This time — Sunday evening — a week ago, I was feeling pretty smug. After all, I had finished writing and filed my column for Tuesday and was thinking about getting ready for the rather full, but entertaining, week ahead.
There was Men’s Forum at noon Tuesday, Rotary at noon Wednesday, nothing out of the routine there, but then things began to look up.
First, and foremost, the weather forecast was promising and I was looking forward to a couple of rounds of golf, maybe even with a set of new irons to hone my game even more. The middle of the week was forecast to be in the 80s, and I was early-season confident enough to believe my score would be in the same range.
Thursday was the start of the really exciting stuff. First there was the farewell to President Hubbard at Northwest, followed by a cookout and cards with my regular group of bridge buddies. The bridge is routine, but the cookout was in honor of the opening of the grilling season.
Friday night would be the regular monthly meeting of a dinner club I am privileged to be a member of. My assignment is normally to bring the wine, or perhaps the bread, and I admit I think I’m pretty good at that task, regardless of what main dish is on the menu.
Saturday would be a day to take it easy, maybe drag out the deck furniture, and then watch the Royals on TV. Church on Sunday morning, and then another column before attending a book club discussion Monday night. Piece of cake. Yeah, right.
Sunday afternoon just after e-mailing my column to the Forum, something funny happened to my computer: the screen went blank. Not black, but a blank blue, with no cursor. Long story short, I turned the power off, rebooted, and was not paying 100 percent attention when a screen message asked about returning to “default preferences.” The deed was hardly done before I realized “OK” was not the proper response.
Gone were my address book, all e-mail settings, and my calendar.
I was able to schedule an appointment with the Genius Bar at the Apple Store on the Plaza in Kansas City Monday afternoon— and there was hope. They were, however, unable to live up to their name and I headed back to Maryville now knowing Tuesday and Wednesday, at least, would be spent rebuilding said applications. And to make matters worse, Dick’s was unable to produce a new set of irons I was hoping for. Lefties are hard to fit.
By Monday night, I had my e-mail working again, which led to quite a change in plans.
It is again Sunday night, and I am writing this week’s column not from my house in Maryville, but from Detroit — Grosse Pointe Farms, actually — in Michigan. But Jim, you say, the Tigers were in Kansas City, not the other way around.
The first e-mail I opened after getting back into the mailbag was from Mary Vitolins, wife of my dearest friend from our Army days at Fort Bragg, N.C., in 1960. The message, essentially: “Bob is in the Henry Ford Hospital and will have open-heart surgery Wednesday or Thursday.”
Even if Vitauts (his given Latvian name) had not come to Helena, Mont., to be with us when I underwent the same sort of routine five years ago (and been there for baptisms, moving, weddings, and a death, aside from several more enjoyable visits and family vacations) there was no other option for me after a phone call confirmed that that was, indeed, the situation. I was on my way to Detroit.
Thankfully, I was able to get here before the surgery, and Vitey is now well on the way to an apparent rapid and full recovery. Prayer is be a powerful instrument, regardless of how capable your doctor is. I know you don’t keep score on deals like that, but I will never, ever, forget that he was there with me, and Jan and our kids, when, without being overly dramatic, my life was on the line — and I needed to be here for him and Mary.
I’m thankful for what little encouragement and support I may have been able to provide for Vitey, Mary and their family. After all, I feel like we are family.
You don’t encounter many people in life with whom you immediately bond, and then see that bond mature into a lifelong friendship. Vitauts Vitolins fits that bill for me, and now that he’s back on the mend, we will continue for a very long time.
I knew he would make it, though, because like Bruce Twaddle told me when I was recovering, “ATOs have stronger hearts than most men.” Well, a 10-year-old Latvian kid who survived being overrun by the Russians, the Germans, and the Russians again, during World War II and makes it, not only to America, but also in America, has got to have a stronger heart than any of us.
And he proved it — again — Thursday.
Maryville, Mo. —
