The Dream restaurant in Hollidaysburg, Pa. will be the same going forward, but not really. Their turkey dinner, meatloaf, and lemon pepper chicken – along with all the other fine meals offered daily – will continue to fulfill everyone’s hungry expectations. Breakfast on Mondays with “my crew”, most certainly, can continue – albeit with just a little less sparkle for some time. The shine has gone away in the kitchen. At least for these few weeks of mourning, there’s less humor around the grill.
Bob isn’t there.
Early this past Monday, Bob left us. It was sudden and unexpected. He was a steady mainstay in the kitchen at The Dream. A “forty-two years” mainstay covering a very long culinary career beginning after high school.
In addition to his job there, he was well known – and liked – around our community. To those who knew him, a friendly smile always greeted them along with a humorous quip, or two.
I never knew Bob to be down, sad, or really upset about any particular situation he faced. We often found ourselves on the wrong side of an occasional lottery ticket and commented to each other, “Well, that’s that … again, huh?” … realizing the odds were always against us.
The news of his death came only hours after his shift began early this past Monday morning. Shocking, of course.
Very surprising, yet I could look back and be glad I knew him.
Most of us can memorialize the life of a family member, or friend, who isn’t with us anymore. I can, undoubtedly, be glad my life’s path crossed over Bob’s multiple times. I didn’t consider him a close friend, but someone with whom I never passed up an opportunity to have a pleasant conversation.
I’m glad to have known Bob. Just as I was, of course, certainly glad to have known and loved my mom who passed away years ago. As well, very happy to have known so many who have gone ahead of me. Very sure you’ve been here & there before? Loved ones and friends here … and now gone.
Death isn’t the end of these relationships. It’s not a religious thing – unless one wants it to be, I suppose. More like compartments of memories staying alive and thriving throughout our lives now. Those who have been here, who have made impressions and, possibly, big impressions in our lives can’t go really go away. They are here for us … and with us.
I often say the morning mom died was the best day of my life. She and I were close. Musically, and personally, we had the same interests and personalities. I relied on her to tell me everything was going to be OK, regardless of the situation. The morning I left her bedside when she passed – the realization that crutch, the assurance of “not” having to face a problem, was gone.
As a middle-aged man, this was a wake-up call. It was the best thing to happen to me. The best day of my life. The best gift mom ever could have given me. Yes, cancer sucks, but it didn’t win that early March morning. Mom finally got eternal relief and I received a life-long gift.
My relationship with her certainly hasn’t stopped. Every time I see a problem overcome, or a situation solved, I thank her.
When a small opportunity to laugh presents itself, a warm turkey dinner is set before me, or a (most likely) losing lottery ticket finds its way under a finger-clenched quarter, I’ll give a nod to Bob.
He won’t be forgotten. By me, other friends or family, his smile and laughter will continue. The Dream will continue forward.
He’d want it this way.
