RONALD ELIAS - I wish to honor the path of this great man, my friend, now gone.
My best friend, in all the world was Ron Elias, tall stocky Mexican American who was born in Tucson, Arizona had lived roamed the planet, and died here last month. We bumped into each other 40 years ago when he worked for the city's tourism bureau, and I recently arrived from Philadelphia, selling one of the town's loss-leader hotels.
As improbably as our friendship was, me, the big city, Philadelphia, college guy and AF vet and Ron the locale Mexican-American promoter who knew everyone in town clicked and we became close friends. He would say something, an observation about something, someone, and I'd write it down. Next thing I knew, I had a small notebook I wanted to turn into a story.
He encouraged me to start writing and I did. I published my first piece in Tucson and couldn't wait to tell him over lunch. It was the second time I ever wrote anything. He was thrilled. Must have been: he bought me lunch.
Every Christmas, my wife and I spent an afternoon at his place arm deep in all his friends, his family, and his beautiful daughter, catching up. At times my wife, his wife and I spent short week ends in the country near Nogales touring the wine country.
When my wife died, Ron cried because he knew that Janet and I were inseparable. That the loss was catastrophic, I knew he admired her a lot.
We lunched at a favorite watering hole every couple of months and talked about EVERYTHING. Guys know what that means. We shared every little detail. Enough said. Guys have maybe one, maybe two in their lives where they can do that. Ron was that kind of Blood Brother. As they said about Julius Caesar - when comes such another? Now, I don't know what I'm going to do. All my friends are gone. All dead. Somewhere, I feel them wondering the streets of Tucson. I knew they're out there. The world can't be still functioning without them? It can't. How could it?
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As improbably as our friendship was, me, the big city, Philadelphia, college guy and AF vet and Ron the locale Mexican-American promoter who knew everyone in town clicked and we became close friends. He would say something, an observation about something, someone, and I'd write it down. Next thing I knew, I had a small notebook I wanted to turn into a story.
He encouraged me to start writing and I did. I published my first piece in Tucson and couldn't wait to tell him over lunch. It was the second time I ever wrote anything. He was thrilled. Must have been: he bought me lunch.
Every Christmas, my wife and I spent an afternoon at his place arm deep in all his friends, his family, and his beautiful daughter, catching up. At times my wife, his wife and I spent short week ends in the country near Nogales touring the wine country.
When my wife died, Ron cried because he knew that Janet and I were inseparable. That the loss was catastrophic, I knew he admired her a lot.
We lunched at a favorite watering hole every couple of months and talked about EVERYTHING. Guys know what that means. We shared every little detail. Enough said. Guys have maybe one, maybe two in their lives where they can do that. Ron was that kind of Blood Brother. As they said about Julius Caesar - when comes such another? Now, I don't know what I'm going to do. All my friends are gone. All dead. Somewhere, I feel them wondering the streets of Tucson. I knew they're out there. The world can't be still functioning without them? It can't. How could it?
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