Bob Watts
In memory of my friend who died yesterday morning at 5am.
I struggled with what I'd like to write here and I don't think I can say it any better than we all did on Salon. But I would like to go on a bit about sphagetti night. And I'd like to talk about a storm that passed through California on Friday, the day after Bob died, when, at 5am, I found a message from Lori.
Bob was a cook (one of many careers) before coming to work as an unpaid intern at Salon in 1998. When we renewed our acquaintance in 2005, we'd get to talking and food was just one of the many things that came up (and by talk, I mean IM conversations, as illuminating as those can possibly be).
Sphagetti has become my once-a-week rescue meal, the thing that I prepare when life all gets to be a bit much, because the sauce is easy, and I can start it mid-afternoon since it simmers for a long time. And we all like it, including Hannah. She likes it best when her pasta is rolled around in the sauce then carefully extracted so that the noodles are sauce-painted with no discernible tomato bits. Hates tomatoes but will tolerate sphagetti. If I started it during the workday, I'd tell Bob what I was about to do and in 15 minutes I'd have it all going, then I'd give him progress reports. I use fresh basil, fresh oregano, canned tomatoes, capers, kalamata olives, garlic and shallots. He approved of all of those, especially fresh basil. And his invariable comment when I'd tell him what I was about to do, was: "Yum, I love sphagetti night." He made it himself sometimes, but mostly he just shared it with me by Instant Messenger. That and many a glass of wine.
On Friday January 4th, the day after he died, a bad storm passed through Northern California. It rained where I lived but it didn't seem excessive to me, or I wasn't paying attention. On Saturday, I discovered that we were at the center of a small radius of homes that didn't lose their power. I'm not sure how much grayer I would have gotten that day if the lights had gone out as I sat there trying to work. The art department has three people. Or had three people. My other co-worker was assigned to another project a few months ago, so Bob and I carried the daily editorial load. Internet connectivity is not a perfect thing, and if one of us went out for a bit we'd call the other, then take off to find a connection.
I managed to shower but forgot to get a change of clothes, so I worked in my pyjamas all day Friday. They were comfortable. And I went to bed in them that night too.
We shared sphagetti night and my dog Pie (who died with me at home on March 19th, 2007 -- and Bob was there by IM for that too when it happened), and we shared the wonderful lunacy of life with a child, his sometimes, mine always. Six-year-olds do that, they take up a lot of breathing room. He and I did all of this by Instant Messenger, since he worked in San Francisco and I live in San Luis Obispo.
I'm a nickname on the IM buddy lists of my Salon co-workers. I've never met about half of them. And my silent work life just got a whole lot quieter.
I told Hannah about his death today, Sunday, and she wanted to know why he died (she knew he had cancer). Then she cried a little since she remembered him. She met him for the second time at a 2005 Salon retreat, when we all played a rollicking, never-ending game of animal dominoes (she was a little under a year old when she first visited Salon). About a month ago they'd had a painfully slow conversation by IM that she enjoyed, and I think he did also.
But I'd like to know the answer to that question too: What is cancer? And why did it kill my dog and my friend?
January 4, 2008
One post up
Best Salon headline: Ding-dong is a lovely, lovely word.
One post down
Aging turkey cake: I don't have anything against getting old(er). Mostly because I discovered that since my eyesight has been happily declining along with the rest of me, I never see my wrinkles with the same clarity that other people do.
Categories
First post
This iteration: 06/12/07
Or, previous: 02/25/02
