My dad’s old friend and “running buddy” Eddie just died.
Mom and Dad met Eddie and Margaret when we moved into St. Charles Apartments in Anniston. We lived in #2, and they lived in #1. Jenny and I were friends with their children of similar ages. After we moved into houses in Golden Springs, we visited each other frequently.
Eddie was a character. I imagine that will be the first word out of anyone’s mouth remembering him.
Eddie was the fellow who, when leaving the infield at Talladega after a race in his Diesel Caprice (of all things) with his children, got to the part of the exit during which he crossed the track and decided to turn left, steer around the police officers directing traffic, and floor it.
Eddie was the fellow who decided to detour to the Gulf Coast in the company helicopter to pick up some fresh shrimp, and then land it in the vacant lot next to his house and give neighborhood kids rides in it (and not necessarily with much rigor securing parental consent).
(And those are just the stories I know. There are probably a thousand. Probably two thousand.)
Eddie’s Playboy was the first one I ever saw. It was Eddie who nicknamed my dad Albert. Eddie knew my mom, so there’s another tangible piece of her that was in the world and now gone.
Eddie also lived with as little regard for his health as anyone I’ve ever known. He had multiple heart attacks, was almost never even near a healthy weight, and smoked and drank to the end. That he made it all the way to 2018, and 70-something, absolutely astounds me. Actuarily, he may have stolen as much as the final quarter of his life.
But did he really? I mention his lifestyle not to burn on the guy, but to speak to the vigor and zest with which he lived. When he put his feet on the ground in the morning, by God, he was going to go hard and enjoy himself—every single day.
And until one day last week, he was a walking, talking case study for the premise that such just might be at least as important in preserving life as anything else.
RIP, Eddie.
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