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Well, a marker

of my childhood just died. My dad (now deceased) became best friends with him when my dad finally finished school and moved. I was a teeny infant. The other couple and my parents became great friends.

His name was “Don,” as was my father’s. But I recall when they lived in Blythe, CA and visiting them (hotter than crap–I remember the sidewalks burning my feet through my shoes!) And the other Don (Don H.) was fluent in Spanish and we often went to Mexicali (and bought bullwhips) when we visited. And wicked hot salsa–I remember that well. We still make the quesadilla-type things that Don H. taught us about and that we ate all growing up.

We drove down or they drove up at least once a year. Then they moved to a neighboring state. Once a year they drove up and we went camping together. They had an old suburban that pretty much always broke down while they were visiting. Don H. was really the only “Uncle” I was ever attached to or who even knew I even existed.

Both Dons passed away before their wives. Don H. just died a few days ago. My dad (Don S.) died a few years ago. Don H. really wasn’t doing all that well, but you can bet that he didn’t miss his best friend’s funeral!

One of my siblings said today, “Well, things are now like they always were–the two Dons are off somewhere together (probably fishing) and their wives have no idea where they are or what they are doing….”

Goodbye Don H. And thank you for being my “Uncle.” May God hold you in the hollow of His hand…

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