Sherman's funeral is this morning. How do you say goodbye to your best friend? Someone who you spent an hour together to chat before the rehab classes twice a week. We shared secrets. We shared fears. We laughed a lot. Laughing is how I will remember him.
He was a very simple man who lived a very simple life. He drove a long distance truck everyday from his home and back. His wife didn't drive so when he got home in the morning, he would then drive the children to school and his wife to appointments.
When he, Dick and I started hanging out together, he would just breakout in laughter over something silly we would do. He told me that there was no kidding around in his house. Not a lot of laughter. Not a lot of fun. He learned to see the silliness in life and would just roar over the horrible stories and jokes Dick would share and the stores I would tell. He learned to laugh. In his 80s, he learned that laughter was the best medicine.
I will never forget that he told me that he tried to explain to his daughters (who lived with him) what we talked about in that hour before the class but, "How could you ever explain this?" They really didn't understand why he got to class so early.
I will also never forget that recently he smiled at me and said, "My goal everyday is to make someone laugh." This man learned this lovely life lesson late in his 80s.
He was no normal 92-year old. There was nothing wrong with him, except his lungs from smoking during those long hauls. His gait was that of a teenager's. Nothing hurt. He was loose and moved with ease. He believed that the only reason he was still alive was the rehab class that his daughter insisted he attend, kicking and screaming. I feel the same way, but I went happily.
I miss him. It is going to be hard to say goodbye today.