Dave's Not Here.

David wasn't my uncle. He wasn't my brother, or my father. David wasn't even my best friend.

I met David through work. Like a lot of friends that I've found through work, the friendship really started when we spent a bit of time together outside of work. The first time I got a chance to know David as a person was on a rafting trip in Wenatchee. A handful of us drove out the night before to camp, and the memory of that night is still vivid. Tall trees and thick greenery overhead, with broken spaces that showed a summer night sky filled with stars. No campfire, but plenty of beer and good conversation to keep us all warm.

At that point, what I knew about David was pretty limited. I knew he was a technician in the manufacturing group, and by reputation he was very mechanically inclined, very sharp and very capable, not just a guy with a wrench, but a guy who understood what he was wrenching on. I knew he was a low-key personality, easy going and the type who surfed above the waves of stress that often overtake the crews that get pressed by end-of-the-quarter revenue madness. I knew he had a moustache and a decent sense of humor and took things in stride.

That was all I knew.

That night, while we all stood around, I built a better sense of who he really was. In the middle of typical guys-gone-camping moments like chucking a hatchet at a tree stump, spitting tobacco juice, telling dirty jokes and making fun of each other, I realized that this guy was a really good guy. When he spoke, he had two modes: subtle humor and kindness. When you get to know someone a bit, you gauge their sense of humor and how well it fits with your own, and that's where friendships begin. My friends are the people that make me laugh. Effortlessly. The ones that I make laugh. Unintentionally. Every other thing that came out of David's mouth that night got a chuckle from me, and deep belly laughs came every hour on the hour. He'd quietly toss something out there with a twinkle in his eye, and you'd snort and try not to spit out beer. And when he wasn't being silly, his manner was kind, and gentle.

I remember another occasion a few years after where we had more of a one-on-one conversation, and the kindness and sincerity shined brightly for me. We jawed at each other about random things... The company we worked for, playing guitars, women. And in the spaces between random conversation, I can still recall a handful of things he said, observations he made, that hit me in the stomach and the heart, and made me think, or just made me feel better.

That was David, to me. Sliding quietly into a group. Popping up his sense of humor like a prairie dog popping his head out of a hole in the ground. Getting laughter and smiles. Popping back down under the radar. And when you were talking, just the two of you, you knew he was listening to you. Taking you seriously. Looking for a connection point. Offering you what he knew or thought, for what it was worth, without expecting anything in return... Just being a good human being.

In recent years, the silly comments, subtle humor, and kind-hearted conversations only came once a year at June and Jack's annual slumber party. I remember finding out that David was sick, and not being sure of what to say or do. David made it easy. He handled things with a grace and humanity combined that shifted my picture of him again. He never lost his sense of humor. His physical energy came and went, but he went about things the same way he always did: with sincerity, quietly, patiently, kindly, without complaints, and always with a dose of humor. Because of that, I came to think of David as more than a friend. When you admit to yourself that you truly and deeply admire someone as a person, part of who they are for you is a role model. Someone you try to be more like because you realize that that's how you want to be.

One last thing. David somehow managed to walk the fine line between mutually respectful and hilariously irreverent. What I mean by that is, when he shook your hand, it wasn't an act. When he told you he would do something, you knew he was good for his word. He knew when it was time to be serious and real. And then in just the blink of an eye, when the moment shifted, he would throw something out that was off-color, light-hearted, silly... Almost like, for a minute, a 15 year old David decided to pop his groundhog head up to get you to laugh. June and Nancy might bluster but inside they were laughing, too.

If David was here right now, I'd take his hand, give him a hug, and then I'd recite the old routine from Cheech and Chong where Cheech Marin is standing at the door, knocking, playing a character named Dave, trying to get his friend to answer the door, and Tommy Chong just sits there and says "who?"... "who?"... "Dave's not here."

And in this serious, saddest of moments, saying goodbye, as irreverent as that joke might seem, something tells me Dave would laugh, sincerely, seeing the humor and appreciating the smiles that can overcome any tears... If you manage to laugh together. If you know that intentions are good, and that the whole point is to smile. Laugh. See the good things. And don't sweat the other stuff.

He wasn't my uncle, or my brother or my father, he wasn't even my best friend. Dave was just a guy who gave me a few more lessons about how to laugh. How to be sincere, and really connect with people by just being yourself. How to handle difficulty with grace and strength. He was just a guy who demonstrated for me exactly how to be a good human being.

Thank you Dave. Goodbye, but just for a while. We'll see you in a bit.