My friend introduced me to the man she would marry, and that man also became my friend. He was a sensitive, passionate man, one who would, among other joys, introduce me to birdwatching. I was at the wedding that joined them — officially — and the person who told his bride that her husband had died. It wasn’t until after his death that I learned that Bill Davis had my phone number saved in his own, with the descriptor, “The Man.”
In a conversation with my first bride, I mentioned my friend, and my first bride smiled at me. “You never just say her name; you always refer to her as ‘My Friend Nancy.’ Did you know that?” The honorific had been earned after years of association, collaboration, commiseration and celebration. I was introduced to her by her friend, who was a student at Indiana University Southeast at the same time that I was. I did artwork for Lisa for her children’s program calendars. Lisa kept telling me that I should met her friend, Nancy, and once I did, the three of us formed a solid bond. I would travel from St. Louis Missouri, and Lisa would fly from Clearwater Beach Florida, so that we three could be together at Nancy’s house in Southern Indiana for Thanksgiving. But this tradition took hold after Bill’s death.
When Bill and Nancy went on summer vacations, I would dog, cat and house-sit for them. A mass layoff in the advertising department of the department store I worked for gave me the freedom to stay for as long as they needed. I often joked that, should they come home to find their house in ashes, I would be forgiven if I stood in the ruins with the dog in my arms. Bill and Nancy returned from vacation one year, and Bill started to complain of pain in his back. He was lethargic, and unable to mow his grass with his motorized mower. It soon developed that he had pancreatic cancer, and despite visits to the Mayo Clinic and other heroic measures, it became evident that his disease was greater than his will. Lisa called me from Clearwater and told me, “Nancy needs you,” and I drove from St. Louis to Southern Indiana, and I stayed with Bill and Nancy until Bill died. Nancy gave me my pick of Bill’s books; I took all of the ones on a particular bookshelf, and those books give some indication of the man he was. I have those books on one bookshelf, and in no particular order, there are these offerings:
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, by Dee Brown; Disclosure, by Michael Crichton; A Passage to India, by E.M. Forster; The Negro Church In America, by E. Franklin Frazier; A Walk In The Woods, by Bill Bryson (a book his daughter gave me, too.) There is also Soon To Be a Major Motion Picture, by Abbie Hoffman, The Billboard Book of Number One Hits, (1985) by Fred Bronson and The Catalog of Cool, edited by Gene Sculatti. Lenny Bruce, by Albert Goldman sits next to Another Roadside Attraction, by Tom Robbins, which abuts Player Piano, by Kurt Vonnegut. There is Bound For Glory, by Woody Guthrie, Soul On Ice, by Eldridge Cleaver; and Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson, which is on the shelf with The Bridge At Chappaquiddick, by Jack Olsen, and Wired, by Bob Woodward. Watership Down by Richard Adams is on the bottom of those three shelves containing the books of my friend, William Ross Davis, whose widow is still my friend, and whose children call me “Uncle CJ.”
Goodnight, Bill.
cjon3acd@att.net