I’ve been terribly remiss in keeping up with my blogs since Roger died. My readership is small but I could always count on Roger to read it, make comments, and, when needed, point out errors. While he wasn’t my only reader, he was my most faithful. Just as he was my most faithful friend. And it’s been hard to write a blog for someone who no longer is reading them.
Almost three months ago he went into the hospital for outpatient surgery, a relatively minor procedure. Everything went wrong that could go wrong and he never recovered. As his executor I have been dealing with massive amount of paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit (oh how he would have hated that!). But I’m getting through it paper by paper, day by day. But I don’t have Roger here to bitch to.
I’m working with his publisher, Untreed Reads, to reissue his earlier Dick Hardesty books that have been out of print—published, of course, under the name of Dorien Grey. Those should come out about every two months this year until all his books are available. I, along with the publishing house, am editing the books. That’s a heavy task, as we hate to make any changes that Roger might not approve of, and yet some changes are clearly called for. One example in the one I just finished was when a character asked for a gimlet—with three onions. My years as a bartender kicked in: clearly, Roger meant “gibson” with three onions. Roger drank manhattans, at least until his mouth was damaged so badly by the radiation that he couldn’t handle alcohol anymore, and, I think, was just confused between gimlet (a sweet drink) and a gibson (a martini). So I don’t think he would mind our changing “gimlet” to “gibson.” The only other changes we are making are technical ones; his first publisher was a very careless editor. But what a treat to go back and read these earlier books I haven’t read since they were first published.
I’ll end this blog with two of my favorite stories about Roger; I don’t think he would mind that he was the butt of these tales.
The first concerns Roger’s total frustration with all things technical. Any problems with his computer or TV and he would call me to come over—I lived in the next building over. Usually the problems were quite simple. One time he called to say he couldn’t change channels on his cable TV. I raced over. The minute I walked in the door I saw the problem: he had run his vacuum and set it up right in front of the cable box blocking the remote; he was pointed the remote at the TV and couldn’t understand why the channels wouldn’t change. I moved the vacuum over about a foot and all was good. I never let him live it down.
The second story concerns Roger and snakes. He hated snakes. He feared snakes. He wanted nothing to do with them at all. He visited me once when I still lived in central Texas. Texas: lots of snakes. My brother would take us out sailing on Stillhouse Hollow Lake, and afterwards, we would jump off the back of the boat, sit on “floaties,” and sip beer (sailing is hard work). Once, we were all happily enjoying the sunset bobbing around in the relatively cool water, and my brother casually pointed out a snake weaving across the dock area, a good 20 yards off and moving away from us. Roger was up the ladder on the back of the boat in two seconds flat, almost losing his bathing suit as he pulled himself out of the water as quickly as he could. He never got in the lake again, although we went sailing and swimming several more times. As far as Roger was concerned, the lake was swarming with snakes and would, perhaps, wrap themselves around his legs as he dangled from the floatie.
I’ve told these stories many times and Roger was a good sport about it. But then Roger was a good sport about most everything. I miss that about him. I miss a lot about Roger. I have to move on, but a friend like Roger is rare and precious; he changed my life in many ways. And I am grateful more than I can express here.
Bon voyage, mon ami; vous voir à Cannes.
