MY BUDDY

      Joe and I met the way many six-year-olds do, by accident.  It was the first day of first grade and we both, as little boys, wandered into the small classroom, wading into a new world of new experiences, new dreams and new acquaintances with excitement and fear. It was the first step for each into our future lives, alone.

     As the teacher instructed the group of twenty-five children to find a seat, both Joe and I decided on the same, small wooden desk.  As we began to argue, push and shove over who was going to have the desk, something happened between us, and we began giggling and laughing. We began to realize the desk; the seat was not important any longer, because we both had found our new best friend.

    From that day forward, our names were said in one breath: Jeff-and-Joe.  We were like two small shadows racing through childhood, inventing adventures out of empty fields and long summer hours.  We climbed trees taller than we were brave, skinned knees together, shared secrets whispered under blankets during sleepovers.  There were baseball games, Jeff-and-Joe, together in their ill-fitted uniforms, caps pulled low, ragged gloves in hand, living life, enjoying the game together. Each cheered on the other and each helped carry the other’s burden in failure. 

     As we both approached twelve years of age, there were other interests shared.  We learned to play the piano, guitar, trumpet and music became as important to us as baseball. Our sleepovers became impromptu jam sessions and summer days would find the two of us under a shade tree or carport with guitars in hand giving a concert for unappreciative neighbors.  Joe would teach me, and I would teach him, both encouraging the other toward a dream not fully understood. Saturdays, we would catch a bus to downtown Knoxville, and we would find our way to Fowler’s Furniture Store on Gay Street, where we would spend hours. On the third floor they had pianos, organs of all kinds on display and the two of us would play for hours, many times, the store employees would gather and listen as the two small, eleven-year-olds would play their music.  We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were probably the first ‘dueling pianos.’

     Summer trips camping with Joe’s family became one of my favorites.  With guitars in hand and mountains to explore, what more could two thirteen-year-olds desire.  We would sneak and buy Swisher Sweet cigars and find a safe place in the woods to smoke them, only to find ourselves sick afterwards but once again, we giggled and laughed and treasured our friendship.  Music was not forgotten while we camped and many times, we found ourselves playing for other campers and impressing the young girls with some of our pop song renditions.  As young boys, we were mischievous and found ourselves many times trying to explain our way out of a debacle with a Ranger or our parents, but never once did we leave each other’s side.  We always managed to carry the weight together.

       Teenage years made things messier, but not distant.  We warned each other about heartbreaks and celebrated first loves.  Yes, we got in trouble a few times-once for leaving school for lunch at Burger King but as we sometimes got in trouble, we also would get out of trouble together too.  Sports, tennis, baseball and hockey became treasured past times for Joe and me. As we were still not old enough to drive, my dad would drive us to the local ice rink to practice our skills. One night, Joe and I left the ice rink to grab a hotdog across the parking lot at the bowling alley.  As Joe ate his hotdog and began finishing off his desert of a cherry pie turnover, a hoodlum began picking a fight with us.  He was much older and bigger, and I suspected he had been drinking. There were several other guys with him and both Joe and I found ourselves in a bad situation.  We both got up to leave, and we quickly made our way across the parking lot back to the ice rink when the larger boy ran up behind us and started pushing Joe.  Before either of us could say or do anything, the larger boy hit Joe in the face.  I shoved at the larger boy and grabbed my buddy Joe, and we took off running.  As we came to the ice rink I glanced at Joe, and I saw what I thought was blood running down his face.  I was terrified.  We both ran into the ice rink, where my dad was waiting and as I explained to my dad what had happened, Joe began laughing.  What I thought was blood was just the remnants of his cherry turnover. What seemed funny to Joe and me did not seem funny to my dad.  He took both of us back to the bowling alley and I watched my dad walk up to the group of hoodlums who were now playing pool.  He yanked the larger of the boys up by the collar and threatened to beat the guy to death.  As Joe and I looked on, my dad gave a tongue lashing to the group of guys and as the manager of the bowling alley approached, my dad turned on him.  Cuss words, neither Joe or I had ever heard were spilling out of my dad’s mouth and as he motioned us to follow him out of the establishment, I glanced at the hoodlums who were now running for their lives and the manager stood speechless.  Both Joe and I, in hushed whispers, giggled and laughed in astonishment as to what we had witnessed. 

        In adulthood, our paths forked.  I built a family, and Joe built a career in music. There were moves, marriages, losses, illnesses…yet every time life’s weight pressed too hard on one, the other found a way to help shoulder it. 

       And then, somehow, sixty-seven years went by.

       Now I stand at the cemetery, the winter air cool, whispers of wind under skies of gray feeling empty.  The world was quieter without Joe’s laugh in it.  The kind of quiet that settles into the bones. 

      I rest my hand on the casket, fingers trembling but sure.  “We carried each other well, didn’t we?” I whisper.

      In my memory, Joe was still that boy, giggling and laughing, still the young kid that could make a piano sing, still the teenager who insisted we’d live forever, still the man who would stand by my side as my best man at my wedding and give me praise with the birth of my child.

      In the twilight of life, the carrying had changed form.  Not physical, not even spoken.  Just the steady comfort of knowing someone had walked beside me almost every step of the way.

     I draw a deep breath, heavy but grateful.

     “Thank you, buddy,” I whisper.  “Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for carrying me through the good and bad times.”

     Though Joe was gone, I felt it-one last time- the familiar warmth of being carried.

 

    My buddy, Joe Stafford died November 29, 2025. I feel as though a piece of my life died as well and the sorrow, grief and loss are overwhelming.  On December 4^th, 2025, under the dark gray winter skies, I helped carry my buddy to his final resting place. For that privilege I am grateful and will always feel indebted to him and his family for allowing me that honor.  I know he is now in heaven and at peace still helping me carry-on.