I thought for a minute that I would not know where to start. But then I remember something I wrote to TR and Michael concerning your death. In July of 1982, as I drove over the Cascades into the wet side of the state, I heard some incredible music from a radio station I had tuned into in my old Dodge van. New music, to me, but what I was to learn was well known to many others along the northern corridor of the country. I heard "A Delicate Balance" for the first time, played on KEZX, and I was taken by the message. Then I heard "The Climb," just a few minutes later. "What world is this," I wondered, as I approached my home.

It was the first time I had ever known a true home. A home of the heart. My family grew from the friends I made, and one of the first was you. I remember the puzzled look on your face when I handed you a card, and asked if you might ever need a graphic designer for an album project. Two or three days later I got a call and you explained that you had just finished a new album and had no clue who to go to for the design. In the next few years, I was introduced to an extended family of musicians, music lovers, radio and recording people, and concerts and gigs, venues and critics, and songwriters who taught me, through just sheer exuberance and belief, that to live what you love best is the best life you can live.

I remember that dog Bob Johnson, sitting on cue for the album photo shoot. Both of us driving to Vancouver, BC, to shrink wrap "Right Lane Man" by hand while the record company guys looked on in bewilderment. But you had a budget, man… Shooting pool, the Doghouse for breakfast, and wandering around the Northwest with you and TR Ritchie. Sitting at the door, then listening to you both change the night into reflection and peace. I learned a lot about friendship in those years, and at times I still feel that you are a bodhisaatva in a way. Croquet tournaments that were contact sport as everyone tried to take home pink flamingos. I can't tell you how many times I've introduced my friends to Prairie Fires, as you did for me at the Virginia Tavern. I crawl-walked all the way back up to Queen Anne Hill…

When I called one of my friends to tell her that you had died, I mentioned to her all sorts of remnant pieces of our friendship, over twenty years ago. I mentioned those Prairie Fires, and she said, "So HE's the guy responsible for that." And I smiled, cause that was as sly a comment as you would have made, Dundee. She crawl-walked home with me one night after Prairie Fires a few months ago. Luckily, I'd forgotten that part.

I just read Michael's post, and like him, I heard of your accident from TR by email. It took the wind from me, and left a gaping hole as his message said, "Tom, we're going to lose him." That night TR and I spoke by phone and I learned you took off at last. These last few weeks have been hard, just knowing the times that I could have traveled to Chicago, or to Nashville, to hang out and have one more beer, or eight more Prairie Fires. I can't express how sad I am that I lost touch with you, my friend. But I can say that I have told many friends about you over the years, and what I learned in Seattle from a family of creative people who taught me to follow your heart.

Last November, I learned that my lead Professor, who taught me almost all I know about painting, had slipped into dementia and suffers from rapidly advancing Alzheimer's. I teach now in a college, and as I read the letter from his wife to my students, I told them of Harry's words to me as a student, and how my words are just an amalgam of all that I've been taught by many great teachers and dear friends. After that, I read them the lyrics to "A Delicate Balance" as a eulogy to Harry. It was hard to get through that reading, for many reasons. And now, I understand that you have gone. And there is that large, gaping hole. But in it, there is feeling that your lessons in friendship will more than fill that gap, my old friend.

Thank you, TR, for sharing with me Tom's passing. Thank you, Dundee, for pointing me in the right direction.

Peace and Care to all of you,

Tom