Mr. Chilcoat

Last September I got a call one evening just after Jilda and I had finished eating dinner. She answered the phone and after a moment handed the phone to me.
I could tell by the gentleman's voice he was elderly. His breathing was labored. I correctly guessed he had COPD.
He said, "Rick, my name is J. B. Chilcoat." He then stopped and took some deep breaths as if he had just completed a marathon.
"You don't know me, (pause) but I read your column each week, and I feel like I know you and your wife."
I actually get that a lot from people I've never met. It goes along with writing a column for the local paper.
"I've always enjoyed talking to people, but I made a mistake a while back," he said.
"When I told my old friends I was in hospice, and would die soon, many of them stopped coming around."
He sounded lonesome, so I let him talk without interruption. We talked for a long while before saying our goodbyes.

Then when my second book came out, he called me up to say he wanted a copy. That was in October so he came to hear Jilda and I perform at the Frog Festival. He bought one of the first copies of the new book.
Then in early December I wrote a column about Aging Gracefully, and it resonated with him.
He called and we talked for an hour. He told me about his family and his work life.
He loved to fish and it was my intention to take him fishing this spring when the weather warmed up, and the striped bass started running in the Black Warrior.
We'd planned to spend the evening preparing for upcoming recording sessions, but when Jilda picked up the paper this morning and scan the obits as she always does I heard he say "Oh No!"
I was doing some recording, and I heard he call my name.
There was something about the tone in her voice. When I walked into the living room she told me that Mr. Chilcoat had died.
Tonight we bundled up and went out into the torrential rain to attend his wake at the funeral home. We spoke briefly with his son and told him his dad was a fine person.
His son said that his dad had wrung ever ounce of living out of his life, and that the last few months he'd tied up loose ends and was ready to go. I felt badly for the son, because it's never easy losing a father.
I was saddened by the passing of Mr. Chilcoat. I hope he rests in peace.