Funeral for a Friend......

There are people who drift in and out of our lives, they show up, you hang out, enjoy their company, have quite a few laughs and sometimes tears.  Then we get busy, loose touch, and drift away like the tide.  Our relationship with Frankie was cyclical, we would hang out, go for a ride or go away for a few days, share the holidays, trials, tribulations, celebrate good fortune, and milestones, then we would loose touch.  This is how it has always been with Frankie and there were never any recriminations or hassles, this is how it was.  It was the easiest of friendships, no ulterior motives or subterfuge.

I met him when I was 17, through Andrew, he was best friend's with Paulie, Ellen's brother, my sister-in-law.  He was funny, very funny and so full of life.  He remembered all the good times, and the bad.  You relived the escapades as he told and retold the stories, he remembered everything.  He had the best stories, he had the most fun.  He would find the funny spot in it all.  Life wasn't always easy, but he made it easier.  He was my friend, he was Andrew's friend, Frankie was our family friend.  He would be your champion and defend you like you were his family.  He was family.  Family was tantamount to Frankie.

 I always knew where to find him, and that if ever I needed him, he would be there.  Frankie gave a shit.  He would help you if you were down, he would help you if you weren't down.  He could be absolutely magnanimous, there was loyalty.  He would never tell you what you wanted to hear, unless it was the truth.  He was sweet and he was sour, told you exactly how he felt, sometimes it made you feel uncomfortable, but he told you.  You always knew where you stood with Frankie.  He pulled no punches and never waxed poetic.  He righted what he thought was wrong, even if his reasoning was slightly eschewed.  He was one of the good guys.  Frankie's moral compass was spot on....... 

Frankie always called me Irene.....unless he was calling me French Fry.

He told me that my Chicken Cacciatore was better than his Mothers', phew,  an Italian son never says that about his mothers' food, EVER..... He told me my sauce was great, too.   He could cook and he could eat, yeah, could he eat.

I hadn't spoke to him in a while, I could not see him, but he would never have passed judgement on me.   I knew that he would look at me, see and I would have seen his pity.  I could not have handled that.....

Now there will never be another tide for him to drift back in on.  I will remember Frankie forever, and he will bring a smile to my face as always.

Fare thee well....

Frankie and Andrew Wildwood, NJ September 2005