Has Anyone Here Seen my Old Friend Bobby? I just looked around and he was gone.
You might remember this line from the tribute song, “Abraham, Martin, and John,” performed by Dion DiMucci. The song references the assassinations of these three icons, as well as Bobby Kennedy during the turbulent summer of 1968. While my dear friend Bob Leventhal did not die in such a dramatic fashion, the loss of his presence in my life feels incredibly dramatic.
Several years ago, I told Bob that if anything ever happened to his wife Lynn and my husband Jim, I wanted him to be my back-up husband and movie buddy. (That should indicate how many years ago this suggestion was made as going to movie theaters has become increasingly rare since the advent of streaming apps.) I don’t remember if he agreed to this proposal, but there were occasions when I grumbled to my present-day husband that Bob was already treating me like I was his second wife. “It’s almost Lynn’s birthday, want to plan a dinner?” a text from his phone would query. Or, in April of each year, I anticipated his inevitable text asking me to conspire with him in planning a Master’s Golf Tournament gathering. “Call Lynnie with the details,” he would urge, absolving himself of the responsibility of actually executing these social plans. His commands were softened by a heart, angel, or fist bump emoji dissolving my irritation into laughter. Bob’s boyish charm and humor made me laugh. He was a funny guy. I’m already missing his texts, emojis, and sense of humor.
These social gatherings afforded Bob the opportunity to share his stories about his career as a U.S. Prosecutor and criminal defense attorney, many of which I heard so many times I could jump in and recount on his behalf should he falter in his narration. My favorite was when, as a prosecutor, he advised his client to wear the nicest clothes she had to the court hearing the next morning. And she arrived in her wedding gown. “Why are you wearing that?” he demanded of his client. “You told me to wear my best dress,” she replied. You just can’t make up those kinds of stories.
Another of my favorites was when he worked as a bus driver in the city of Chicago during summer break one year. First off, the image of Bob driving any kind of vehicle in one of the busiest cities in the world, is mind boggling, but a bus? Apparently during his short career as a city bus driver, Bob prematurely closed the bus door on a departing passenger who proceeded to scream uncontrollably as he struggled to re-open the door. The woman’s arm was broken, and he was required by his supervisor (once all the other bus riders were safely ensconced on a different bus, presumably driven by a more skillful driver) to transport her to the nearest hospital. Rumor has it Bob was relegated to delivering coffins on his bus routes for the remainder of the summer. (I think he applied to law school the next year.)
Bob was the very first person I confided in about my son’s long-anticipated marriage proposal to his now-wife, Katie. “David is going to ask Katie to marry him!” I blurted out as I climbed on to the spin bike next to him during a class at the Winter Park YMCA. I hadn’t even had the opportunity to share this exciting news with my own husband. My son had just dropped this bombshell news on me as he dropped me off at the Y. I guess I felt comfortable enough to share this precious news because I trusted that he and Lynn truly cared about what mattered to my family and me. And they demonstrated that interest throughout our twenty plus year friendship.
Last Labor Day weekend Lynn and Bob flew two hours to St. Louis and then drove three hours to Southern, Illinois to attend the wedding of my daughter. “You had to pick one of the most expensive travel weekends of the calendar year for this wedding?” he admonished but quickly added, “I wouldn’t miss the cat lady’s wedding for anything,” referencing his nickname for my cat-loving daughter. Lynn and Bob brought a piece of home to Southern Illinois for my family and me when they cared enough to spend two full days traveling to be with us and share in our joy. I will never forget that act of love and support.
I don’t think my words could adequately do justice in describing Bob’s certainty that he was destined to play amateur golf as proficiently as a pro. He was a perfectionist, always demanding excellence in himself, further demonstrated by how respected he was in his professional and personal life by his peers and friends. I will so miss my Bobby friend, but I’m heartened by the last stanza from “Gone from my Sight”, a poem written by Henry Van Dyke. Thank you, Suzi McGuffin for sharing this with me. Forgive me for changing the pronoun.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, he is gone,"
there are other eyes watching him coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, "Here he comes!"
Bob and Jim at one of our “gatherings”