did anyone attend either the memorial or celebration in Columbia, MO?

and can you report back to us here?

A memorial service is scheduled for 4 p.m. Friday at Unitarian Universalist Church, 2615 Shepard Blvd., with a celebration of Rose's life scheduled for 6 p.m. at The Blue Note, 17 N. Ninth St.

here fellow columnist remembers:

SMILE AWHILE
Forrest: an everlasting Rose among the thorns

By IRENE HASKINS
Published Thursday, March 31, 2005

How do you find the words to say goodbye to a wordsmith, a guy for whom reading the dictionary was a hobby?

Forrest Rose was that kind of guy and so much more - accomplished musician, thought-provoking columnist, a special son, only brother to five sisters, doting dad and for so many, including me, best friend.

I can't believe I'm writing about Forrest in the past tense, but because he collapsed and died suddenly on March 20, sadly, I am. He was in Arizona with his band doing what he loved to do - playing music and slapping his big stand-up bass fiddle. In the memorable words of Yogi Berra, it seems like déjà vu all over again.

In May 1987, at age 30, while visiting Nashville to audition for a bluegrass act, Forrest had an aneurysm that left him in a coma for 16 days. He awoke remembering nothing. When his condition permitted, he went to stay with his parents in Iowa City, where he had to learn how to do even the simplest tasks all over again.

Making a miraculous and seemingly complete recovery, he returned to Columbia and picked up where he left off, a little more insightful perhaps, but still enjoying life to the fullest.

Forrest and I go way back to when we were both greenhorns in the Tribune's newsroom, only I was much older and greener than he was. Nevertheless we clicked and evolved from being co-workers to being best friends. Generation gap notwithstanding, we understood each other and shared many interests. We both loved music, especially the big-band era. He was the only person under 30 who knew who Orrin Tucker was.

We could talk to each other and exchange confidences knowing our secrets were safe with each other. I could even share intimate "girl stuff" with him. "Listen," he'd say, "I grew up with five sisters, so you're not gonna tell or show me anything I haven't heard or seen before."

Our relationship took on a new aspect when Forrest became my editor. An editor is the natural enemy of the journalist, the fly in every writer's ointment, the rotten in every reporter's Denmark. A necessary evil, editors exist solely to question, rewrite and correct copy. Could our friendship survive a weekly confrontation? Could we butt heads and egos and still remain on speaking terms? We could, and we did.

One incident I'll never forget started one afternoon after deadline. We were sitting around mulling over some adverbs and picking at a stale pizza I'd found in a file drawer when Forrest said he needed a haircut for a hot date that night and his regular barber was unavailable.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"He's in Kansas City grooming Simmental cattle for a livestock show." Knowing Forrest, that sounded logical to me. Then, as if he'd just come up with a cure for his dandruff, he shouted, "Hey, Irene, why don't you come over to my place after work and cut my hair?"

The closest I've ever come to shearing locks is shaving my legs, and I wasn't about to ruin a perfectly good head of hair and our friendship to boot. But he kept at me and kept at me until I agreed.

When I got there, he handed me a pair of scissors that must have doubled as hedge clippers. Either that or one of his roommates had green hair. It was too late to back out, so I started clipping and snipping - an inch over one ear, 2 inches over the other, zapping his cowlick, then tapering to a D.A. in the back. The bangs were next. I gave them sort of a wavy look. I didn't intend to give them a wavy look - that's just the way they turned out.

When I got through, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I didn't have the heart to tell him he would have looked better if he'd just stuck his head in a Weed Eater. "Your hair is still wet," I told him while I edged slowly out the door. "It'll look better when it dries."

I dreaded seeing him the next day, but to my surprised relief he said, "Best haircut I ever had. My date couldn't keep her hands out of it." Word of my tonsorial talent spread, and Forrest started joking that he was taking up a collection to buy me a barber pole for my desk.

On a blue note, while Forrest was my editor, my longtime marriage came to an abrupt end. Forrest was a rock - always there for me, always trying to find ways to cheer me up, always calling to see "How ya' doin'," always supportive. During that dreadful time, I wanted to take a break from writing this column. I didn't feel like smiling anymore.

Forrest would have none of it. "S'good for you. Keeps the juices flowing." He refused to let me wallow in my misery, to retreat to my own personal purgatory. Instead, he helped me cope.

When he married in 1988, the ceremony was in the big courtroom at the courthouse with an old wind-up Victrola playing "Let Me Call You Sweetheart." The reception followed at Booche's, where wedding guests mingled with the regular patrons shooting pool. Vintage Forrest.

Whether writing, working, playing music, teaching or being with his beloved son, Brennan, Forrest filled every minute of his 48 years to the fullest. I've always thought he had a streak of Peter Pan in him. He was like a little boy who didn't know what he wanted to do when he grew up, so he did it all.

There's an old tune I'm reminded of, one I'm sure Forrest would remember, too - "The Song Has Ended But the Melody Lingers On." Too soon Forrest's song has ended, no more encores, but if those who loved him listen real carefully, they'll hear the strains of his life's melody lingering on.

I know if he were still my editor he would have cut that last paragraph - "too mushy-gushy." Sorry, old friend, this time I win.

Irene Haskins is a Tribune columnist. Her e-mail address is ihaskins@tribmail.com.

i do not see an obit for him in the paper he wrote for.