anything about… I’ve not read a book [inaudible] He really will.

                When I was in high school Wade told me with these circles and words but the point was that he thought when you loved someone else you gained their connection with God.  The more people you loved, the closer you would be with God.  So if you want, before you leave here today, really I’m not just talking – I am talking but I’m not just talking… find someone that you didn’t know before and just love them.  Just straight love them – no need to prerequisite anything.  If you have trouble finding someone I believe Robert Mitchner is accepting love until 6 o’clock or so.  Is it six Robert? [Yes]

                [inaudible]

I love you Wade.  And I am going to miss you but I am happy for you.