Another link gone

I've been thinking about death lately. Not my own or anything, just death in general.

It's a little more specific than that, I guess. Over the past 18 months or so we've experienced a handful of fairly significant passings. Chris' grandpa died in December 2009. The neighbor who looked after my brother and I when we were young died over the summer. On Sunday, LaRue Weaver, who ran the skating rink in Algona, died after struggling with a number of issues over the past few years.

Each of them, of course, was much more important than their title implies. A grandfather, a surrogate grandmother and, really, a fill-in grandfather.

In the case of Chris' grandfather, a trusted resource and co-conspirator was gone.

In the case of our neighbor, Margaret, some of my earliest childhood memories. We were there before and after school for years. As Chris and I are learning right now, the person who provides care during the day for your child has a tremendous influence. Margaret was kind and loving, but she always kept us on course.

By and large, I've been gone from Algona for about 15 years now. We visit a few times a year, of course, but being removed from a situation tends to blur some of the finer details of certain situations. But as I had time to think about things on the drive back yesterday, the extent of the influence LaRue had on not only my life but that of my parents was hard to really grasp.

My dad worked for LaRue at the skating rink (Jolly Time Skating Rink was the official name) in his late-/post-high school years (again, fuzzy knowledge of that timeline) and jumped in to help on and off throughout my childhood. Up until 1989, when the rink was sold as LaRue and his wife, Alberta, retired, we were there every Friday or Saturday night (sometimes both), and sometimes on Sunday afternoon. A book of my childhood couldn't exist without a chapter or two on the skating rink.

Like LaRue's grandsons, I was a rink rat. The oldest, Keith, was my age. In later years we played baseball together, wandered around town and listened to 8-tracks in his dad's old Chevy pickup. He taught me how to drive a stick shift.

Despite all of my time at the rink, I very, very rarely beat any of the three in the nightly races. On any given night, I was the fastest one there - with the exception of them. As LaRue went out to start the race - two laps - he'd eye all four of us and start us a half-lap behind. It rarely mattered. We occupied the top four spots at the finish anyway.

We knew every spot on the maple-planked floor. We knew which flipper on the pinball machine shot the ball back just a little bit harder. We had our own spot under the counter for our skates. As we got a little bit older, we served as floor marshalls sometimes. A couple of 10-year-olds patrolling the floor with whistles and flashlights? Ha! But we knew what was expected of us. LaRue made sure of it.

Through all of that, I was just a kid having fun. I wasn't paying attention to the deeper story.

My grandpa - my dad's dad - died a few days after I was born in 1977. Before that, his battles with alcoholism strained his relationship with my dad, as those battles tend to do. But LaRue was there, offering advice and guidance. I never wondered why I had my own shelf for my skates. I never wondered why, in the large garden LaRue planted out back, my parents had a little plot set aside - just like LaRue's kids. I just thought they were really good friends. It never occurred to me that LaRue was like a father to my dad. And that, by extension, I was like a grandson.

But as we joined the family before the service yesterday, it hit me. We always stopped by LaRue and Alberta's house when we went trick-or-treating. We very frequently exchanged Christmas gifts. In fact, probably my oldest Christmas ornament came from them. I hang it every year. When the roving gang of rink rats caused trouble on a random Friday night, I was treated exactly the same as the others.

Each time we returned, though, he greeted us warmly. Also each time we returned: We never paid to get in. Alberta always waved us through. There was a buzzer on the door, and as soon as we walked up to the window she said, "Hi there," and hit the buzzer. My dad always gave us money to pay. It was never accepted.

I've only now realized why.

So I've been thinking about death. And how the passing of people you care about forces you to think about them and their legacy. Often, the end result has a tinge of regret - for not further exploring the relationship, for not showing your appreciation, for not taking time to just visit.

The last time I talked to LaRue was about five years ago. We were in town for the weekend with our bikes. It was a spring day and I was out on a ride with my dad. We stopped by, unannounced, like we had hundreds of times before.

We talked bikes, LaRue's latest project(s) (Before the skating rink he was a jet mechanic. Afterward he fixed up an old Mustang and set about scaring the crap out of anybody who rode with him.), and daily happenings in general.

At the end, he slapped me on the back and told me how good it was to see me; how happy he was that I stopped by. And to be sure to stop by again next time I was around.

I wish I would have understood the weight behind those words sooner.