From: Jack.Smoke@bbs.oit.unc.edu (Jack Smoke)
Newsgroups: alt.callahans
Subject: Re: Friends ... forever ...
Date: 28 Sep 92 13:29:33 GMT
Organization: Extended Bulletin Board Service

In article <1992Sep27.181354.22341@nntp.uoregon.edu> JBrandt@AAA.UOregon.EDU (Jay Brandt (Thyra)) writes:
>In article <1992Sep26.161957.6297@cs.mcgill.ca>,
>braley@binkley.cs.mcgill.ca  (The Didi-Sprite) writes:
>> "Listen up everyone!"  she cries.  "Arty has left us in the physical
>> sense ... but otherwise he is till a part of The Place!  Yes!  Of course
>> he is!  He lives on in our memories ... and he lives on in his own
>> words.
>> Didi lifts her glass and cries:
>> 
>> 	       "Best Wishes, Artful Dodger!
>> 		Peace and Happiness be yours forever!"
>> 
>> The -Sprite turns and hurls her now empty glass into the fireplace.  
>> For the next few minutes Callahans resounds with the sound of 
>> splintering glass.
>> 
>
><Thyra uncurls from her chair, where she has listened intently to the many
>heartfelt comments on the passing of the Artful Dodger. She walks quietly
>to the chalkline with her glass, which has filled with Dragon's Breath
>rather than her usual Brandy Alexander with extra cream. She stands there a
>moment with bowed head, a tear or two visible, glistening on the fur of her
>face. Then she drinks deeply of the potent liquour, and speaks quietly.>
>
[Great stuff deleted to save bandwidth]
>
>     I think the Irish have a very good tradition in this situation. Let's
>have a wake for your dear departed friend, where you party til you drop
>while recounting his good memories. He is guest of honor, here in spirit as
>much as he was in life, and will be so long as anyone here bears memories
>of him.
>
>     To life! To friends! And to happy memories of both!
>

Smoke re-enters the bar.  "I have been asked to speak more fully of
Arty's death.  I knew he had friends here, but I am surprised at 
the number and depth of feeling.
	Thyra, Arty was a Cherokee.  Instead of an Irish wake, lut us
to the meadow, build a fire, and speak his death."
	Smoke walks through the french doors and watches the fireworks 
with aproval.  He gathers wood, building a bonfire, as te stars come out.
when it is dark, he fires them, and looks arround the fire at Arty's friends.
	"I have been asked to speak the Dodger's death.  Is there
any here who would do it instead?" He waits, then resumes.  "The Artful
Dodger was my friend, my shipmate, and a member of my Clan, and my Tribe.
He was Wolf clan Cherokee.
	"We met in the Navy.  Art was the calmest, most professional
Search and Rescue (SAR) jumper it was ever my privelege to work with.
He would jump where angels feared to swim - I once saw him pull a bleeding
pilot out of water where sharks werebegining to circle.  He was kept in
the navy after his enlistment should ave been up, involuntarily extended.
On a mission over the northern end of the Persian gulf, he and the crew of 
Speargun 119, Lt. Lunn, Lt. Mullen, Petty Officer Lopez, and Art, decided
to make a short detour to pick up the pilot of a downed f-18.  They
were shot down, and Petty Officer Lopez died in the crash.
	The other three spent two days in the desert, making the trek back
to friendly lines.  Arty was returned to San Francisco, and finaly discharged.
	I lost track ofim for a while, then.  He was studying at the
University of Arizona, living with a woman, I heard.  He had a hard time 
finding work.  The woman left him for two otherr men, and he moved in with
his aged gradmother, taking care of her, and living inexpensivly.
	His aunt had the grandmother declaired incompitent, and Art took 
brief trip to California to visit friends.  When he returned, a pair of
Sheriff's Deputies, sent by the Aunt, were waiting to see that he moved 
out of his grandmother's house without anything that didn't belong to
him.  They wouldn't let him take hhis cat, which the grandmother said
was hers.
	He was found in a rest stop in Oklahoma with an empty wallet, and 
an empty gas tank.  He was cremated, and his ashes were spread from
the top of Sabino Canyon.
	Among my people it is believed that you can send things to the 
dead, things that they might need.  I brought with me his flight jacket.
In the Navy, each flight jacket is individual, different patces, different 
placements of patches.  Art was proud of his."
	Smoke tosses the jacket into the fire and sits back,
watching it burn.


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